Ruthless Bratva Pakhan (Rysev Bratva Pakhans #2)

Chapter 1 - Rodion

I watched the numbers change on the clock beside my bed and wondered if this was what going mad felt like. Not dramatic. Not violent. Just... slow. A gradual erosion of something essential, worn away by too many sleepless nights, until there was nothing left but the performance of being alive.

The woman beside me shifted in her sleep.

Blonde. Long legs. A name that started with J, or maybe G.

She'd been enthusiastic, eager to please, exactly what I usually wanted.

I felt nothing. That was the problem, wasn't it?

I could go through the motions—the charm, the seduction, the act itself—and feel absolutely nothing.

Like watching myself from a distance. Like being a ghost haunting my own life.

I slid out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her, and poured myself two fingers of vodka at the window. Manhattan glittered forty floors below like a promise I no longer believed in. The city that never sleeps. That made two of us.

I'd tried everything. Pills knocked me out but left me feeling buried alive.

Alcohol worked, but the amount required made me useless the next day.

Women were a temporary distraction—an hour or two of skin and heat, and then the loneliness came back worse than before.

Exercise. Meditation. Some breathing technique Nina had sent me a video about.

Nothing touched the restless buzz beneath my skin that wouldn't quieten no matter what I did.

Three weeks ago, at 3 AM on a Tuesday after four straight days of barely sleeping, I'd done something desperate.

I'd made an appointment with a therapist. The thought of it now made me want to laugh.

Rodion Rysev, lying on some stranger's couch, talking about his feelings.

My brothers would never let me live it down.

My father—if he were still alive—would have backhanded me across the room for even considering it.

I checked my phone. The appointment was still there: Dr. K. Walsh—3:00 PM. Today.

I deleted it.

By the time I came out of the shower, the woman—Jessica, I finally remembered—was stirring. She stretched like a cat, letting the sheet fall away in a way that was probably calculated to entice me. It didn't.

"Morning," she purred. "Come back to bed."

"Can't. Meetings."

"Tonight, then? There's this new restaurant in Tribeca—"

"I'll call you."

We both knew I wouldn't. She was smart enough to read it in my voice, and I watched her face cycle through disappointment, anger, and finally a cool indifference that was mostly performance.

She was dressed and gone within fifteen minutes, heels clicking against my hardwood floors, the door closing with a definitive thud.

I stood in my empty penthouse, surrounded by everything money could buy, and felt the silence press against my skull like a vice.

***

The day passed the way my days always passed—meetings and money and the performance of being Rodion Rysev.

My driver Kolya picked me up at eight. "You look horrible," he said cheerfully.

"Your observations are always so welcome, Kolya."

"When's the last time you slept?"

"Long enough. What's on the schedule?"

He knew when to push and when to back off.

Accountants first, then lunch with a developer who wanted Rysev money for his tower, then lawyers about a zoning issue.

The legitimate face of our operations in New York, the charming brother who could schmooze investors and politicians and make them forget—almost—what family I belonged to.

The accountants droned on about offshore restructuring while I fought to keep my eyes open.

The developer, a man named Harrison with too-white teeth, pitched me on a Long Island City tower with the desperate energy of someone who'd expected an easy mark.

I let him talk for an hour and agreed to nothing.

Somewhere in there, my phone buzzed with a text from Nina: Call me when you have a minute.

Just want to talk. My sister, the family conscience.

Since Demyan's marriage, she'd turned her attention to me and Kirill, convinced we needed whatever transformation our brother had undergone.

She wasn't wrong. But that didn't mean I wanted to discuss it.

In meetings all day, I texted back. Tomorrow?

You always say that. Fine. Tomorrow. But I'm holding you to it.

Around two, Demyan called. I stepped out of the lawyers' meeting to answer, grateful for the excuse.

"Brother," I said. "How's married life?"

"You'd know if you visited."

"I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding." A pause. "Clarissa asks about you."

Something twisted in my chest. I'd been there, in that warehouse, when Demyan had torn through O'Shea's men to get her back. I'd watched my brother—the cold one, the controlled one—burn the world down for a woman he'd known for weeks. And I'd felt something I didn't want to examine too closely.

"Tell her I'll visit soon," I said. "What's happening with the Petrovics?"

"Rebuilding. Slowly. They're reaching out to the Irish factions, trying to reconstruct the alliance."

"O'Shea's dead. Who's left?"

"His brother. Cormac. Nastier than Ronan, less strategic. The kind who holds grudges."

"Sounds like a problem."

"I'm handling it." Another pause. "Take care of yourself, Rodion. That's not a request."

He hung up before I could deflect with a joke. I stood in the hallway for a long moment, feeling the weight of his words settle over me.

Take care of yourself.

If only I knew how.

***

The last meeting ended at 2:45, and I told Kolya to drop me at 57th and Madison.

"Nothing on the schedule until tonight," he said, glancing at me in the mirror.

"I need to walk."

"It's February."

"I'm aware."

The cold hit me like a slap when I stepped out, sharp and clarifying.

I walked without a destination, letting the city swallow me—just another figure in a dark coat among thousands.

Anonymous. My feet carried me north on Madison, past boutiques and galleries and corners where I'd closed deals or kissed women whose names I couldn't remember. Past everything, toward nothing.

And then I stopped.

I was standing at 68th Street, and I knew exactly where I was. Three blocks south. Dr. K. Walsh. The appointment I'd deleted.

I checked my phone. 2:54.

Don't. I wasn't the kind of man who needed help. I wasn't the kind of man who admitted weakness. I was Rodion Rysev, and I had everything anyone could want, and if I couldn't sleep, that was my problem to solve. Alone. Like always.

So why are your feet moving?

I was walking before I'd made a conscious decision. Around the corner, through the door, into a lobby of marble and muted colors. I gave my name—"Zelenov"—to the security guard and took the elevator to the eighth floor.

The waiting room was small and tasteful. The receptionist smiled when I approached. "Mr. Zelenov? You can go right in. Dr. Walsh is ready for you."

"I don't have an appointment. I mean, I did, but I cancelled—"

"She had a cancellation. You're fine. Third door on the left."

I walked down the hall feeling like a man approaching his own execution. I'd faced down killers, negotiated with monsters, built an empire on blood and money. A therapist shouldn't make me nervous. But my hand hesitated on the doorknob.

Last chance. Walk away.

I knocked.

"Come in."

The office was smaller than I'd expected. Warm—books everywhere, a leather couch I immediately decided I wouldn't lie on, two armchairs by a window. Late afternoon light cast everything in soft gold. And there, rising from one of the armchairs, was she.

Not what I'd expected. Early thirties, dark hair pulled back with a few strands escaping to frame a face that was striking rather than pretty.

High cheekbones. A full mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile.

And eyes—the color of whiskey, sharp and assessing, taking me apart in a heartbeat.

"Mr. Zelenov?" My fake name, spoken in a voice that was cool and utterly unimpressed. "I'm Dr. Walsh."

I summoned my best smile—the one that had gotten me out of more trouble than I could count. "That's me. Sorry about the appointment confusion. I wasn't sure I was coming."

"But you came anyway."

"I was in the neighborhood."

"Were you."

It wasn't a question. She studied me, no reaction to the smile, no softening. Most women responded to me—not with anything so crude as swooning, but with a shift, an awareness. Dr. Walsh looked at me like I was a puzzle she wasn't sure was worth solving.

"Please." She gestured to the empty armchair. "Sit."

She settled into her chair with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. I took the seat across from her, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt. No desk between us. No barrier.

"So, Mr. Zelenov." She clicked a pen. "You mentioned insomnia when you booked."

"Did I?"

"You also mentioned you'd 'tried everything' and were 'running out of options.'"

I didn't remember writing that. But at 3 AM, Rodion did things that daylight Rodion regretted.

"It's not that serious," I said. "Trouble sleeping sometimes. Work stress."

"What kind of work?"

"Investments. Development. Boring corporate things."

"And these boring corporate things keep you up at night?"

"Doesn't everyone's job?"

She didn't answer. Just watched me with those whiskey-colored eyes, waiting. The silence stretched, and I realized she was doing it on purpose—letting the quiet pressure me into filling it. I'd used the same technique myself. Funny how different it felt from this side.

"Fine," I said. "I haven't slept properly in months. Maybe longer. Two hours a night. Three if I'm lucky. I lie there, and my brain won't shut off."

"Have you seen a physician?"

"Several. Pills don't work, or they work too well, and I'm useless the next day."

"And before this started—did you sleep normally?"

I opened my mouth to say yes. Stopped. "I don't know. I don't remember the last time I felt rested."

"What happened recently that made it worse?"

I’ve killed so many men that I don't remember what it's like to feel. I realized I've been performing the same role so long I don't know who I am without it.

"Work," I said. "Family stress. The usual."

She looked at me for a long moment. I had the feeling she could see right through my bullshit.

"Okay," she said. "We can start there. Tell me about your family."

The session lasted an hour. I didn't lie on the couch.

She asked questions—simple, direct, hard to deflect—and I answered as little as I could.

But she was good. She didn't push when I dodged, but she remembered every dodge and circled back later from a different angle.

By the end, she'd extracted more than I'd intended without ever making me feel cornered.

"That's our time," she said, glancing at the clock. "Would you like to schedule another appointment?"

The smart answer was no. I'd proven therapy was exactly what I'd expected—talking without solutions.

"Same time next week," I heard myself say. "If you're available."

Something flickered in her eyes. Surprise, maybe.

"I'll have my receptionist send confirmation." She rose, and I followed. "And Mr. Zelenov? Get some sleep. However you can."

"Professional advice?"

"Common sense."

She held the door open, her face unreadable. I walked past her, close enough to catch her scent—something clean and faintly floral—and felt a pull in my chest that had nothing to do with therapy.

I rode the elevator down and stepped into the February cold. It wasn't until I was halfway home that I realized I was looking forward to next week. And it wasn't until I was lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling at 4:06 AM, that I admitted why.

It wasn't the therapy. It was her.

This is going to be a disaster.