"—light candles? Who will remember you were person with heart, not just pakhan? Not just boss! Just man! My son!"
She's crying now. Actual tears. I can hear them in her voice, in the way her breathing catches.
This is psychological warfare at its finest. I've negotiated with federal agents, rival organizations, and corrupt politicians. None of them are as effective as my sixty-eight-year-old mother with tears in her voice and love in her heart.
"I didn't agree to come to Severny Harbor."
"I know! I know! Is my fault! I tell them you are coming because... because I want so badly for you to be happy! I want them to see you are not just scary man who breaks bones! You are good son! You deserve love!"
"I don't break bones anymore. I have people for that."
"SEE? THIS IS PROBLEM! You make jokes about terrible things! This is why you have no girlfriend!"
"I thought I did have a girlfriend. According to you."
"Don't be smart mouth! Is not attractive! Listen—you come to Christmas. You bring girl from coffee shop. Everyone is happy. Simple!"
I laugh. It's not a pleasant sound. "You want me to bring a woman I've never spoken to—"
"So you DO know her!"
"—to a family Christmas gathering in Severny Harbor, pretend she's my girlfriend, and somehow not have this blow up in both our faces?"
"Yes! Exactly! Finally you understand!"
"That's insane."
"Is not insane! Is perfect! You like her already! She must feel something too, yes? What girl don't notice handsome man who comes every day, leaves big tips?"
"Mama—"
"Please." Her voice breaks. Actually breaks, like something cracking under too much pressure. "Please, Kostenka. I promise you already. I tell everyone. If you don't come... I look like liar. Like fool. Like mother who makes up stories because her son is so lonely she has to invent girlfriend for him."
The knife slides in expertly. She's had forty-five years to perfect her technique.
"You should have asked me first."
"I know. I know I should. But you never tell me anything! You keep everything locked up here—" I can practically see her tapping her chest, "—and I worry! I worry you forget how to be happy!"
I close my eyes. "Mama."
"Just five days," she pleads. "Come for five days. Christmas Eve is day after tomorrow. Bring the girl. Pretend. Make your mama not look like crazy woman. Then you go home, back to your lonely penthouse, and I never ask you for anything again."
We both know that last part is a lie.
But she's crying, and she's my mother, and somewhere in the tactical part of my brain that runs my organization and keeps me three steps ahead of my enemies, a plan is forming.
A completely insane plan.
"I'll think about it."
"You'll think—KOSTENKA! What is to think about? You come or you don't come!"
"I said I'll think about it. Goodnight, Mama."
"Wait, wait—you will really think? You will maybe come?"
"Maybe."
