Ivan walked into the living room, looked around to ensure no one else was there, then spoke. "It's the Kolov family. Our informant reports they've been increasingly active in New York lately. And... they seem to be asking about your whereabouts."
That name hit me like asledgehammer.
The Kolov family.
The family that killed my parents.
Time seemed to reverse, taking me back to that bloody night—ten-year-old me hiding in the closet, watching through the crack as my parents lay in pools of blood. Mother's desperate screams, Father's dying struggles, and those killers' vicious laughter... These images had never truly left me. They lurked in the depths of my consciousness, waiting to be awakened.
"Pakhan?" Ivan's voice pulled me back to reality. "You okay?"
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. "What's the situation exactly? How many of them? What's their purpose?"
"Still unclear," Ivan said, "but according to our informant, their boss, Sergey Kolov, came to New York personally. That's not a good sign."
Sergey Kolov. The butcher who killed my parents.
My hands unconsciously clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. The pain couldn't drive away those memories.
"Strengthen security at all locations," my voice sounded calm, but only I knew what rage simmered beneath that calm. "Put people on every move the Kolov family makes. If they dare set foot in my territory, I want to know immediately."
"Understood, Pakhan." Ivan hesitated. "And... are you sure you don't need extra bodyguards? If they really are coming for you—"
"No," I cut him off. "I'll be careful. Now go. I need to be alone."
Ivan looked at me, seeming to want to say something, but finally just nodded and left.
The moment the door closed, I felt my legs weaken. I had to lean against the wall to stay upright. Breathing became difficult, my chest felt crushed by a boulder, making it hard to breathe. The familiar symptoms—dizziness, trembling, heart palpitations—all told me the PTSD was about to hit.
No, not now.
I closed my eyes, trying to use breathing techniques to calm myself, but the images became clearer—Father falling, Mother's blood-splattered body, and my own helplessness and terror. I heardmy breathing getting more rapid, my heart beating so fast it felt like it would burst from my chest.
"No... don't..." I mumbled, holding my head in my hands, slowly sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.
Logic told me this was just post-traumatic stress disorder, told me I was safe now, told me it was all in the past. But my body wouldn't listen. Fear flooded over me like a tide. I felt like I was back in that closet, helplessly watching my parents die, unable to do anything.
Just then—
"Alex?"
A childish voice cut through my panic.
I forced my eyes open and saw Sofia pressed against the window outside, her little face against the glass, those brown eyes full of concern.
"Alex, what's wrong?" Her voice was soft, gentle, like a breeze clearing the darkness from my mind. "Are you sick? You look really upset..."
I wanted to answer, but my throat felt blocked. No sound came out.
Then something shocking happened—this little girl actually started running toward the bottom of the fence.
"Sofia... you can't..." I said hoarsely. "Your mother will worry..."
But she'd already crouched down at a spot near the bottom of the fence hidden by bushes. I noticed several wooden boards had come loose there, leaving a hole just big enough for a small child to crawl through.
She was obviously familiar with this secret passage, skillfully lying down and carefully crawling through the hole, then running to the glass door and pushing hard. Fortunately, I hadn't locked it. She pushed it open and rushed in, running to my side.
"Alex, don't be scared," she said seriously, her small hand gently stroking my cheek. The touch was warm and soft. "It's okay, it'll pass. Mommy says when you're sad, having someone with you makes it better. So I'm here with you, Alex."
