Chapter 28 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
Pavel's taillights disappear down the mountain road, and the weight of Danil's threat hangs in the air like smoke after gunfire. Heavy. Inescapable. Necessary.
I stand at the window, watching until even the snow resettles on the mountain road behind him. Danil moves beside me, his reflection in the glass as cold and sharp as the knife he'd implied he'd use on Pavel's family.
"That was well done," I say quietly. "Clear enough that he won't mistake it for anything but a warning."
"He'll keep his mouth shut." Danil's voice carries the certainty of a man who's delivered that message before. "Fear works better than money."
"Usually." I turn from the window. "But desperate men do stupid things."
"Then we'll handle it." Danil shrugs. "Either way, he's not a problem tonight."
I'm amazed at how normal this conversation feels.
Maya hasn't moved from her spot by the kitchen counter. Her fingers grip the edge hard enough that her knuckles have gone white, and her eyes are fixed on some point beyond the window.
"Maya." I cross to her, my hand landing gently on her shoulder. Even through the sweater, her skin is warm. "He won't talk."
"You don't know that." Her voice is small, scared. "He recognized you both. He knows what you are."
"And he knows what happens to people who talk about what they've seen." Danil's tone is matter-of-fact. "Pavel survived this long by being smart. He'll stay smart."
She finally looks at me, and the fear in her eyes makes something in my chest crack. "I'm tired. I'm going to take a shower."
I want to follow her, to pull her against my chest and promise everything will be fine. But Danil's presence stops me, and the weight of unspoken things between us feels heavier than it should.
Danil finishes the dishes and pours us both vodka. We drink in silence, the kind of comfortable quiet that comes from years of friendship and shared violence. He doesn't ask what I'm thinking. Doesn't need to.
"I'm going to bed," he finally says, setting down his empty glass and heading for the couch.
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the silence and the fragments of memories that won't quite form into something whole.
Sleep won't come. The bedroom door is closed, Maya behind it, and I can't bring myself to disturb her.
I want to go jump in the tub with her. My dick hardens with just the thought.
But there's too much going on. Danil is still here.
And there's the matter of who I am. So far, I know I'm a Pakhan and my name is Aleksandr.
I know I'm dangerous and that Pavel recognized me. But, until I have all my memories back, I still feel as helpless as a babe.
I move through the cabin restlessly. My body knows this space now, knows which floorboards creak and where the shadows fall.
But tonight it feels too small, the walls pressing in like a coffin.
I replay the dinner conversation in my head.
Pavel's recognition. Danil's threat. The way Maya's face went pale when she understood what we were capable of.
What I'm capable of.
The thought circles like a vulture over carrion. I'm dangerous. The instinct to threaten, to dominate, to control through fear comes as naturally as breathing. It's woven into my bones, part of my DNA.
I find myself near the back of the cabin, where the ceiling slopes down and the space gets tight. There's a small door here, barely three feet high, set into the wall. A crawlspace. I've walked past it a dozen times without really seeing it, but tonight, something pulls me toward it.
Instinct. The same instinct that kept me alive in whatever world I came from. The same instinct that's screaming at me now that answers wait in the dark.
The door opens with a soft creak. Inside, boxes are stacked neatly, labeled in Maya's careful handwriting. Winter clothes. Extra blankets. Emergency supplies. And in the back corner, partially hidden behind a stack of firewood, a box with no label at all.
I pull it out, my hands moving with certainty even though I don't know what I'm looking for. The cardboard is old, soft at the edges like wet tissue paper. When I lift the lid, the smell hits me first. Dust and old paper and the musty scent of old things being packed away and forgotten.
Newspapers. Dozens of them, yellowed with age and used as insulation against the cold. I start to close the box, but one paper shifts and falls open. The movement isn't random. It's deliberate, like the universe itself is forcing me to look.
The date is five years old. The paper crackles in the silence, loud as gunfire in the quiet cabin.
The headline reads, Federal Investigation Targets Russian Organized Crime Network. Below it, a grainy photograph shows a man leaving a restaurant. He's in profile, his face mostly obscured by shadow, but I recognize the set of his shoulders. The way he holds himself. The expensive cut of his suit.
The caption beneath makes my heart stop. Aleksandr Romanov, alleged Bratva boss, leaving local establishment.
I stare at my own image. Even grainy and mostly shadowed, I know it's me. Aleksandr Romanov.
The pain hits first.
It slams into my skull like a bullet, white-hot and blinding. I stagger, my hand shooting out to grip the doorframe as my knees buckle. The newspaper falls from my fingers, fluttering to the floor like a dying bird.
Then the memories crash.
Not gradually. Not gently. All at once, a fucking tidal wave that drowns me where I stand.
My office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach and city.
The weight of my Glock at my hip. Danil at my right hand.
Territory maps spread across mahogany. The taste of expensive vodka.
The sound of men's voices going quiet when I enter a room.
Blood on my knuckles. The cold satisfaction of watching rivals fall.
Aleksandr Romanov. Pakhan of the Romanov Bratva. Legitimate businesses as fronts. Underground operations that generate millions. Respect bought with fear. Loyalty enforced with violence.
I know exactly who I am now.
The headache intensifies, a vise crushing my temples. I press my palms against my eyes, but it doesn't stop the flood. Can't stop it. The memories keep coming, relentless and brutal.
The Orlov file. Stepan Orlov and his brother, skimming fifty thousand from my operations. Thinking they were clever. Thinking they could hide it.
They were wrong.
"Make an example," I'd said, my voice cold. Final. "Get rid of the daughter."
Danil had hesitated, just for a second. "She's twenty-three and has no involvement."
I remember her photograph. Thick and wavy dark hair. Pretty. Innocent.
I'd felt nothing.
"I don't care. She's family. She's the message. Find her and finish it."
I remember signing the order. Remember the scratch of pen on paper. Remember feeling nothing but cold efficiency as I condemned her to death for her father's sins.
The nausea hits hard. I double over, my stomach heaving, but nothing comes up. Just dry retching and the taste of bile and the crushing weight of what I've done.
I ordered her execution.
I looked at her photograph and signed her death warrant without blinking.
And she saved my life.
The irony is so sick it makes me want to laugh, but the sound that comes out is closer to a sob. My hands shake. My vision blurs. The headache pounds behind my eyes like a hammer against an anvil, each beat driving the memories deeper.
I know everything now. Every decision. Every kill. Every order given. The empire I built. The blood on my hands. The man I was.
A monster.
I hear movement behind me and turn, my body moving on instinct even though my mind is drowning.
Maya… no, Lena! Lena Orlova… stands in the doorway in her nightgown, the thin white fabric clinging to her curves. Her blonde hair is loose around her shoulders, still damp from her shower. Her dark blue eyes look at me with concern, and she takes a step toward me then stops.
Her gaze drops to the newspaper on the floor, and she squints at it as if she's never seen it before. Maybe she hasn't. Even if she had, the image of me is too distorted for her to have recognized me.
Her eyes widen as recognition dawns on her. Her eyes jump back to my face and go wide, her face paling dramatically.
Her voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"You remember."