Artyom
The message from New York comes at the exact moment I’m sitting by the window with a cup of black coffee I haven’t even tried to drink, the surface still untouched and cooling in my hands. The light outside is soft and bluish, the kind of pale morning that should feel calm and quiet, yet nothing about me feels calm, not after what she saw, after the way she looked at me in that basement doorway as if she’d finally understood the kind of man she’s tied herself to and wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.
Every time I close my eyes, I hear the echo of her footsteps walking away from me, imagine her slipping out of my reach, imagine the look she’d give me if she ever realized just how dark it gets inside my head when it comes to her and why I’m never fully at ease unless I know exactly where she is. I ended up going into Mikhail’s room about an hour ago, pretending I had something urgent to discuss. I just needed distance from her.
We haven’t spoken since the basement. Not a single word.
So, when my phone vibrates on the table, sharp against the quiet, Mikhail glances over from the couch where he’s tying his shoes, he narrows his eyes at me, half suspicious, half annoyed, and mutters, “What now?”
I read the message once.
“It’s from NY,” I say. “Father’s very sick.”
Mikhail’s hands still. “Sick how?”
I hand him the phone without speaking. He reads the message once, eyebrows tightening, and then reads it again slower, letting out a long breath that sounds more resigned than surprised.
Something tightens low in my chest, that familiar cold pressure that comes whenever my father’s name is involved, because nothing about this feels real. Vladimir Morozov doesn’t get sick, and even if he did, he wouldn’t announce it through one of his men, in the middle of a week filled with problems he left me to deal with. This feels like a classic move from him.
“Gravely ill,” he murmurs, the words flat and suspicious. “He never uses that phrasing.”
“That’s because it isn’t true,” I say, sinking back into the chair, the phone now buzzing silently in my palm as other notificationsfollow. “This is him pulling strings. He wants something, as always.”
Mikhail doesn’t argue immediately, which only irritates me more. He leans back, hands resting loosely on his knees, and studies me with that calm, infuriating patience he developed after we nearly killed each other a dozen times as teenagers. “He’s old, Tyoma. It could be real.”
“If he were dying, the entire house would be crawling with doctors,” I mutter. “Instead, we get a formally worded message right after someone tried to take Kira.”
Mikhail rubs a hand over his face. “I know how he works, but… people change when they get older. They panic, they get dramatic, they?—”
“He doesn’t panic,” I snap, then lower my voice. “He’s a manipulative prick and you know it.”
Mikhail holds my gaze, then nods slowly, giving in. “All right. Then whether it’s real or manipulation, we go. It’s dangerous to ignore it.”
I exhale through my nose, long and sharp. He’s right about that. Ignoring father creates new problems, and I have enough to deal with, without adding him to the list.
“Let’s get the girls,” I say, standing. “If we’re leaving, we’re all leaving.”
He smirks. “I’ll handle that.”
I leave him to it and head to Kira’s door, and suddenly, the stillness inside me tightens.
I raise my hand to knock but pause for a second longer than I should. Maybe because her silence felt heavier than any accusation she could’ve thrown at me after seeing.
I knock once, quietly.
“Kira,” I say, voice low. “We have to go.”
There’s a soft rustle inside, then footsteps approach. The door opens slowly, and she appears in the frame, hair messy and falling over one shoulder, wearing one of my shirts. The fabric hangs loose on her, brushing mid-thigh, soft and wrinkled and for a moment I forget every coherent thought I had.
Her eyes lift to mine quickly, then drop again, and I can’t tell if she’s avoiding me because she’s scared or because she doesn’t know how to look at me now. Either way, it hits harder than it should.
“We need to pack,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “There’s been… news. From New York.”
She nods once, quiet, and steps back to let me in, but I don’t move. It’s too small in there, too intimate, too much risk of saying something I shouldn’t. So, I stay by the doorway instead.
“Five minutes,” I add. “Just grab what you need.”
She turns to gather her things, and when she bends she reveals the soft curve of her bare skin where my hands should be, although she probably wants nothing to do with me right now.
