The nightmare always comes when I'm under pressure. A reminder of what I survived. What I became to survive it.
I was seventeen when they killed my parents over a debt. Nineteen when I earned these tattoos in that frozen hell. Twenty-one when I killed my way out and never looked back. The boy I was died in that prison camp. The man who emerged understood that mercy is weakness, that sentiment gets you killed, that the only way to survive is to be harder, colder, more ruthless than everyone else.
So why the fuck can't I stop thinking about a twenty-four-year-old secretary with honest brown eyes and a spine of steel? And a body that rocks my world.
I pull on sweatpants and leave the bedroom, my footsteps echoing through the silent house as I make my way to my study. The vodka bottle sits on the bar cart where I left it, and I pour three fingers, neat. The burn down my throat is familiar, grounding. I settle behind my desk and unlock the bottom drawer with the key I always keep on me.
Inside is a single photograph.
Katya smiles at the camera, her blue eyes—so like mine but untouched by darkness—bright with joy. She's holding apaintbrush, standing in front of one of her canvases. The photo was taken last year in her Moscow apartment, the one I pay for, the one my security team monitors constantly. She looks happy, untouched by the violence that defines my existence.
I keep her existence secret from everyone except Lev and my most trusted security team. She's my only weakness. My only connection to the person I was before I became the Pakhan. If my enemies knew about her, they'd use her to destroy me. And I'd let them, because losing Katya would break something in me that even Siberia couldn't touch.
I check the time. In Moscow, it's early afternoon. She'll be at the community center, teaching art to children who remind her that beauty still exists in this world. I pull out my phone and dial before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers on the third ring, her voice warm with surprise. "Roman?Solnyshko, is everything okay?"
The endearment—little sun—makes my chest tighten. "Everything's fine,sestrichka. I just wanted to hear your voice."
"At this hour?" Concern threads through her words. "You're not sleeping again."
"I sleep enough." The lie tastes familiar on my tongue. "Tell me about your week. How are the students?"
She launches into a story about a six-year-old who painted a sunset that made her cry, and I close my eyes, letting her voice wash over me. She asks about my life in America, whether I'm taking care of myself. If I've found anyone to share my life with. The question makes me think of Eva.
"I'm fine," I deflect. "Tell me more about your painting. The series you mentioned last month."
She describes her latest work, Orthodox icons reimagined with modern techniques, and I hear the passion in her voice. Then her tone shifts, becomes softer. "I'm praying for you, Roman. Lighting candles for your soul. I know the life you lead. I know what you've had to become. But I believe redemption is possible, even for you."
The familiar ache settles in my chest. She still believes in salvation, in forgiveness, in the possibility that monsters can become men again. I don't have the heart to tell her she's wrong.
"Thank you,sestrichka. That means more than you know."
After we say goodbye, I sit in the darkness of my study, vodka warming my blood, and think about Eva Markova. My security team's report from yesterday confirmed she went straight home after work, had dinner with her roommate, and made no suspicious calls or contacts. She spent an hour on her laptop reviewing what appeared to be budget spreadsheets, then went to bed at eleven. Nothing unusual. Nothing incriminating.
The vodka doesn't help me sleep. At six, I shower and dress, choosing a charcoal suit and navy tie. By seven, I'm in the back of my SUV, watching the city wake up as my driver navigates morning traffic. I arrive at the office before Eva, before anyone, and stand at my windows watching the sun paint the skyline gold.
She arrives on time, as always. Through the glass wall separating our offices, I watch her settle at her desk, her movements efficient and practiced. She's wearing a tailored gray dress today, her blonde hair in that sleek bun that always makes my fingersitch to pull it loose and my mind go places it shouldn't. She doesn't look at me, doesn't acknowledge my presence, but I see the tension in her shoulders.
She's afraid today. Good. She should be.
Natasha appears at Eva's desk, her pale face blotchy with tears, her hands trembling as she clutches a tissue. I can't hear their conversation through the glass, but I watch Eva's response. She produces more tissues from her desk drawer, makes tea in the break room, and settles Natasha in the chair across from her desk. Her movements are gentle, competent, her brown eyes soft with genuine concern as she calms the nervous secretary.
She's beautiful, and competent, and possibly my enemy, and I can't stop watching her.
Lev comes to my office, his expression grim, and closes the door. He doesn't sit. Bad news never sits.
"Another shipment delayed," he says without preamble. "Two more dock workers filed complaints overnight. Safety concerns, equipment malfunctions, the usual bullshit."
I lean back in my chair, my fingers steepled. "Yakovlev."
"Has to be. The pattern is too consistent, too strategic." Lev pulls out his phone, swiping through reports. "We're losing money, but more importantly, we're losing face. The other families are starting to ask questions."
"What are our options?"
"Retaliation. Hit his operations the same way he's hitting ours. Make him bleed until he backs off."
I consider it, weighing risks against benefits. "Without proof, we look like the aggressors. We trigger the war he wants, unite the other families against us."
