I pull out my phone and send a quick message to my assistant: Confirm the trainer’s first session with Bobby tomorrow. Ensure he understands the expectations. No deviations.
Business. Nothing more.
The car accelerates, carrying me deeper into the day’s responsibilities. Meetings with accountants to launder another shipment’s proceeds. A sit-down with a city council contact who needs reminding where his loyalties lie. And always, in the background, the quiet hunt for my father’s killer.
The new pakhan has work to do.
And the city will soon learn exactly what kind of man now holds the reins.
Chapter 5
Teddy
A week flies by in a blur of early alarms, back-to-back clients, evening acting classes, and the unexpected addition of Bobby Antonov to my already chaotic schedule.
Today marks the end of our second training session, and I have to admit—despite the irritation simmering beneath my eternal optimism—Bobby is turning out to be one of my favorite new clients.
The private gym space Kirill has arranged for us is nothing like the crowded public facility where we first crossed paths. This is upscale: gleaming equipment, mirrored walls, soft lighting, and best of all, no one else around to interrupt. It feels almost too luxurious for a sixteen-year-old, but Bobby attacks every session with surprising focus and grit.
“Come on, Bobby, one more set,” I encourage, spotting him on the leg extension machine. “You’ve got this. Push through the burn… feel those quads waking up. Ten more. Nine… eight…”
Bobby’s face scrunches in concentration, his dark hair pulled back, sweat glistening on his forehead. He is tall, athletic, with the same sharp cheekbones and intense eyes that remind meuncomfortably of his uncle. But where Kirill carries a heavy, commanding presence, Bobby still has that mix of defiance and vulnerability that comes from being nineteen.
“Ugh, it burns!” he groans, but his legs keep moving, extending and lowering with controlled precision.
“That’s the point,” I laugh lightly, keeping my voice upbeat. “Pain today, power tomorrow. You’re doing amazing. I can already see the strength building. Finish strong… three… two… one. Perfect!”
Bobby lets the machine’s pad return to the starting position with a dramatic exhale, collapsing back against the seat. “Done. Finally.” He wipes his face with a towel and grins up at me. “Thanks, Teddy. You’re actually really good at this. Most trainers just yell or count weirdly. You make it…fun? Sort of.”
I high-five him, feeling a genuine rush of pride.
“Hey, that’s the highest compliment,” I laugh. “You’ve got serious potential, Bobby. Good form, great work ethic, and you listen when it counts. Keep showing up like this and we’ll have you smashing personal bests in no time.”
He stands, stretching his legs with a satisfied wince. “Yeah, well… Uncle Kirill said I had to. But it’s not as bad as I thought.”
We gather our things—water bottles, resistance bands, my notebook where I’ve scribbled notes on his progress. The first session went surprisingly smoothly too. Bobby is quick to learn, responsive to cues, and has a dry sense of humor that sneaks out when he lets his guard down. Training him feels rewarding on a professional level.
The only downside? It has completelywreckedmy carefully balanced schedule.
Between squeezing Bobby’s sessions in, my regular clients, audition prep, and scene study, I am running on fumes. Sleep is becoming a luxury, and my poor darling Brando is getting less snuggle time than usual.
Iamgrateful for the generous pay—Kirill’s rates are absurdly high—but the abrupt way everything has been dumped on me still grates. No negotiation. No polite scheduling discussion. Justyou will train my nephew.
Like… come on!
As we walk toward the exit together, Bobby chatting about a new song he is learning on guitar, I cannot resist probing a little.
“So… your Uncle Kirill,” I say casually, keeping my tone light. “He seems pretty…intense. What does he do exactly? Businessman, right?”
Bobby’s steps falter for half a second. He glances sideways at me, his expression closing off just a touch. “Yeah. Business. Imports, exports, that kind of stuff. Family company.”
Bobby doesn’t expand.
The silence stretches a beat too long, and I can sense he is holding back—something bigger, something he is not supposed to talk about. His shoulders tense slightly, the easy camaraderie from the session dimming. I don’t push. Whatever the Antonov family business really is, it clearly is not open for casual gym conversation.
“Cool,” I say, forcing cheerfulness. “Must be nice having family looking out for you like that.”
Bobby shrugs. “Something like that.”
