“They’re family.” His tone hardens. “And they deserve a place. Not at the top, perhaps. But a place.”
Lev is watching us both, his face carefully blank. But I can see the wheels turning. He’s piecing it together, what’s being said and what isn’t. The politics behind the platitudes.
“Filipp has been making deals with the Chechens,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Tatiana knew and said nothing.”
“I’m aware.” My father’s gaze doesn’t waver. “They will answer for that. But not with blood. Not with exile. They remain part of this family. Part ofourfamily.”
The emphasis isn’t lost on me. A reminder of what happens to those who turn against their own. A warning.
I weigh my options, aware of Lev watching. Aware of what this teaches him about power and compromise. About family.
“If they accept their place,” I say finally. “If they understand the consequences of stepping out of line again.”
My father nods once, satisfied. “They will.”
Lev shifts again by the door. I acknowledge him with a glance, noting how his expression has changed. No longer casual teenage indifference—his jaw is set, eyes watchful. He understands exactly what’s being discussed. What it means for our family. For him.
For both my sons.
The implications settle like a weight in my chest. Succession. Legacy. The burden that will eventually pass not just to me but to one of them. Nikolai, with his tactical mind and quiet observation. Lev, with his fierce loyalty and quick instincts. One day, a choice will have to be made.
And choices in our world are never without casualties.
But I won’t let those casualties be my sons.
Not between them.
Not like it was between me and Filipp.
Not like it nearly was between me and my father.
Before the silence can stretch too far, there’s a knock on the door.
Oleg’s voice comes through, firm and efficient. “Dinner is ready.”
My father rises slowly, the way men do when pain has become part of the routine. He presses one hand to the desk as he stands, his breath caught just slightly before he releases it.
Then he looks at Lev.
My son straightens under his gaze.
“You heard a lot today,” Anatoly says. “More than most boys your age.”
Lev doesn’t flinch. He nods once.
He walks toward the door, then stops beside me.
There’s a long pause—one that feels like it’s carrying more weight than all the words we’ve said so far.
Then, his voice—low, meant only for me.
“Many things, son.” His eyes are on the wall now, on the butterflies. “You think there’s a clear line between power and family. There isn’t. There never was.”
I don’t speak.
He turns his head just enough to meet my gaze.
“But that’s how it should be. A father doesn’t burden his son with everything. Not until he has no choice.”
