I pushed open the door and stepped inside, and immediately felt like I'd crossed a threshold into something private. This room was lived in. Books everywhere—not arranged for show, but stacked and shelved and piled in the particular chaos of someone who actually read them. A desk covered in papers and files. A leather chair worn soft with use.
And photographs.
They were clustered on a shelf in the corner, away from the main sight lines—easy to miss if you weren't looking. I moved closer, drawn by the glimpse of faces.
A woman with dark hair and kind eyes, caught mid-laugh at something outside the frame. She had Rodion's smile, or he had hers. His mother, I realized. Antonina. The one who'd died and left them all spinning in her absence.
A formal portrait of four young men in suits, arranged by height. Rodion was second from the left, younger but recognizable, his smile already carrying that practiced charm. Beside him, a taller man who must be Demyan—harder, colder, even then. On the end, a boy who barely looked fifteen, with pale eyes and no expression at all. Kirill.
There was a fourth man I didn't recognize. Older than Kirill, younger than Demyan. He had the same dark hair as the others, the same strong jaw, but his smile was different. More open. Less guarded.
"That's Mikhail."
I turned. Rodion stood in the doorway, dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked tired, but his eyes were alert, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to pry."
"You're not prying. You live here." He moved into the room, coming to stand beside me. Close, but not touching. "That was taken about fifteen years ago. Before everything went to hell."
"Mikhail," I repeated. "I don't think you've mentioned him."
"I don't talk about him much." He reached out and touched the frame, a gesture that seemed almost unconscious. "He died. Eight years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't know him." He was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the photograph. "He was the best of us, actually. The one who might have gotten out, done something different with his life. He was studying to be a doctor, if you can believe that. A Rysev who wanted to heal people instead of hurt them."
"What happened?"
"Car bomb. One of the rival families, sending a message to my father. But Mikhail was driving that day. Wrong place, wrong time." His jaw tightened. "He was twenty-six."
"I'm sorry," I said again, knowing how inadequate the words were.
"My mother was the first." His voice was flat, controlled. "I was nine. She was making dinner for us on a Tuesday night. A rival family wanted to send a message to my father. They sent it through her."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "They killed her in your home?"
"In the kitchen. Two shots. Demyan found her." He wasn't looking at me now, his eyes fixed on some middle distance. "He doesn't talk about it. None of us does. But it's there. It's always there."
I thought about my own mother. I knew what it was like to have your mother ripped away in an instant, in the place that should have been safest.
"My mother died when I was twelve," I said quietly.
He turned to look at me, and I saw the shift in his expression. The recognition of shared loss.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't know her." I echoed his words deliberately, and saw the ghost of a smile cross his face. "But that's why I became a psychologist. I spent years in therapy after she died, trying to make sense of it. Of the things my father did to her. And somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted to be on the other side of the conversation. Helping people find their way through the darkness."
"Did it work? The therapy?"
"Some of it. Enough to function. Enough to build a life." I moved to the window, looking out at the city. "But you never really get over losing a parent. You just learn to carry the weight differently."
"No," he agreed. "You don't."
We stood in silence for a moment, the morning light painting the room in shades of gold. It was strange, this quiet intimacy. Two people who barely knew each other, sharing the kind of truths that usually took years to excavate.
"I need to contact my patients," I said, breaking the spell. "I have appointments scheduled. People who are expecting me. I can't just disappear."
