“Mom, it’s Adrik.”
“Are you okay?”
He leaned against the railing, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes. What are you doing in Russia?”
“Making my statement to you,” she said. “You count. You’re my son. And no one threatens my son.”
A mix of warmth and dread hit him. “So… you walked out?”
“Your father needed you, and he’s finding that out.”
“Go back to him,” Adrik said quietly. “You love him.”
“In time. He must understand he cannot threaten his own children. It’s bad enough he threatened his own father.”
Adrik straightened. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing you need to know,” she said too quickly. “Come stay with me.”
“Viktor knows where you are,” he warned. “I’m happy where I am.”
“Okay.” Her voice softened. “Don’t worry about Sergei. I talked to him when you left. I had to help him for you.”
A wave of nausea washed over him as his stomach plummeted. “What did you say?”
“He’s safe near me. No one will touch him in Russia. Remember, he is ex-FSB.”
“Give me his number.”
“No,” she said. “He doesn’t want any contact with you. Make a new life and be happy.”
Adrik closed his eyes, letting the words settle—heavy, bittersweet. “I love you, Mom. Please be careful.”
“I love you, Adrik.”
The line clicked, and she was gone.
He lowered the phone, his gaze fixed on the yard, the quiet serenity of the scene both grounding and unsettling him. Hearing his mother’s voice—soft, steady, choosing him—meant so much more than he’d expected. It was the kind of warmth he’d spent years pretending he didn’t need. And now that he’d felt it again, it left a strange ache in his chest.
He was relieved Sergei was safe, but the part about Sergei not wanting contact… that stung. More than he wanted to admit. And then his mother had slipped—that comment about his father threatening his grandfather. It wasn’t a new suspicion, not really. Adrik had always wondered. But hearing it from her, even accidentally, made the old questions flare up again.
He needed air. Movement. Something to shake the heaviness off.
He grabbed his leather jacket and helmet as he stepped out the back door. The familiar weight of it settled across his shoulders, grounding him. He rolled the garage door up and wheeled out the brand new shiny black motorcycle. He tightened his helmet.
Adrik swung a leg over the bike and fired up the engine to rumble beneath him for a moment, the vibration settling into his bones. The air was chilly enough to sting, but it felt good—sharp, bracing, something to cut through the mess in his head. He eased out onto the road and let the wind take over.
Warnemünde slid by in a blur of winter colors. The dunes were pale and wind-carved; the Baltic stretched out in that moody gray-blue he was recognizing as its default expression. Fishing boats rocked lazily in the harbor, ropes clacking against metal. The old brick buildings, the cafés with chalkboard menus, the lighthouse standing stubbornly against the sky—all of it passed in a steady rhythm that loosened something tight in his chest.
He didn’t have a destination. He just needed movement.
By the time he reached the Rostock train station, the city was winding down—trams rattling by, students weaving through the crowd, the smell of roasted nuts drifting from a vendor’s cart. He slowed at a crosswalk, and that’s when he spotted her.
Amelia. Standing near the station steps, hugging her coat tightly, scanning the street like she was waiting for someonewho was late. Adrik sighed under his breath, not annoyed, just resigned, and pulled over. He flipped up his visor and waved to her.
She noticed him and her face lit up.
“Adrik?” she called, stepping closer. “Is that really you?”
