Chapter Thirty-One
Osip
The vodka burns down my throat, but it doesn’t touch the restlessness eating through my chest.
Melor and Radimir sprawl across my leather furniture like they own the place, which they basically do— blood gives you that kind of privilege. The empty bottles on my coffee table tell the story of our evening: three brothers getting drunk enough to forget why we left Moscow in the first place.
“Remember when you used to smile?” Radimir says, his words slightly slurred as he refills his glass. “Back before you became this brooding mudak who buys restaurants and pretends to be respectable.”
“I smile.” I drain my vodka and immediately pour another. “Just not at your ugly face.”
Melor snorts with laughter, the sound echoing through my too-large living room. “That’s not smiling, bratan . That’s grimacing.”
The banter feels familiar, comfortable in ways I’d forgotten were possible.
This is what I missed about having family around— people who knew you before you became whoever you’re pretending to be now.
People who remember when your biggest concern was whether the neighborhood boys would respect your claim to the best corner for selling cigarettes.
But comfort in my world has always been temporary.
The atmosphere shifts when Radimir’s expression grows serious, the alcohol loosening his tongue in dangerous ways. “Don’t you want to find out why Galina had to die and who did it?”
What the fuck?
The laughter dies instantly, replaced by the kind of silence that precedes executions.
I set down my glass with deliberate care, each movement controlled despite the rage building in my chest like nuclear fission. My brothers watch me with the focused attention of drunk men who’ve suddenly realized they’ve stepped into a minefield.
“No.” The word comes out flat, final.
“Why the fuck not, Osip?” Melor asks, his voice carrying genuine confusion. “Someone killed Galina. Someone murdered your pregnant wife and your unborn son. And you’re just… what? Going to let them get away with it?”
“Because I know why she died.” The admission tears from my throat. “Because of me and my fucked-up past. Because I brought violence into our lives and it followed me home. Which is exactly why I left that world behind me.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Radimir says, his earlier mischief replaced by something harder. “You think this is your fault? You think Galina died because you deserved it?”
“I think bloodshed breeds more bloodshed until it turns into an endless cycle.” I stand up, needing distance from their questions, their certainty that violence can solve what violence created. “I think some doors should stay closed.”
“ Pizdets .” Melor’s voice carries disbelief. “If I hadn’t heard that with my own ears, I wouldn’t believe you said it. This from the man who once killed three Chechens with a broken bottle because they looked at him wrong.”
“That man is dead,” I mutter. “He died in that house with Galina.”
It’s hard to believe I’m actually saying the words out loud. Those first weeks after her death, I’d raged for revenge. But time has changed my perspective. Being that man was the reason she died in the first place.
The silence that follows is heavy, carrying the weight of violence that shaped us all. I can feel their judgment, their confusion at seeing me choose peace over vengeance.
“Drop it,” I say finally, my voice carrying enough warning to freeze blood.
My brothers exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them. Finally, they drop the topic, but the tension remains in the air.
That’s when Melor decides to shift to safer ground— or what he thinks is safer ground.
“Speaking of moving on,” he says, his grin returning with forced brightness, “what about this new housekeeper of yours?”
My hand tightens around the crystal tumbler. “What about her?”
“Come on,” Radimir joins in, leaning forward with renewed interest. “You hire some beautiful American woman, move her into your house… sounds like more than just cleaning to me.”
“She needed a job. I needed help around the house.” I keep my voice even, controlled. “It’s not complicated.”
“Isn’t it?” Melor’s eyes glitter with mischief. “Beautiful woman, living in your house, probably grateful for your protection…”
“Maybe she’ll give you that kid you always wanted,” Radimir adds.
I feel myself go cold.
The vodka and grief make my control slip for just a moment. “I don’t want that anymore.”
“Bullshit,” Melor says. “You always wanted a family, Osip. Even when we were kids, you were the one talking about having sons to carry on the name.”
“That part of me died with Galina.” I glare down into my glass. “I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want kids. Not anymore.”
“What about Anett?” Radimir pushes, apparently immune to the warning in my voice. “She could give you a kid. Hell, she’s been trying to trap you with one for months.”
“No fucking chance. The stupid suka doesn’t know when to leave.”
“So maybe let her stick around, have a kid, then get rid of her.” Radimir won’t let it go.
“Are you deaf, mudak ?” I bark. “I said I don’t fucking want her around!”
I’m about to stand up and kick my brothers’ asses for being pricks when the door opens without warning.
Anett appears in the doorway like a bad omen, her face flushed with anger and something that looks like betrayal. She’s wearing a skin-tight dress that screams desperation, and from the way she’s swaying slightly, she’s been drinking.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “The three brothers having a little family meeting. How sweet that I wasn’t invited.”
Blyad.
How long has she been outside? How much did she hear?
“Anett,” I say keeping my tone calm, “what are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember?” She moves into the room with calculated precision, every step designed to draw attention. “At least, I thought I did. But apparently, I’m not welcome at family gatherings anymore.”
The truth is, I haven’t even thought about Anett since our last argument.
Aside from the occasional slamming door or revved engine, she may as well not have even been here.
Thank fuck. I’d expected her to get on my case about marriage again.
Maybe she’s just regrouping. I can’t say I’m unhappy about it.
I haven’t missed her presence, her demands, her constant need for attention.
Since Ilona moved in, Anett has become background noise— something I was supposed to deal with but kept putting off.
“So?” Her voice is sharp. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”
“This was last-minute,” I say, but even to my own ears, the excuse sounds weak. Why the fuck do I even feel obligated to excuse myself?
“Last-minute.” She laughs, bitterly. “Why don’t you just admit you just didn’t want me around.”
“Fine. I didn’t want you around,” I confirm coldly. I can’t understand why she hasn’t figured this out yet.
My brothers tense, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Melor and Radimir exchange glances, suddenly sober enough to recognize danger.
“I think it’s best we leave, bratok ,” Melor says, standing with careful dignity; not easy since he’s swaying on his feet. “This looks like a private conversation.”
“Don’t leave on my account,” Anett says, moving to my liquor cabinet and pouring herself vodka with hands that shake slightly. “I’m sure you boys were having such an interesting discussion about what an inconvenience I am.”
She takes a long swig directly from the bottle, and I feel my temper beginning to fray. The alcohol, the conversation about Galina, the way she’s trying to embarrass me in front of my brothers— it’s all adding up to an explosion I’m not sure I can control.
“Anett, that’s enough.”
“Is it?” She turns to face me, eyes blazing with hurt and fury. “Because I don’t think it is. I think we’re just getting started.”
My brothers haul ass out of there, grabbing their jackets and heading for the door with the speed of men who recognize when they’re about to witness something ugly.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Radimir says as they leave, but I barely hear him. All my attention is focused on the woman standing in my living room, holding my vodka like a weapon.
The door closes behind them with a finality that makes my chest tight. Now it’s just me and Anett, and the weight of everything I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
“Where have you been?” I ask, genuinely curious, though I definitely haven’t missed her.
“Working,” she says bitterly. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”
“You’re a model, Anett. You work maybe ten hours a week.”
“And you’re a restaurant owner who could easily afford to move me in full time, yet you continue to fight it.”
“Fight what, Anett? I told you to find a place of your own.”
“But how can you do this?” she half wails. “We had something special. Osip. Something that could be so much more.”
Chert voz’mi!
This woman is never going to take the hint.
She continues to argue, her voice rising with each accusation. My patience is wearing thinner with each word. The alcohol makes everything sharper, more volatile.
“That it! I’m done,” I say finally, my temper at breaking point.
“What the fuck do you mean, you’re done, Osip?”
“You heard me. I’m breaking up with you.”
Breaking up? What the fuck am I even saying? We never had a relationship to begin with.
She stares at me for a long moment, her face cycling through disbelief, hurt, and finally rage. “But why?”
Jesus Christ!
Is she seriously not getting it?
“Because this isn’t working. It never was.”
“I don’t believe you.” Tears stream down her cheeks, but underneath the hurt burns something harder. “Is there someone else? Some other whore sucking your dick already, is that it?”
The crudeness is meant to wound, to drag me down to her level. Instead, it just confirms what I already knew— this was never about love. It was about possession, control, the need to own something that couldn’t be owned.
I cross to the door, opening it with deliberate calm. “Goodbye, Anett.”
She stares at me for another moment, mascara running in dark rivers down her cheeks. Then her expression hardens into something I recognize— the look of someone who’s about to make everyone else pay for their pain.
“You’re going to regret this, Osip! This is not over!”
“Yes, it is. Out. Now.”
She storms past me into the night, flicking her hair over her shoulder as if marking the end of a performance. I close the door behind her and lean against it, suddenly feeling much older than my thirty-three years.
What a fuck up of an evening.
I’m drunk, exhausted, and surrounded by the wreckage of a relationship I never wanted in the first place. My brothers brought up Galina’s death, pushed me about children I’ll never have, and witnessed me break up with a woman I should have cut loose months ago.
I climb the stairs slowly, pausing outside Ilona’s door for just a moment. No sound from within— she’s probably asleep, dreaming whatever dreams innocent people have. Dreams that don’t feature parking lots and knives and the weight of necessary violence.
In my own room, I strip off my clothes and collapse onto sheets that still smell faintly of Anett’s perfume. Tomorrow I’ll have housekeeping wash everything, erase the last traces of a fling that should never have started.
But tonight, I lie in the darkness and think about cosmic jokes and impossible coincidences. About the woman from Room Five. About Igor Shiradze’s daughter who trusts me with her safety.
About the fact that those two women are the same person, and I’m the killer who connects them both.
The pull between us is still there— magnetic, undeniable, wrong in every possible way. I felt it when she looked at me across the kitchen island, the same electric current that crackled between us in that burgundy room.
But nothing can happen.
Nothing will happen.
She’s my housekeeper, and that’s all she can ever be.