“It’s not your fault, Mother,” I say, but she seems to be lost in her mind once again, staring off into the distance like she’s revisiting an old memory.
Then her head snaps to mine with renewed intensity.
“Mikhail, why are you back from assignment so early? Does your father know you’ve returned?” Her voice shakes as she asks, fingers curled up into tense fists.
I sigh, trying to remember what the doctor had suggested I do when she slips into one of her episodes.
“Father is dead, Mother. I’m the Pakhan now, and you are safe. You have nothing to fear anymore.” I explain gently, watching her face morph into heartbreaking confusion.
Then her expression shifts.
“Mikhail, where is your brother? Where is my Nikolai?” Her voice comes out in a raised panic, like she somehow remembers the answer to her own question. Like some part of her mind knows the harsh truth she’s blocked herself from facing.
I remain still, even as my mother, the same woman who tried her hardest to shield me from the abuse of my father, who taught me to cook her favorite dishes on bright Sunday mornings, stands up and screams.
“Nikolai! Where is my baby? Nikolai?”
Orderlies rush into the room, but not before my mother grasps the handle of her teacup with her delicate, manicured finger and cracks it against the large window. The glass splinters and webs before shattering to the floor.
The staff surrounds her, and one woman dressed in light pink scrubs unloads a syringe of clear liquid into my mother’s vein, causing her to go limp in their arms.
I do nothing to stop them.
I can feel the younger version of myself banging against the walls of my mind, pressing through each fiber of my skin to climb into his mother’s arms. I quickly lock that part back down with thickened walls of guilt and shame.
This is what I pay for, I suppose. The highly skilled and prominent facility that takes care of the hollow vessel my mother has become. A woman scorned. Her golden son lost to a pointless war.
She never had a chance.
I remain standing in the room for several minutes after they carry her out, staring down at the shattered pieces of her teacup at my feet.
I’m just finishingup some paperwork for one of our artillery accounts when a knock sounds at my office door. A second later, Ivan, Lev, and Andrei file into the room with tense looks on their faces.
“What’s wrong?” I cut right to the point, looking at Ivan for a rundown.
“Another shipment has been pillaged. This time, it came back missing at least 100K in profits,” Ivan replies, his sharp green eyes cutting into me with intensity.
I look over to my Head of Security for an explanation.
At least Andrei has the good sense to look uneasy. “The cameras have been completely wiped. I have my best guys trying to undo the damage, but so far, the bastard who did this has gotten by without a trace.”
“Fuck.” I hiss, leaning back into my chair.
“There’s another thing, Pakhan.” Andrei rasps out, stepping toward me. “Whoever’s responsible must have known when the change of guard is scheduled, because the incident occurred during the security transition from the night team to the day shift.”
I glance back towards him, processing the information he just confirmed. Whoever is stealing the shipments has access to the logistical schedules, and I only give those out to a small portion of my organization.
They must have someone working on the inside. Which means my little demonstration last week failed to make my point.
“I want each of you to comb through your entire department. If you find anything worth looking into, report to me. In the meantime, Lev, you need to change the guard schedules and put them on a rotating timetable. This cannot happen again.” I demand, anger carving through my tone.
This bastard stole from my Bratva not once, but twice, and managed to get away with it. He’s just become my number one priority.
I dismiss my men from the room, consumed by the thought of a threat existing right under my nose. I have spent months carrying out the extraneous and brutal process of reaping my father’s well-placed supporters from the ranks, and I’ve finally gotten the Bratva to a place of loyalty and solidity—or at least, that’s what I thought.
Ivan lingers behind, glancing over at me with a strange expression.
“Did you visit your mother today?” He asks, the unexpected topic shocking me into putting down the pen I was holding. I watch him for a moment before answering.
