There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know.” Adrik pushed open the patio door and stepped outside. The cold air hit him, grounding him. “How did that happen?”
“Your mother’s father has strong connections with the FSB,” Yakov said. “She probably got their help.”
Adrik pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. “And my father doesn’t?”
“No. Your grandfather blackened your father’s name. No one in Russia will help Viktor.”
Adrik paced the length of the porch, cigarette between his fingers. “Do you know why my grandfather did that?”
“No. I don’t.”
Adrik exhaled smoke toward the yard. “Do you think I’m at risk here now?”
“No,” Yakov said. “Your father has his hands full with your brother screwing up the business. Word is he wants you back.”
Adrik stopped pacing. “You told me he had a hit out on me.”
“He did. I’m waiting for a contact to confirm if he called it off.”
Adrik’s jaw tightened. “Never sell me out to my father.”
“What’s this all about?” Yakov asked, sounding more tired than offended.
“If you think his money is better than mine or more—”
“Adrik,” Yakov cut in, “I live in Russia. There’d be a target on my head if I helped Viktor. He’s made many enemies here. You’re just freaked out from last night. I think you’re okay.”
Adrik flicked ash over the railing. Maybe Yakov was right. Maybe he wasn’t at risk. His nerves were still buzzing.
“Are you still looking for Sergei?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Call me if you get anything. About Sergei or my father.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went dead.
Adrik lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen for a moment as the weight of the conversation settled in his chest. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the device—a small, grounding motion—before slipping it into his pocket.
The crisp morning air hit him, clearing nothing but making him feel a little more awake. Still half-lost in everything Yakov had said, he headed toward the row of bright yellow mailboxes that always looked like oversized toys to him. He jogged the last few steps, keys already in hand, and popped the mailbox open.
He blinked.
His motorcycle registration.
A foolish, giddy sensation ran through him, unexpected and quick. Something normal. Something his. He hurried around the cottage to the garage, peeled the backing off the sticker, and pressed it onto the plate with more care than necessary. For a moment, he just stood there, hand resting on the cool metal, letting the familiar shape of the bike steady him.
Then reality crept back in.
He went inside, grabbed the envelope the Russian had given him, and sat at the table. His mother’s handwriting stared back at him with her address, her number, and a brief note. Seeing it made something tighten in his chest. She’d found him.
He stepped onto the porch needing to be in the fresh air, thumb hovering over the numbers for a second before he forced himself to press the keys.
She answered on the first ring. “Hello?” she said in Russian, breathless, like she’d been waiting by the phone.
