Chapter 3 - Rodion
I slept for four hours.
Not the heavy, drugged unconsciousness of pills, or the shallow half-rest that left me more exhausted than before. Actual sleep. The kind where you close your eyes and open them again, and time has passed without your permission.
Four hours. For most people, that would be a problem. For me, it was the best night I'd had in months.
I was out of bed by seven, restless with energy I hadn't felt in weeks. I ran six miles on the treadmill, showered, and was dressed and reviewing contracts before Kolya arrived at eight. He gave me a suspicious look when I slid into the back seat.
"You're awake," he said.
"I'm always awake."
"No, I mean—" He studied me in the rearview mirror. "You look awake. Alert. Like a human person."
"Your faith in me is touching, Kolya."
"Did something happen?"
"Nothing happened. Drive."
He drove. And I sat in the back seat watching the city slide past, refusing to think about why I'd slept better after one hour in a stranger's office than I had after months of pills and alcohol and expensive doctors.
It was a coincidence. Exhaustion finally catching up. It had nothing to do with her.
I almost believed it.
The week had a shape to it now—meetings, calls, the usual machinery of keeping the Rysev operations running.
A real estate deal in Brooklyn that needed my attention.
A club owner in the Meatpacking District who'd fallen behind on his payments.
A city councilman who wanted to renegotiate terms that weren't negotiable.
I handled all of it with the focus I'd been missing for months.
Made decisions. Solved problems. Reminded a few people why it was unwise to mistake my charm for weakness.
By Wednesday, I'd closed two deals, resolved three disputes, and personally visited the club owner to explain—with great warmth and specificity—what would happen if he missed another payment.
He wouldn't miss another payment.
This was who I was. Not the hollow man staring at ceilings at 4 AM, but this—decisive, effective, in control. The insomnia had made me forget that. One decent night's sleep, and I remembered.
I didn't think about the fact that my next appointment was Thursday. I definitely didn't count the days.
***
Kirill arrived Tuesday evening.
I picked him up at Teterboro myself—a rare gesture, but I hadn't seen my youngest brother in two months, and I was in a generous mood.
He came off the plane looking exactly as he always did: immaculate suit, pale eyes, an expression that gave away absolutely nothing.
Where Demyan was fire banked beneath ice, Kirill was simply winter. Cold all the way through.
Or so people thought. I knew better.
"Brother." I pulled him into an embrace, feeling him stiffen briefly before allowing it. Kirill had never learned to be comfortable with affection. Our father had beaten that out of him early—or tried to. "That's your happy-to-see-me face, isn't it."
"I look exactly as I always look."
"That's what I said."
His mouth twitched. Not a smile—Kirill didn't smile—but close enough. "It's good to see you, Rodion."
"Of course it is. I'm delightful."
We took my car into the city, Kolya navigating the evening traffic while Kirill sat beside me in comfortable silence. That was the thing about my youngest brother—he didn't need to fill every moment with noise. He existed in stillness, watching and waiting and seeing far more than he ever said.
It should have been unnerving. Most people found it unnerving. But Kirill had been following me around since he was old enough to walk, a solemn shadow with too-old eyes, and I'd long ago learned to read the subtle shifts beneath his frozen surface.
"How's Boston?" I asked.
"Cold."
"It's February. Everywhere is cold."
"Boston is colder." He glanced out the window at the city lights. "And there's a situation with the Albanians I'm managing. Nothing serious."
"Define 'nothing serious.'"
"Two of them are no longer problems."
"Ah." I didn't ask for details. With Kirill, it was better not to. "And aside from making Albanians disappear? How are you?"
He turned those pale eyes on me, and I had the uncomfortable sensation of being studied like a specimen. "I'm fine. You're not."
"I'm fantastic."
"You're sleeping poorly. Your eyes are shadowed, you've lost weight, and you're deflecting with humor more than usual." He said it without judgment, just clinical observation. "Something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."
"You've been tired for months. This is different."
I should have known better than to try to hide anything from Kirill.
He'd been reading people since before he could read books—a survival skill, in our family.
Our father had been unpredictable, volatile, the kind of man who could shift from warmth to violence between one breath and the next.
Demyan had learned to control himself. I'd learned to charm. And Kirill had learned to watch.
"I'm handling it," I said.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
He held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded and looked away. That was the other thing about Kirill—he knew when to push and when to back off. He'd file this away, add it to whatever mental catalogue he kept, and wait until I was ready to talk.
I might never be ready. He'd wait anyway.
"Demyan called," he said, changing the subject with his usual abruptness. "He's concerned about the Irish situation."
"Demyan's concerned about everything since he got married. Clarissa's turned him into a worrier."
"Clarissa's turned him into a human being. It's disconcerting."
I laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of me. Kirill's humor was so dry it was easy to miss, but it was there, buried beneath the permafrost. "Disconcerting. That's one word for it."
"I have others."
"I'm sure you do."
We pulled up to my restaurant—an Italian place in Tribeca that I'd bought three years ago and turned into one of the most exclusive reservations in the city.
The ma?tre d' greeted us at the door, and within minutes we were settled in my private booth in the back, a bottle of wine on the table and menus we both ignored.
"Tell me about the Irish," I said. "What does Demyan know that I don't?"
Kirill swirled his wine, watching the legs run down the glass. "Cormac O'Shea is consolidating power. He's reached out to the Petrovics."
"We knew that."
"What we didn't know is that the Petrovics are interested. They want to rebuild the alliance Demyan destroyed."
I frowned. Ronan O'Shea had been useful to the Petrovics—a foothold in Chicago, a connection to Irish operations across the Midwest. Demyan had put a bullet in him and collapsed the whole arrangement. The Petrovics had been licking their wounds ever since.
"Cormac's an idiot," I said. "He doesn't have Ronan's connections. What could he possibly offer them?"
"Legitimacy. A name. The O'Shea family still has weight in certain circles." Kirill set down his glass. "And there's a rumor."
"What kind of rumor?"
"That the Petrovics want to seal the alliance permanently. Through marriage."
I raised an eyebrow. "Marriage? To whom?"
"That's unclear. But they're looking for leverage. Someone with ties to both families, or someone valuable enough to make it worth their while."
"The Petrovics don't do anything without a plan. If they're pushing for marriage, they have a target in mind."
"Agreed." Kirill's pale eyes met mine. "I'm looking into it. I'll know more soon."
I filed the information away, turning it over in my mind. The Petrovics were dangerous—more dangerous than the Irish, more patient, more ruthless. If they were rebuilding their alliance, it meant they were planning something. And anything the Petrovics planned tended to end in blood.
"Keep me informed," I said. "And Demyan."
"Of course."
We ate dinner, talked business, drank excellent wine. Kirill was better company than most people realized—quiet, but not empty. He listened when I talked, offered insights that cut straight to the heart of whatever problem I was describing, and never once made me feel like I had to perform.
That was rare. Even with my brothers, I was usually playing a role. The charming one. The easy one. The one who smoothed things over and kept everyone laughing.
With Kirill, I could just be tired.
"You should see someone," he said over dessert, apropos of nothing.
"See someone?"
"For the sleep issue. A professional."
I kept my face neutral, but something must have flickered, because Kirill's eyes narrowed slightly. He'd seen it. Of course he'd seen it.
"I'm handling it," I said again.
"Are you."
It wasn't a question. And this time, I didn't have an answer.
***
He flew back to Boston on Wednesday morning, and I returned to my routine with something like relief. Kirill saw too much. He always had. And there were things I wasn't ready to examine, let alone explain.
Like why I kept thinking about a woman I'd met exactly once.
She'd been in my head all week—not constantly, not obsessively, but persistently.
I'd be in the middle of a meeting and suddenly remember the way she'd held my gaze, waiting out my silences like she had all the time in the world.
I'd be reviewing contracts and hear her voice asking questions I didn't want to answer.
I'd be lying in bed at 3 AM, not sleeping, and wonder if she was awake too.
It was irritating. I'd built my entire life on control—controlling situations, controlling perceptions, controlling myself. I didn't get distracted by women. I enjoyed them, appreciated them, and moved on without a backward glance. That was the arrangement. That was how it worked.
Dr. Walsh hadn't gotten the memo.
I told myself it was just curiosity. She'd gotten more out of me in one session than most people got in years, and my ego wanted to know how she'd done it. Professional interest. That was all.
But Thursday morning, I woke up at six and immediately thought: Today.
I went to the gym. Ran harder than usual, lifted heavier than necessary, trying to burn off the restless energy that had been building all week. It didn't help. By noon, I'd checked my watch four times. By two, I'd given up pretending to focus on anything else.
At 2:30, I told Kolya to take me to the Upper East Side.
"The therapist?" he asked, and I didn't bother asking how he knew. Kolya made it his business to know everything about my schedule.
"Yes."
"That's the second time."
"Your point?"
He shrugged, pulling into traffic. "No point. Just noticing."
"Notice quietly."
He grinned. "Whatever you say, boss."
The building looked the same as it had a week ago—expensive, discreet, the kind of place where people paid for privacy. I signed in at the security desk, took the elevator to the eighth floor, and settled into the waiting room with fifteen minutes to spare.
I was early. I was never early.
The receptionist smiled at me, the same silver-haired woman from before. "Dr. Walsh will be with you shortly, Mr. Zelenov."
"Thank you."
I sat in one of the leather chairs and didn't fidget. Didn't check my phone. Didn't do anything except breathe and wait and pretend my heart wasn't beating faster than it should be.
This was ridiculous. She was a therapist. I was a patient. I was paying her to help me sleep, not to occupy space in my head like she'd bought a lease. I was Rodion Rysev, and I didn't get rattled by women, especially women I'd met exactly once in a professional context.
The door to her office opened.
"Mr. Zelenov?"
She was wearing dark blue today, a blouse that made her eyes look more amber than whiskey. Her hair was pulled back the same way, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked composed, professional, completely unruffled.
I wanted to ruffle her.
"Dr. Walsh." I stood, summoning my best smile. "Miss me?"
"I try not to miss patients between sessions. It's unprofessional." She stepped aside, gesturing me in. "Shall we?"
I walked past her into the office, close enough to catch her scent—something clean and faintly floral—and felt that pull in my chest again. Stronger this time. Harder to ignore.
She closed the door behind me, and we were alone.
"So," she said, settling into her chair with that same calm composure. "How was your week?"
I took the seat across from her, meeting her eyes, and told the truth for once.
"Long."