Chapter Two
Adrik
Adrik walked around to the front where his red sports car was parked.
He paused for a second, staring back at the imposing facade of the Westhampton Beach house he’d grown up in.
This place had shaped him, scarred him, and taught him how to survive.
And now, it was the place he had to leave behind forever.
When he got inside his car, he exchanged his rimless glasses for his sunglasses.
His contact lenses were stored in his briefcase, ready for the times he was avoiding his father, who preferred glasses.
Viktor believed contacts were risky during fights.
Before driving off, he sent Sergei a message using one of his throwaway phones.
Adrik: Viktor put a hit out on you tonight at your apartment. Leave the country now. Don’t contact me. Stay safe!
He knew his father would discover his blatant betrayal and put a hit on him as well—a fate Adrik was sure he would eventually have faced anyway.
Every breath he took was on borrowed time.
No matter how far he ran, that fate stalked him, certain and inescapable.
Adrik slammed his foot on the gas pedal, the car roaring as he shot toward the city.
His pulse hammered in his ears, louder than the engine.
He yanked at his tie, fingers clumsy, then popped open two more buttons of his shirt.
The air hit his chest, a small relief against the suffocating tightness that had been building since he walked out on his father.
He’d miss Sergei most of all. The thought cut deeper than the slap Viktor had given him.
Sometimes Adrik wondered if what he felt was love, though Sergei had never dared to show it.
Viktor’s shadow made sure of that. As soon as Adrik got older, he knew—knew in the way Sergei looked at him when no one else was around—that the feeling was mutual.
Neither of them could risk being “out.” That would’ve been a death sentence.
He swerved off the highway, pulling into a cracked lot beside a gas station. The neon lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. His hands shook as he pulled out his phone and dialed Sergei’s number.
Sergei picked up on the first ring. “What the fuck is going on?” His voice was sharp, panicked.
“The boss and his goons plan to take you out tonight… at your apartment. I tried—I did what I could. He wouldn’t listen. You know how he is.”
Silence, then Sergei’s voice cracked. “Why me? Why now?”
“He thinks you went to the FBI.”
“I didn’t go anywhere. I was packing for our camping trip to California.”
Adrik closed his eyes, a twisting ache in his chest. “Leave now! We can’t talk anymore. Promise me you’ll leave.” His voice broke on the last word.
“Adrik! Remember RUN. Don’t change the plan. Got it?” Sergei had helped him devise an escape plan years ago in the event he needed to leave abruptly. Part of the plan was not to share the information with Sergei. With no one.
“Yes! I know the RUN plan. Everything is in place. Promise me you’ll leave now.” Adrik was furious the plan had to be implemented now, when he had looked forward to their two-week camping trip in California.
“Promise.” Sergei’s breath hitched. Then softly, the confession he’d been holding back for years: “I love you, Adrik.”
The line went dead, but Adrik didn’t move. The phone stayed pressed to his ear, his hand trembling so hard he nearly dropped it. His breath caught, sharp and uneven, like he’d been punched in the chest.
Sergei loved him. The words replayed, looping, louder than the traffic outside the gas station. His cheek still burned from Viktor’s slap earlier, but this ache was different—raw, piercing, impossible to shake.
He dialed Sergei back, and the call was disconnected.
Dead. He lowered the phone slowly, staring at the cracked screen as if it might light up again, as if Sergei might call back from another phone.
His throat tightened, eyes stinging. He pressed the heel of his hand against his face, trying to steady himself, but the tremor in his body wouldn’t stop.
For years, he’d buried the feeling convinced silence was safer. And now, at the moment he was losing Sergei, he finally had proof it was real. The confession was a gift and a curse—something to cling to, something that made Sergei leaving hurt ten times worse.
Adrik forced himself upright, dragging in a shaky breath.
His hands still trembled, but he shoved the phone into his pocket and turned the key in the ignition.
The engine growled back to life, steady and loud, drowning out the echo of Sergei’s voice.
“I love you.” The words cut deep, but they also lit something inside him—a reason to keep moving, even if it meant running alone.
He gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white, and pulled back onto the road.
Every mile felt heavier, but he pushed harder, channeling the ache into motion.
Survival wasn’t just about him anymore. If Sergei escaped, if those words weren’t the last thing he ever heard from him, then maybe this pain had meaning.
That evening, Adrik took the subway from New York City to the Newark Airport for a transatlantic flight to Madrid.
He brought his briefcase and an overnight bag from his car.
He didn’t dare go to his penthouse. All evening, his stomach churned with anxiety, fearing someone might discover him trying to board the plane.
He looked around for Sergei, but he was nowhere to be found.
Hopefully, he hadn’t used any airport in New York City.
It would be a miracle if they were on the same flight.
Before he boarded, he stomped on his throwaway phone in a bathroom stall and trashed it in a garbage container.
Unfortunately, Sergei couldn’t call him anymore.
The first rule Sergei had taught him was not to have any electronics when and if he were on the run.
No one could connect with him; calls and messages would be left unanswered.
Despite the wave of sadness washing over him, he boarded the plane without looking back.
Adrik walked down the narrow aisle, the stale mix of recycled air and perfume hitting him as he found his seat.
The plane hummed with chatter, overhead bins slamming shut, and the faint clink of bottles from the galley.
He dropped into the window seat, shoulders heavy, eyes burning.
Madrid waited, but home was gone the second he’d stepped out of the house, through that door.
The thought of the seven-hour flight filled him with dread.
The girl beside him—dark hair, bright smile—tucked her bag under the seat and glanced his way.
“Headed home?” she asked, buckling her belt.
He nodded, though his throat felt tight. “Something like that.”
She leaned closer, playful. “Lucky me, sitting next to the mysterious guy. By the way, I’m Valentina Vargas.”
She handed him her business card, its black surface contrasting with the neon pink letters.
“Cameron Byrn.” He used the alias on his plane ticket. He scanned her card. She was a stripper at a club in Madrid. He’d like to spend the night, but he had another flight with little time in between. He would have changed his flight if his fear of getting caught weren’t so powerful.
He turned to her. “Hey, Valentina, can I buy you a drink?”
“Thanks. Chardonnay, please.” She licked her lips in a seductive manner.
Adrik waved down the flight attendant, muttering, “A glass of chardonnay for the lady and I’ll have a vodka. Double.”
His hands shook as he took the plastic cup, the ice rattling like loose bones. He swallowed hard, the burn cutting through the ache in his chest. He stared out the oval window, the runway lights blurring.
He drained the cup, signaled for another for both of them. The cabin lights dimmed, casting everything in a dull golden glow. The low roar of engines pressed against his ears, steady, relentless.
She nudged him with her elbow. “You know, you’re cute when you brood.”
“And you’re stunning, and your presence is incredibly alluring.”
A smile graced her lips as she kissed his cheek, the soft skin a welcome touch. “Thanks.”
“I meant that. Are you bilingual?”
“Yes, Spanish and English.”
“Excellent. I wanted to learn Spanish, but my family had other plans.”
She leaned closer, her perfume drifting into the stale cabin air. “If you’re free, I have a hotel room near the airport.” She winked playfully, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
Adrik’s lips curved into a smile, though inside he remained distant. Free? He’d never be free. Not with Viktor’s threats hanging over him, not with the goons who watched him even when he couldn’t see them. Every move felt tracked, every breath borrowed.
He shifted in his seat, the leather squeaking under him. “That’s… generous,” he said, voice low, careful.
The girl laughed softly, brushing her hair back. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Adrik stared out the window, the runway lights blurring into streaks. Convinced? He couldn’t even convince himself he’d make it through the week. The idea of a hotel room, of freedom, of choosing something for himself was almost laughable. His father’s shadow stretched too far, too heavy.
He turned back to her, shrugging. “Sorry, prior commitments.”
She pouted, teasing. “Shame. You look like you could use a little fun.”
Adrik’s chest tightened. Fun was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not when every step away from home felt like running with a target on his back. He let her words hang in the air, unacknowledged.
He signaled for another drink. The flight attendant gave him a look—half pity, half warning—but poured anyway. Hours passed with Valentia sleeping on his arm, but Adrik stared out at the darkness for the entire trip.
The seat belt sign clicked off. Passengers stood, reaching for bags, voices rising in impatient chatter. He nudged her with his elbow. “I hope to see you again, Cameron.”
He brushed his lips against her cheek. “I’ve got to catch another plane.”
Madrid’s air hit him—warm, heavy, smelling faintly of coffee and jet fuel.
At the gate, Adrik dropped into a chair, exhaustion pulling at him. The announcement crackled overhead. Boarding soon. He rubbed his eyes, wishing for sleep, wishing for anything but the hollow ache inside.
When boarding was called, he rose, slow but steady. Another narrow aisle, another seat, another hum of engines. He sank into the window seat again, staring at the tarmac lights.
Berlin waited. He didn’t know what he’d find there—only that it wasn’t home, and it wasn’t safe, but it was away. And for now, away was enough.
The final leg was a slow, steady journey from Berlin to Rostock on a train, landing him in the quiet area of Warnemünde, right by the Baltic Sea.
He had arranged the final location months ago, purchased under another one of his aliases, Adrik Brandt.
It was a cozy cottage near the sea, already furnished and stocked with food by the time he arrived.
Stepping inside felt like finally dropping a crushing weight, though his shoulders still felt tense.
At night, alone in the quiet house, Adrik read Sergei’s favorite poems in Russian.
The words spoke of love, longing, and finding beauty in the smallest things.
He clung to those books like lifelines. They were a constant reminder that he hadn’t fully become Viktor Marinov—that he still had the power to choose a different path.
But the fear remained, a tight knot in his stomach.
What if exile didn’t save him? What if he carried his father’s shadow wherever he went?
Boredom and relentless anxiety finally pushed him out of the cottage. He walked along the brick road, forcing himself to breathe the salty air. He needed a place that felt safe, a place where he could just be.
He hadn’t gone far when he spotted a bold rainbow flag fluttering over an unassuming little bar. It felt like a beacon. Adrik walked toward it, deciding this was the only place he would risk his carefully constructed safety.