"I've been busy."
"You've been avoiding." A pause. "Clarissa asks about you."
Something twisted in my chest. I'd been there, in that warehouse, when Demyan had torn through O'Shea's men to get her back. I'd watched my brother—the cold one, the controlled one—burn the world down for a woman he'd known for weeks. And I'd felt something I didn't want to examine too closely.
"Tell her I'll visit soon," I said. "What's happening with the Petrovics?"
"Rebuilding. Slowly. They're reaching out to the Irish factions, trying to reconstruct the alliance."
"O'Shea's dead. Who's left?"
"His brother. Cormac. Nastier than Ronan, less strategic. The kind who holds grudges."
"Sounds like a problem."
"I'm handling it." Another pause. "Take care of yourself, Rodion. That's not a request."
He hung up before I could deflect with a joke. I stood in the hallway for a long moment, feeling the weight of his words settle over me.
Take care of yourself.
If only I knew how.
***
The last meeting ended at 2:45, and I told Kolya to drop me at 57th and Madison.
"Nothing on the schedule until tonight," he said, glancing at me in the mirror.
"I need to walk."
"It's February."
"I'm aware."
The cold hit me like a slap when I stepped out, sharp and clarifying. I walked without a destination, letting the city swallow me—just another figure in a dark coat among thousands. Anonymous. My feet carried me north on Madison, past boutiques and galleries and corners where I'd closed deals or kissed women whose names I couldn't remember. Past everything, toward nothing.
And then I stopped.
I was standing at 68th Street, and I knew exactly where I was. Three blocks south. Dr. K. Walsh. The appointment I'd deleted.
I checked my phone. 2:54.
Don't.I wasn't the kind of man who needed help. I wasn't the kind of man who admitted weakness. I was Rodion Rysev, and I had everything anyone could want, and if I couldn't sleep, that was my problem to solve. Alone. Like always.
So why are your feet moving?
I was walking before I'd made a conscious decision. Around the corner, through the door, into a lobby of marble and muted colors. I gave my name—"Zelenov"—to the security guard and took the elevator to the eighth floor.
The waiting room was small and tasteful. The receptionist smiled when I approached. "Mr. Zelenov? You can go right in. Dr. Walsh is ready for you."
"I don't have an appointment. I mean, I did, but I cancelled—"
"She had a cancellation. You're fine. Third door on the left."
I walked down the hall feeling like a man approaching his own execution. I'd faced down killers, negotiated with monsters, built an empire on blood and money. A therapist shouldn't make me nervous. But my hand hesitated on the doorknob.
Last chance. Walk away.
