Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Alexander
"Another one."
I pushed the empty glass across the bar, and the bartender immediately understood, pouring another whiskey.
"Man," Dmitri grabbed my wrist, "you've already had five tonight."
"So?" I shook off his hand and picked up the glass.
"So you have that important meeting tomorrow," he leaned against the bar, "the Romanovs aren't exactly pushovers. You can't walk into negotiations hungover."
"I know what I'm doing."
The amber liquid slid down my throat with a burn. I needed this—needed something that could make my brain shut the hell up for a while.
Dmitri sighed and ordered a soda water. He was one of the few people I could still call a "friend"—if our line of work even allowed for friends. Our families went way back; we grew up together in New York, witnessed each other at our worst.
"Seriously, Alexander," he turned around, back against the bar, "what's been eating at you lately? You're wound tighter than a piano wire about to snap."
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit," Dmitri snorted, "I've known you for twenty years. You're about as far from 'fine' as it gets."
I didn't respond, just stared at the liquid swirling in my glass.
A blonde in a barely-there dress sauntered over, her cleavage deep as a canyon. She leaned against the bar next to me, deliberately pressing closer.
"Hey, handsome, want to—"
"No." I didn't even look up.
She froze, glancing awkwardly at Dmitri.
Dmitri shrugged, giving her a "don't take it personally" gesture. The blonde pouted and walked away.
"Could you be a little nicer?" Dmitri shook his head. "She wasn't bothering anyone."
"She wanted something I can't give."
"It was just a drink, not a marriage proposal."
I finally turned to look at him. "She didn't want a drink. She wanted my wallet. I've seen her type before."
Dmitri went quiet for a few seconds, then studied me thoughtfully. "You and Tatyana broke up almost four years ago."
At that name, my fingers tightened around the glass.
"So?"
"So," Dmitri chose his words carefully, "maybe it's time you started looking forward. Really looking forward, instead of keeping everyone at arm's length."
I let out a bitter laugh. "I don't lack for women when I need them."
"That's not what I mean," he shook his head, "and you know it. Someone who could actually let you relax. Someone you don't have to be on guard with 24/7."
"In our world," my voice stayed level, "staying on guard is what keeps you alive."
"But you weren't always like this," Dmitri said suddenly.
I looked at him.
He hesitated, then continued. "Remember five years ago? After you came back from—" he paused, weighing his words, "after that girl left. You were different then. Yeah, you went ballistic later, but before that..."
My heart clenched.
"Don't bring her up."
"Why not?" Dmitri's tone turned serious. "Alexander, I've never seen you like that. Angry? Yeah, you were furious. But before that? I'd never seen you in that state—like an actual living person instead of a cold machine."
I turned back to my glass.
"That was five years ago."
"But you're still thinking about her, aren't you?"
My silence was answer enough.
Dmitri sighed. "You know what the problem is?"
"I don't need psychoanalysis."
"You need to face reality," he wasn't backing down from my cold shoulder. "Why did Tatyana cheat? Not because she found a better man. Because she knew—she always knew—she'd never have your heart. Because your heart was never with her in the first place."
My fingers started drumming against the bar—my tell when I was getting agitated.
"Since when?" Dmitri pressed on. "Since five years ago. Since that redhead."
"Enough." My voice dropped to a warning level.
"No, not enough," but Dmitri was clearly going all in tonight. "You think I don't know you still carry something of hers in your wallet? Think I haven't noticed how you always take a second look at redheads?"
"Dmitri—"
"She hurt you, I get it," he cut me off. "The way she left, that note she left behind—that was brutal. But have you ever considered maybe she had her reasons?"
"What reason could justify doing something like that?" I finally exploded, keeping my voice low but emotions spilling over. "Treating everything like a transaction, thinking a hundred bucks could just wipe the slate clean?"
"Maybe she was scared," Dmitri's voice softened. "Did you ever think of that? Some regular girl suddenly finds out she slept with the Pakhan of the Bratva. What do you think went through her head?"
I froze.
That angle... I'd never really considered it.
"She knew who I was?"
"You said it yourself—she's a journalist," Dmitri reminded me. "If she looked up your name..."
My mind raced. If she had researched me, seen those news reports about violence, arms dealing, organized crime...
What would she have thought?
She'd be terrified. Afraid. Want to run.
Shit.
"So she wasn't trying to humiliate you," Dmitri said quietly. "She might've just been protecting herself."
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath.
All these years, I'd thought she rejected me, that she reduced everything between us to some transaction that could be settled with cash.
But what if... what if she was just scared?
"Even if that's true," I opened my eyes, "it doesn't matter anymore. She's gone. I looked for a month and found nothing."
"That was five years ago," Dmitri said. "Maybe now..."
"Now what?" I laughed bitterly. "I should comb every street in New York looking for redheads?"
"I just think," Dmitri squeezed my shoulder, "if she really meant that much to you, maybe it's worth trying again. Instead of staying locked up in this shell, pushing everyone away."
I stayed quiet for a long time.
"You're right," I finally said. "I should loosen up."
Dmitri's eyes lit up. "Really? Then maybe tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow I have meetings," I cut him off, "but this weekend, maybe we could go upstate. You've been wanting to try that new hunting ground, right?"
Dmitri's smile faltered. "That's not the kind of relaxing I meant..."
"I know what you're getting at," I said, standing up, throwing cash on the bar. "But what I need right now is time. Time to think through... a lot of things."
"Alright," Dmitri stood too, "but you have to promise me—no more getting yourself wasted. What you need is a clear head, not alcohol numbing everything."
I nodded.
Walking out of the bar, New York's night breeze hit my face, carrying early autumn's chill.
Dmitri was right.
I was still thinking about her. Had been for five years straight.
But where was she? Was she okay? Did she... still remember that night?
I touched my wallet in my pocket, where I still kept one of her hairs and that hundred-dollar bill.
Maybe I really should try to let go.
Or... find answers.
The next morning, I woke up to blazing sunlight.
My head was splitting, mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton—miserable as hell.
Damn hangover.
I struggled to get up, stumbled into the bathroom. The man in the mirror looked like shit—bloodshot eyes, stubble sprouting, completely haggard.
I turned on the faucet, splashed cold water hard against my face, trying to wake myself up.
Dmitri was right. I couldn't keep going like this.
Downstairs, I made myself strong coffee and carried the mug to the living room.
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making me squint.
That's when I noticed something unusual outside.
The house next door—the one that had been empty for over six months—seemed to have people in it.
I walked to the window, curious.
The changes in the yard made me pause.
The previously neglected flower beds had been redone, weeds cleared, soil turned over, and some flower seedlings had even been planted. The lawn was trimmed neat and tidy, no longer the overgrown mess it used to be.
Sunlight spilled across the yard, the newly planted greenery swaying gently in the breeze, the whole scene full of life.
My mood lifted inexplicably.
Maybe because seeing a previously lifeless place come alive, or maybe because finally having neighbors move in meant not staring at that empty house anymore.
A little girl was playing on the lawn, her red hair especially striking in the sunlight.
She looked about five or six, wearing a pink little dress, crouched on the grass, apparently observing something—maybe a bug, or a small flower.
Just then, the ball in her hands rolled away, over the fence, landing on my lawn.
"Oh no!" she exclaimed softly, running to the fence.
Then I heard her call out. "Mommy, my ball!"
But there was no response from the house—her mom was probably still busy.
The little girl pressed against the fence, trying to reach the ball, but she was too small, her arms nowhere near long enough.
Watching her struggle, I found myself smiling slightly.
Kids this age were always so fixated on these little things.
I took a deep breath, opened the sliding door, and walked toward the yard.
Hearing footsteps, the little girl looked up.
The moment she saw me, those eyes—
Brown.
I stopped mid-step.
That color, that amber tone in the sunlight...
For some reason, I thought of my mother's photos from when she was young. She had brown eyes like that, too.
But I immediately shook my head. Plenty of people had brown eyes. It didn't mean anything.
"Hello." I tried to make my voice sound gentle.
The little girl didn't respond immediately, instead studying me warily, small hands gripping the fence tightly.
"Who are you?" Her voice was soft, with a hint of nervousness.
"I'm your neighbor," I said. "I live in this house."
She bit her lip, seeming to debate whether to trust me.
"Your ball landed in my yard," I pointed at the pink ball. "Want me to get it for you?"
She looked at the ball, then at me, finally saying quietly, "Thank you."
But her body stayed tense, ready to run at any moment.
I walked over and picked up the ball, slowly approached the fence, crouched down to her eye level, and handed it to her.
Up close, I could see her features more clearly.
The shape of her eyes and brows... felt strangely familiar.
But I couldn't place who she reminded me of.
Maybe just a coincidence?
"Thank you, mister." She said politely, taking the ball and immediately stepping back.
That reaction... she'd been well-taught about being cautious with strangers.
"You're welcome," I said gently. "What's your name?"
She hesitated, clutching the ball tightly. "Sofia."
"Sofia, how old are you?"
"Five." Her answer was brief, eyes still guarded.
Five years old.
My heart suddenly skipped a beat.
Five years ago...
No, impossible. The world couldn't be that coincidental.
"I'm Alexander. I live next door. In case you ever need anything."
"Mr. Alexander." She repeated, frowning, seemingly memorizing the name. "Do you live alone?"
"Yes. You can call me Alex if you want, little princess."
She tilted her head, looking at me, and something like sympathy flashed in those brown eyes. "You must be very lonely."
Such an innocent comment, yet it hit me unexpectedly hard.
"Sometimes, yes," I admitted.
"Then..." she hesitated, "maybe I can come play with you sometimes? So you won't be so lonely."
Warmth spread through my chest.
"Thank you, sweetheart." Then I tried to make my voice sound casual. "If that's the case, shouldn't we get your mom's permission? Where's your mom? What's her name?"
But Sofia suddenly became alert, backing up a step.
"Mommy says not to tell strangers our names," she hugged the ball tighter. "And you've already asked a lot of questions."
When she said this, there was unease in her voice, as if she realized she'd said too much.
"Sorry," I immediately realized I'd been too eager. "You're right. I shouldn't have asked so much."
Sofia nodded, then turned to leave.
"Sofia," I called after her.
She stopped and looked back, wariness still in her eyes.
"Welcome to the neighborhood," I said. "If you need any help, you can always come find me."
She thought about it, then said, "I'll tell Mommy. Thank you for getting my ball."
With that, she ran toward the house with her ball.
I stood there, watching her go.
That red hair, that five-year-old age, and those brown eyes...
No, this was ridiculous.
New York was huge. How could it possibly...
But a voice in my head whispered: What if it really was?
I shook my head, turned to go back inside.
Just then—
"Sofia!"
A woman's voice came from next door, clearly panicked.
I instinctively turned around.
A woman rushed out of the house, wearing house clothes with an apron still tied around her waist, hair casually pulled back, obviously fresh from a shower and making breakfast.
"What are you doing outside?" Her voice was full of anxiety. "Didn't I tell you to play in the yard?"
"My ball rolled out," Sofia held up the ball. "This man helped me get it."
The woman seemed to notice my presence for the first time.
She looked up, and in that moment, time seemed to freeze.
Red hair, damp and clinging to her shoulders.
Green eyes, sparkling in the sunlight with a glow I could never forget.
That face—
Even after five years, even though she looked more worn, even though time had left subtle marks around her eyes—
I recognized her instantly.
Anna.
Our eyes met, and her face went white as paper.
In those green eyes, terror, shock, and disbelief swirled together.
This woman—this woman I'd been haunted by for five years—
Was standing right there.
Right next door.
With...
My gaze fell on Sofia, that little girl with brown eyes.
Five years old.
Red hair.
Brown eyes.
All the pieces clicked into place in that moment.