With a quick tap, all the tabs detailing Serafina’s life die. She may hold some strange fascination, but it must remain an intrigue before she turns into an obsession.
There’s something in my brain that, when latching onto an interesting topic, shuts the noise off and turns all my focus inwards. Sometimes, I’ll go days without properly sleeping or eating because of this hyper-fixation.
My interest in servers started after a quick internet search to fix our buffering Wi-Fi one day. That’s all it was, but next thing I knew, I was deep into the terminology and videos, learning computers inside and out. How they function, how they’re created, everything about the hardware they’re built with and the software running them. Then, my interest expanded to how multiple computers can work together on one network.
Computers, networks, and servers got into my head and took over, sometimes so much, I’d forget direct orders from Papa, Ursin, or Ivan, which would end with me in prison as punishment.
The longer I spend wondering why Serafina affects me so, the more learning everything about her may become an accidental and inappropriate obsession. If Vanessa was aware Serafina had the potential to be that, she’d throw me into prison herself and lose the key.
After a few hours of working inside the tracking software and texting Dimitri for information, I head upstairs to find Vanessa and update her before searching out more pain meds the good doc left last night.
My made bed immediately draws my attention—because of course she did. Serafina probably woke up and immediately felt guilty she didn’t break her neck or back by finishing the night in the chair, so she made the bed.
After swallowing two pills, I grab an apple from the kitchen to make my supper.
For sleep, I pass out on the familiar futon beside my computers, far away from my bedroom and the scent of vanilla and peaches.
The next day, Vanessa and I head into Moscow to break the news to the families of the fallen soldiers from the fight Ivan initiated.
Normally, this would be a job Dimitri does either himself or with Vanessa, but since he’s not in the country, she asked me to tag along. The thought of entering numerous strangers’ homes has my fingers completing their typical rhythmic tapping against the steering wheel, something Anastasia claims is a nervous tick.
Not sure if she’s correct, but it calms my mind and heart.
One tap, two back-to-back, and then a final one before repeating all over again.
When pulling up to the first soldier’s house, a simple two-storey building, Vanessa scans the notes Anastasia compiled earlier. “Blyat, I hate this part. He has a two-year-old.Fuck, Lev.”
The fact she’s doing this at all says enough. Ursin certainly never did. Serving under Vanessa’s father was so vastly different, and every second was terrible. But it was the way my life was meant to go, as designed by Papa. Back then, the Bratva was different. The Elite members were different, my father one of them. Dimitri was controlled by his own, Vanessa sent away to boarding school, and Anastasia and I were Papa’s personal soldiers—his weapons to wield in whatever manner made him more powerful in Ursin’s reign.
“They’ll appreciate you coming. They knew what their partners agreed to when swearing themselves to you.”
“Still.” She chews on her bottom lip before folding the list with a sigh and tucking it into her back pocket. She scans the house’s front yard, pausing on a toy bucket resting abandoned. “How many will hate they stuck by me? How many of these men should have been home with their families, but bad luck had them on shift that night?”
“Chance.” I slip out of the car, knowing when her job consists of emotional tasks, she’ll only follow when being led. “It’s exactly what you said. Bad luck they were with us.”
With a grim look, she takes over, leading me towards the door. After a quick knock, it swings open to a man, a small child propped on his hip.
“Hello?”
“Vanessa Volkov.” She points to herself before gesturing to me. “Lev Petrov. Can we come in? We have some news about your husband.”
Ten houses later, Vanessa has become more and more distant, reminding me of Ursin. Not that I’d ever tell her that; she’d have me slaughtered on the spot.
The façade breaks when delivering the news, her sympathy for the family coming out at the appropriate times, which is good, because I certainly don’t understand how to be that. When we’ve returned to the car, another layer of her mask goes up.
When we’ve finally finished at the final house, a tear slips down her cheek.
“You’re allowed to be sad.”
“We lost good men. So did Papa during his time, and he never cried over any of them.”
“Your papa was azasranets. Don’t compare yourself to him.”
“In his journal,” she starts, wiping her face again, “he wrote in one of his entries that no Pakhan’s soul is ever intact. Nothing else stuck with me quite the same way as that line. Since then, I’ve been questioning whether I still have mine, and if I don’t, when did I lose it?”
“What’d you come up with?”
“That mine is still intact, or else I’d have allowed the Mancinis be murdered by Ivan. No matter what it took, we were getting them out. I realized then, having my soul isn’t a weakness.”
