He wouldn't miss another payment.
This was who I was. Not the hollow man staring at ceilings at 4 AM, but this—decisive, effective, in control. The insomnia had made me forget that. One decent night's sleep, and I remembered.
I didn't think about the fact that my next appointment was Thursday. I definitely didn't count the days.
***
Kirill arrived Tuesday evening.
I picked him up at Teterboro myself—a rare gesture, but I hadn't seen my youngest brother in two months, and I was in a generous mood. He came off the plane looking exactly as he always did: immaculate suit, pale eyes, an expression that gave away absolutely nothing. Where Demyan was fire banked beneath ice, Kirill was simply winter. Cold all the way through.
Or so people thought. I knew better.
"Brother." I pulled him into an embrace, feeling him stiffen briefly before allowing it. Kirill had never learned to be comfortable with affection. Our father had beaten that out ofhim early—or tried to. "That's your happy-to-see-me face, isn't it."
"I look exactly as I always look."
"That's what I said."
His mouth twitched. Not a smile—Kirill didn't smile—but close enough. "It's good to see you, Rodion."
"Of course it is. I'm delightful."
We took my car into the city, Kolya navigating the evening traffic while Kirill sat beside me in comfortable silence. That was the thing about my youngest brother—he didn't need to fill every moment with noise. He existed in stillness, watching and waiting and seeing far more than he ever said.
It should have been unnerving. Most people found it unnerving. But Kirill had been following me around since he was old enough to walk, a solemn shadow with too-old eyes, and I'd long ago learned to read the subtle shifts beneath his frozen surface.
"How's Boston?" I asked.
"Cold."
"It's February. Everywhere is cold."
"Boston is colder." He glanced out the window at the city lights. "And there's a situation with the Albanians I'm managing. Nothing serious."
"Define 'nothing serious.'"
"Two of them are no longer problems."
"Ah." I didn't ask for details. With Kirill, it was better not to. "And aside from making Albanians disappear? How are you?"
He turned those pale eyes on me, and I had the uncomfortable sensation of being studied like a specimen. "I'm fine. You're not."
"I'm fantastic."
"You're sleeping poorly. Your eyes are shadowed, you've lost weight, and you're deflecting with humor more than usual." He said it without judgment, just clinical observation. "Something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."
"You've been tired for months. This is different."
I should have known better than to try to hide anything from Kirill. He'd been reading people since before he could read books—a survival skill, in our family. Our father had been unpredictable, volatile, the kind of man who could shift from warmth to violence between one breath and the next. Demyan had learned to control himself. I'd learned to charm. And Kirill had learned to watch.
"I'm handling it," I said.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
