Chapter 1 - Rodion
4:06 AM.
I watched the numbers change on the clock beside my bed and wondered if this was what going mad felt like. Not dramatic. Not violent. Just... slow. A gradual erosion of something essential, worn away by too many sleepless nights, until there was nothing left but the performance of being alive.
The woman beside me shifted in her sleep. Blonde. Long legs. A name that started with J, or maybe G. She'd been enthusiastic, eager to please, exactly what I usually wanted. I felt nothing. That was the problem, wasn't it? I could go through the motions—the charm, the seduction, the act itself—and feel absolutely nothing. Like watching myself from a distance. Like being a ghost haunting my own life.
I slid out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her, and poured myself two fingers of vodka at the window. Manhattan glittered forty floors below like a promise I no longer believed in. The city that never sleeps. That made two of us.
I'd tried everything. Pills knocked me out but left me feeling buried alive. Alcohol worked, but the amount required made me useless the next day. Women were a temporary distraction—an hour or two of skin and heat, and then the loneliness came back worse than before. Exercise. Meditation. Some breathing technique Nina had sent me a video about. Nothing touched the restless buzz beneath my skin that wouldn't quieten no matter what I did.
Three weeks ago, at 3 AM on a Tuesday after four straight days of barely sleeping, I'd done something desperate. I'd made an appointment with a therapist. The thought of it now made me want to laugh. Rodion Rysev, lying on some stranger's couch,talking about his feelings. My brothers would never let me live it down. My father—if he were still alive—would have backhanded me across the room for even considering it.
I checked my phone. The appointment was still there:Dr. K. Walsh—3:00 PM.Today.
I deleted it.
By the time I came out of the shower, the woman—Jessica, I finally remembered—was stirring. She stretched like a cat, letting the sheet fall away in a way that was probably calculated to entice me. It didn't.
"Morning," she purred. "Come back to bed."
"Can't. Meetings."
"Tonight, then? There's this new restaurant in Tribeca—"
"I'll call you."
We both knew I wouldn't. She was smart enough to read it in my voice, and I watched her face cycle through disappointment, anger, and finally a cool indifference that was mostly performance. She was dressed and gone within fifteen minutes, heels clicking against my hardwood floors, the door closing with a definitive thud.
I stood in my empty penthouse, surrounded by everything money could buy, and felt the silence press against my skull like a vice.
***
The day passed the way my days always passed—meetings and money and the performance of being Rodion Rysev.
My driver Kolya picked me up at eight. "You look horrible," he said cheerfully.
"Your observations are always so welcome, Kolya."
"When's the last time you slept?"
"Long enough. What's on the schedule?"
He knew when to push and when to back off. Accountants first, then lunch with a developer who wanted Rysev money for his tower, then lawyers about a zoning issue. The legitimate face of our operations in New York, the charming brother who could schmooze investors and politicians and make them forget—almost—what family I belonged to.
The accountants droned on about offshore restructuring while I fought to keep my eyes open. The developer, a man named Harrison with too-white teeth, pitched me on a Long Island City tower with the desperate energy of someone who'd expected an easy mark. I let him talk for an hour and agreed to nothing.
Somewhere in there, my phone buzzed with a text from Nina:Call me when you have a minute. Just want to talk.My sister, the family conscience. Since Demyan's marriage, she'd turned her attention to me and Kirill, convinced we needed whatever transformation our brother had undergone. She wasn't wrong. But that didn't mean I wanted to discuss it.
In meetings all day, I texted back.Tomorrow?
You always say that. Fine. Tomorrow. But I'm holding you to it.
Around two, Demyan called. I stepped out of the lawyers' meeting to answer, grateful for the excuse.
"Brother," I said. "How's married life?"
"You'd know if you visited."
