Chapter 1 #2
"Irrelevant to the crisis." My hands moved back to the keyboard. Started to type. Trembled instead.
Fuck.
I made fists. Tried to hide the shaking. Too late. They'd both seen it.
"I'm trying to work out how to mitigate this fucking disaster.
" The words came out harder than I meant them to.
"Each scenario requires specific countermeasures.
If the feds move on the construction company, we need offshore accounts activated.
If they target the shipping routes, we need alternative channels established.
I've identified forty-seven variables that need immediate—"
"You can't calculate your way out of everything," Dmitry said.
The gentleness in his voice broke something in my chest.
"I can try." I finally looked at them both.
Saw my brothers—the only two people in the world who knew exactly what I was.
What I'd always been. The anxious kid who counted everything, who needed patterns to feel safe, who'd built an empire of control around the terrified child still hiding underneath.
"If I don't try, people die."
The war room went quiet. Just the hum of monitors. The soft clicking of keys as algorithms ran on auto-pilot.
"People die anyway," Alexei said. "Four civilians died in that restaurant. You didn't plant the bomb. You didn't fail to prevent it. Sometimes things happen that are outside even your ability to predict."
"That's not—" I started.
"You think I don't know what you're doing?
" Alexei moved closer, leaned against the desk beside me.
Close enough that I could smell his cologne, sandalwood and bergamot, the scent that meant safety when we were kids.
"You're running every scenario where you could've stopped this.
Every detail you might have missed. Every phone call you should've made or meeting you should've attended.
You're looking for the pattern you failed to see. "
My throat tightened.
"But Vanya, there are too many variables. Even for you. Even with seven monitors and three keyboards and seventy-two hours of no sleep. Some things are chaos. Some things just happen."
"Babushka said—"
"Babushka also said that you can't save everyone." Dmitry's hand landed on my shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Real. "She said that trying to control everything is just another way of being afraid."
I flinched. Dmitry's hand stayed.
"That's not—" I tried again. Failed again. My voice cracked. "I missed three calls from her. Three. If I'd just answered—"
"You were working," Alexei said firmly. "You were doing your job. You were twenty-three years old and negotiating a deal that kept fifty families employed. You didn't kill her. The stroke killed her."
"But I could've—"
"You could have answered and she still would have died before the ambulance arrived.
You could have been standing right there and not known what was happening until it was too late.
The doctors said it was massive. Instant.
Nothing you could've done." Alexei's voice gentled.
"You're not God, Ivan. You're just a man with anxiety and too many monitors and a desperate need to protect everyone you love. "
The tremor in my hands spread to my arms. My whole body shaking now. The beta-blockers couldn't suppress this—the medication worked on physical symptoms, not the underlying terror that drove them.
"Have a break, brother," Alexei said.
Not a request. Not quite an order. Somewhere in between. The voice of a Pakhan who loved me. The voice of a brother who'd spent our entire lives trying to shield me from the world while I tried to calculate our way to safety.
"I’ll take two hours," I heard myself say. "Then we need to plan."
Dmitry's hand squeezed my shoulder. "Two hours. Food first. Then shower. Then we talk."
I forced myself to stand, my body protesting after seventy-two hours in the chair. My spine cracked in three places. My knees felt like someone had replaced the joints with broken glass. I steadied myself against the desk, waiting for the room to stop tilting.
It didn't.
Alexei appeared on my left. I waved him off. "I can walk."
"Didn't say you couldn't," he replied, but stayed close anyway.
I moved toward the small kitchenette in the corner of the war room. The space was barely six feet square—mini fridge, electric kettle, two-burner hot plate I'd never used. I'd installed it two years ago when I realized I was spending more time up here than in my actual apartment.
I began the ritual, the one thing I could always depend on to calm me.
I reached for the electric kettle with shaking hands. Filled it at the sink with exactly 500ml of filtered water. The measurement was important. Too much water and the tea would be weak. Too little and it would be bitter. Babushka Nina had been specific about proportions.
I set the kettle on its base. Pressed the button. The heating element glowed red underneath.
While the water heated, I retrieved a wooden box from the top shelf of the small cabinet. Had to stretch for it. My shoulders screamed. I brought the box down carefully, cradling it with both hands.
Hand-carved birch wood, pale and smooth from years of handling.
A wolf was etched on the lid—the Volkov crest, done in simple lines by someone with more skill than artistry.
My grandfather had carved it in 1987, before I was born.
Before he brought his family to America and built an empire from nothing.
Inside the box, nestled in faded red velvet: a porcelain tea set.
Small white pot with delicate blue flowers painted around the rim. Four cups barely larger than shot glasses, the same blue flower pattern. The porcelain was thin enough to be translucent when held to light. Fragile. Precious.
Babushka Nina had carried it in her suitcase from Saint Petersburg in 1992.
Wrapped in her winter coat to keep it safe during the journey.
It was one of three things she'd brought from the old country—the tea set, her wedding ring, and a photo of my grandfather who'd died three years before they emigrated.
I set the pot and three cups on the counter. My hands were steadier now. The ritual demanded precision. My body knew that.
The kettle clicked off. Boiling. I let it sit for exactly ninety seconds to reach the proper temperature. 95 degrees Celsius. Too hot and the tea would be scorched. Too cool and it wouldn't steep properly.
While I waited, I opened the tea caddy. Georgian black tea blend—strong, bitter, complex.
The scent hit me immediately. Earth and tannins and something almost smoky.
The smell of her kitchen in Brighton Beach.
The smell of Sunday mornings and late night conversations and every important moment of my childhood that mattered.
I measured one teaspoon per cup plus one for the pot. The rule she'd taught me. The rule her mother had taught her in a different kitchen, in a different country, in a different life.
"Patterns are in everything—water, leaves, time. You just have to pay attention."
Her voice in my head, clear as if she stood beside me. Twelve years old, sitting at her kitchen table while she showed me the precise method. Her gnarled hands moving with practiced grace despite the arthritis that bent her fingers.
"The kettle must be at 95 degrees, Vanya. Not boiling—that burns the leaves. And you warm the pot first, always. Pour a little water, swirl it, pour it out. This way the temperature stays consistent."
I poured hot water into the teapot. Swirled it three times clockwise. Poured it into the sink. Steam rose. The porcelain warmed in my hands.
I added the tea leaves to the warmed pot. One, two, three, four teaspoons. Plus one for the pot. The leaves were black and twisted, releasing their fragrance as the porcelain heated them.
"Now you pour from the side of the kettle, not directly over the leaves. Gentle. You're not drowning them—you're waking them up."
I poured. The water turned amber almost instantly. The scent intensified. Bitter and beautiful.
"Steep for exactly four minutes. Set your timer, Vanya. Precision matters."
I set my phone timer for four minutes.
Another memory surfaced while I waited. Later. Years later. Me at twenty-three, sitting in the Krasnov negotiation. Hour sixteen. The shipping routes through Newark hanging in the balance. My phone buzzing on the conference table.
Babushka Nina. Calling.
I'd looked at the screen. Silenced it. The Krasnov representative was talking about dock access fees, and I needed to hear every word to calculate our counter-offer.
The phone buzzed again. Babushka Nina. Again.
I silenced it. Stayed focused. The deal required absolute concentration. Couldn't afford distractions.
Third call. I didn't even look at the screen this time. Just hit decline and went back to the spreadsheet showing port access percentages.
Four hours later, I'd walked out with everything we needed. Contract signed. Shipping routes secured. I'd felt like a fucking genius.
Drove to her apartment in Brighton Beach to tell her about it.
She always wanted to hear about my work.
Didn't care that half of it was illegal.
Didn't care about the violence underlying every deal.
She just loved watching my mind work, loved seeing me use the analytical skills she'd helped nurture.
I'd used my key to let myself in. Called out for her. No answer.
Found her in the kitchen.
On the floor between the table and the stove. Her housedress—the blue one with white flowers, the one she wore every Sunday—was twisted around her legs. One arm stretched toward the phone on the table. Three feet away. Might as well have been three miles.
The teapot was shattered beside her. The porcelain teapot with the blue flowers. One of the three things she'd brought from Saint Petersburg. Broken into pieces on the linoleum floor.