I should have found that unsettling. Instead, I'd found it... interesting.
You're being ridiculous.
I finished my wine and went to bed, even though I knew I wouldn't sleep. Not well, anyway. I hadn't slept well in years—not since I'd left Chicago, not since I'd seen my father's name in that news article and felt something I still couldn't name. Relief? Grief? Some toxic combination of both?
He was dead. The man I'd spent my whole life running from, the man whose shadow had shaped every choice I'd ever made, was dead. Shot in some warehouse, according to the article. Gang violence, the police suspected. As if there were any doubt.
I'd read that article four times, searching for something—closure, maybe, or some sense that the world had finally righted itself. Instead, I'd felt hollow. Empty. Like I'd been bracing for a blow that never came, and now I didn't know what to do with all that tension.
I hadn't cried. Hadn't called anyone. Hadn't done anything except close my laptop and pour myself a drink and sit in the dark until morning.
That had been two months ago. I still didn't know how to feel about it.
The ceiling of my bedroom was a pale gray in the darkness, featureless, familiar. I stared at it and thought about the patient who couldn't sleep, wondering what kept him awake. Wondering if his ceiling looked like mine. Wondering if he was lying in some expensive bed right now, staring at nothing, feeling the same hollow ache I felt.
I wondered if he was thinking about me.
Don't.
But I was already there—replaying the session, analyzing every word, every gesture, every moment his charm had flickered and shown me something real. He'd walked into my office expecting to perform his way through fifty minutes, and instead he'd actually talked. Not much. Not nearly enough. But more than he'd planned to, I was certain of that.
And he'd made another appointment.
I rolled over and punched my pillow into a different shape, annoyed at myself, annoyed at him, annoyed at the whole situation. He was a patient. I was his therapist. Whatever I'd felt in that room was a product of proximity and professionalism and the particular intimacy of the therapeutic relationship. It happened. It was normal. It would pass.
I repeated that to myself until I almost believed it.
When I finally fell asleep, somewhere around 2 AM, I dreamed of whiskey-colored eyes and a smile that didn't reach them, and woke up more unsettled than before.
Chapter 3 - Rodion
I slept for four hours.
Not the heavy, drugged unconsciousness of pills, or the shallow half-rest that left me more exhausted than before. Actual sleep. The kind where you close your eyes and open them again, and time has passed without your permission.
Four hours. For most people, that would be a problem. For me, it was the best night I'd had in months.
I was out of bed by seven, restless with energy I hadn't felt in weeks. I ran six miles on the treadmill, showered, and was dressed and reviewing contracts before Kolya arrived at eight. He gave me a suspicious look when I slid into the back seat.
"You're awake," he said.
"I'm always awake."
"No, I mean—" He studied me in the rearview mirror. "You look awake. Alert. Like a human person."
"Your faith in me is touching, Kolya."
"Did something happen?"
"Nothing happened. Drive."
He drove. And I sat in the back seat watching the city slide past, refusing to think about why I'd slept better after one hour in a stranger's office than I had after months of pills and alcohol and expensive doctors. It was a coincidence. Exhaustion finally catching up. It had nothing to do with her.
I almost believed it.
The week had a shape to it now—meetings, calls, the usual machinery of keeping the Rysev operations running. A real estate deal in Brooklyn that needed my attention. A clubowner in the Meatpacking District who'd fallen behind on his payments. A city councilman who wanted to renegotiate terms that weren't negotiable.
I handled all of it with the focus I'd been missing for months. Made decisions. Solved problems. Reminded a few people why it was unwise to mistake my charm for weakness. By Wednesday, I'd closed two deals, resolved three disputes, and personally visited the club owner to explain—with great warmth and specificity—what would happen if he missed another payment.
