14. Well, Well, Well…
Well, Well, Well…
Mikhail Romanov
“…And now to business.”
The television continued playing in the background.
“Romanov Energy has suffered staggering losses this morning following the sudden, aggressive liquidation of its major institutional holdings. Market analysts estimate the company’s valuation has dropped by—”
The glass left my hand.
It shattered against the far wall, heavy crystal exploding across the polished marble. Amber whisky streaked down the white paint like a stain.
Outside my office, footsteps froze. No one knocked. They knew better than to come anywhere near me right now.
I stared at the screen until the segment cut away, only for his face to take over the broadcast.
Zhenya Romanov.
Captured on camera stepping out of the Romanov Insurance headquarters. Calm. Impeccably tailored. Untouchable.
I hated that face. I had hated it for as long as I could remember.
Even when we were kids, it was always Zhenya. Never Mikhail.
When Father walked into a room, his eyes looked for Zhenya first. When guests arrived at the country estate, Zhenya was the one they asked to see. Teachers, reporters, board members, investors—every single one of them, without fail.
Back then, the press dubbed him the Rogue Heir, the rebellious Romanov who refused to play by the rules. He skipped mandatory dinners, got kicked out of prep school, started fights, and dragged the family name through the mud more times than anyone cared to count.
And yet, nobody actually held it against him. They just chuckled.
“That’s just Zhenya.”
“He’ll grow out of it.”
“The boy has character.”
Character. That was the magic word.
If I had pulled half the stunts he did, Father would have locked me away or beaten me black and blue. But when Zhenya did it? It was charming. It was colorful. People forgave him before he even bothered to offer an apology.
Then came the university years. He threw himself into Pharmaceuticals, while I built Romanov Energy from scratch. He inherited an empire and expanded it; I created one out of nothing.
Guess which story the press fell in love with. Guess which son they labeled a prodigy. Guess whose face ended up on every financial cover in the country.
Always Zhenya Romanov.
I wasn’t invisible—it was worse than that. I was just his brother. A footnote in his biography.
I poured another drink, my hands steady this time. I didn’t throw the glass. There was no point in senseless drama. Anger was only useful when it was directed at a target.
Mine finally had one.
I pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk and lifted out a heavy manila folder.
Nikolai Levin.
I set it squarely in the middle of the desk, tracing the edge of the tab with my thumb. A cold, quiet smile spread across my face.
“You spent your whole life taking over every room you walked into, brother,” I whispered to the empty office.
I opened the file to the first page.
“Let’s see how well you handle losing the only thing you give a damn about.”
I read the diagnosis again.
Dissociative Identity Disorder.
Then I turned the page.
Secondary personality identified by the patient as “Fyodor.”
I let out a quiet, bitter laugh.
“So the boy really is broken,” I murmured.
I leaned back in my leather chair, staring at the open file. It was almost laughable. I had put this entire dossier directly into Dmitry’s hands—every page, every medical note, every damning detail—expecting him to strip Zhenya of everything on the spot.
And what did Father do?
He hesitated.
He gave his precious heir another out, another chance to walk away clean. That had always been Father’s fatal flaw. No matter how deep Zhenya dragged the Romanov name into the mud, there was always an excuse ready. Always another opportunity to redeem himself.
If those records had carried my name, Father would have leaked them to every major paper in Russia before sunset. But because they belonged to the stray Zhenya brought home? He handled it with velvet gloves.
Pathetic.
I looked down at the documents again. This wasn’t a setback; it was an opening. A beautiful one.
People didn’t fear dead men—they pitied them. But madness? Society never forgot madness.
Imagine it: a single leaked audio clip. A video.
One raw, unedited glimpse of this Fyodor surfacing in public.
The media would do the heavy lifting for me.
Shareholders, journalists, the board—none of them would care about psychological nuances or trauma.
They’d only see that the future head of the Romanov empire was sleeping next to a ticking time bomb.
Zhenya had spent years constructing his untouchable reputation. It would take me less than an afternoon to tear it down.
I reached for my phone and hit speed dial.
“Anton,” I said the second the line connected.
“Sir.”
“Set up a secure location.”
“…What kind of venue?”
“A cell,” I corrected flatly. “No windows, no clocks, no light leaking through the door. Somewhere he completely loses track of time.”
A brief hesitation on the line. “Understood. Anything else?”
“Yes. Bring in someone who knows how to push the right buttons.”
“…Sir?”
“A psychiatrist,” I said, a dark smile pulling at my mouth. “Not an ethical one. A greedy one.”
“And Anton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve have an idea.”
“…About the boy?”
“Yes. About how we pull him in.”
A brief beat on the line.
“You said Levin has one close friend,” I said.
“Pavel. Yes.”
I smiled faintly. “Good.”
“What about him?”
“Bring him in.”
“…Alive?”
I looked out over the skyline below my office. “I didn’t tell you to put a bullet in him, Anton. I told you to bring him in.”
Anton waited. He knew I wasn’t finished.
“Once we have him,” I continued, “set up a camera.”
“What do you want him to say?”
“He doesn’t need to say a word. He just needs to look terrified enough on tape.”
“And if he refuses to play along?”
I shrugged. “Then make him.”
Anton didn’t need further elaboration. “And after that?”
“Send the clip straight to Nikolai.”
“No terms attached?”
“Oh, there will be terms,” I said, taking a slow sip of whisky. “‘Come alone. No cops. No Zhenya. If you want your friend to keep breathing, don’t try to be a hero.’”
Anton went quiet for a moment. “Are you certain he’ll take the bait?”
A small laugh escaped me. “You don’t know Nikolai Levin. The boy would gladly walk straight into a furnace if he thought it would keep someone else from getting burned.”
“What about Zhenya’s security detail?”
“They won’t even know,” I replied. “He won’t tell them. He’ll convince himself he’s protecting his friend by keeping quiet.”
I glanced down at the file on my desk one last time.
“Kindness,” I murmured. “What a pathetic liability.”
I cut the call.
Poor Pavel. The idiot would never even realize he was only ever the bait.
* * *
Nikolai Levin
The penthouse always felt strangely quiet after Zhenya left for work—different, but still occupied.
He had a way of taking up space without saying much, so whenever he walked out the door, it was as if the apartment itself noticed the absence.
I wandered barefoot into the kitchen, where Olga was busy arranging fresh flowers in a vase.
“Good morning, Nikolai.”
“Morning.”
“Breakfast is ready.”
“I’ll eat in a minute.”
She shot me the exact look she always gave whenever I put off a meal. “You said that thirty minutes ago.”
I gave her a sheepish grin. “…I got carried away reading.”
“So I noticed.” She set a plate down on the island. “The book won’t run away if you pause for ten minutes.”
“It might.”
Olga let out a dramatic sigh. “One of these days, Mr. Romanov is going to think I’m letting you starve.”
“I’ll defend you.”
“You’ll forget halfway through because your nose will be stuck in another novel.”
“…Fair point.”
She chuckled under her breath.
After breakfast, I carried my mug into the living room.
The weather was unusually clear, sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I curled up on the sofa with my book, slipping through three chapters before I even realized time was passing.
Up on the mezzanine, Lev was speaking quietly into his earpiece; the TV hummed at a low volume in the adjoining room; Olga hummed along to whatever was on her mind while dusting.
It was peaceful. I hadn’t known peace could feel so completely ordinary. Now, it just felt like home.
Then my phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I reached for it without looking. Pavel’s name lit up the screen, and an instant smile caught my face as I answered.
“…Finally decided to call me back?”
Silence.
“…Pavel?”
Nothing—just the faint hiss of static.
I frowned. “Can you hear me?”
The call cut out. I stared at the screen, puzzled, but a second later the phone vibrated again.
It was a video message, not a call.
My thumb hovered over the screen for a second before I tapped it. The footage opened on a shaky, unsteady camera angle, clearly shot in a hurry. When the frame finally settled, it showed a solitary wooden chair in the middle of a dim, concrete room.
My stomach dropped into a hard knot.
Pavel came into view. His wrists were bound behind his back, a dark smear of dried blood crusting his temple. The left side of his face was already swelling.
“Pavel…” I whispered, the sound catching in my throat.
He lifted his head slowly, as though every inch of movement cost him. “…Niko…”
Before he could say another word, someone off-camera kicked the leg of the chair, sending a harsh metallic scrape echoing through the room. I flinched.
Someone spoke through in video, their tone dull and bored.
“He’s breathing. For now. If you want him to keep it that way… come alone. No police. No security detail. No Zhenya Romanov. If we spot anyone with you, your friend doesn’t leave this room.”
Pavel suddenly jerked against his bindings. “Niko! Don’t—”
The screen snapped to black.
I sat there staring at my own pale reflection in the glass. A second later, a fresh notification popped up from an unregistered number.
Unknown: You have one hour. Come alone, or start arranging his funeral.
My heart hammered violently against my ribs. No. No, no, no.