Chapter Twenty-Two
Adrik
Adrik showered, dressed, and walked into town for a quick breakfast, though he barely tasted any of it.
His mind kept circling the same thing: the knock on his door, the man in black, the envelope.
He knew then he wouldn’t be going to the language lab.
He had too much to sort out, too many questions clawing at him.
He dropped his keys on the counter, pulled out his phone, and called Yakov. It was early afternoon in Russia—late enough that Yakov would be awake, grumpy, and honest.
Yakov picked up on the second ring. “What’s going on?”
Adrik rubbed a hand over his face. “My mother hired a Russian guy to find me. He showed up here last night.”
There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know.” Adrik pushed open the patio door and stepped outside. The cold air hit him, grounding him. “How did that happen?”
“Your mother’s father has strong connections with the FSB,” Yakov said. “She probably got their help.”
Adrik pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. “And my father doesn’t?”
“No. Your grandfather blackened your father’s name. No one in Russia will help Viktor.”
Adrik paced the length of the porch, cigarette between his fingers. “Do you know why my grandfather did that?”
“No. I don’t.”
Adrik exhaled smoke toward the yard. “Do you think I’m at risk here now?”
“No,” Yakov said. “Your father has his hands full with your brother screwing up the business. Word is he wants you back.”
Adrik stopped pacing. “You told me he had a hit out on me.”
“He did. I’m waiting for a contact to confirm if he called it off.”
Adrik’s jaw tightened. “Never sell me out to my father.”
“What’s this all about?” Yakov asked, sounding more tired than offended.
“If you think his money is better than mine or more—”
“Adrik,” Yakov cut in, “I live in Russia. There’d be a target on my head if I helped Viktor. He’s made many enemies here. You’re just freaked out from last night. I think you’re okay.”
Adrik flicked ash over the railing. Maybe Yakov was right. Maybe he wasn’t at risk. His nerves were still buzzing.
“Are you still looking for Sergei?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Call me if you get anything. About Sergei or my father.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went dead.
Adrik lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen for a moment as the weight of the conversation settled in his chest. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the device—a small, grounding motion—before slipping it into his pocket.
The crisp morning air hit him, clearing nothing but making him feel a little more awake.
Still half-lost in everything Yakov had said, he headed toward the row of bright yellow mailboxes that always looked like oversized toys to him.
He jogged the last few steps, keys already in hand, and popped the mailbox open.
He blinked.
His motorcycle registration.
A foolish, giddy sensation ran through him, unexpected and quick.
Something normal. Something his. He hurried around the cottage to the garage, peeled the backing off the sticker, and pressed it onto the plate with more care than necessary.
For a moment, he just stood there, hand resting on the cool metal, letting the familiar shape of the bike steady him.
Then reality crept back in.
He went inside, grabbed the envelope the Russian had given him, and sat at the table. His mother’s handwriting stared back at him with her address, her number, and a brief note. Seeing it made something tighten in his chest. She’d found him.
He stepped onto the porch needing to be in the fresh air, thumb hovering over the numbers for a second before he forced himself to press the keys.
She answered on the first ring. “Hello?” she said in Russian, breathless, like she’d been waiting by the phone.
“Mom, it’s Adrik.”
“Are you okay?”
He leaned against the railing, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes. What are you doing in Russia?”
“Making my statement to you,” she said. “You count. You’re my son. And no one threatens my son.”
A mix of warmth and dread hit him. “So… you walked out?”
“Your father needed you, and he’s finding that out.”
“Go back to him,” Adrik said quietly. “You love him.”
“In time. He must understand he cannot threaten his own children. It’s bad enough he threatened his own father.”
Adrik straightened. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing you need to know,” she said too quickly. “Come stay with me.”
“Viktor knows where you are,” he warned. “I’m happy where I am.”
“Okay.” Her voice softened. “Don’t worry about Sergei. I talked to him when you left. I had to help him for you.”
A wave of nausea washed over him as his stomach plummeted. “What did you say?”
“He’s safe near me. No one will touch him in Russia. Remember, he is ex-FSB.”
“Give me his number.”
“No,” she said. “He doesn’t want any contact with you. Make a new life and be happy.”
Adrik closed his eyes, letting the words settle—heavy, bittersweet. “I love you, Mom. Please be careful.”
“I love you, Adrik.”
The line clicked, and she was gone.
He lowered the phone, his gaze fixed on the yard, the quiet serenity of the scene both grounding and unsettling him.
Hearing his mother’s voice—soft, steady, choosing him—meant so much more than he’d expected.
It was the kind of warmth he’d spent years pretending he didn’t need.
And now that he’d felt it again, it left a strange ache in his chest.
He was relieved Sergei was safe, but the part about Sergei not wanting contact…
that stung. More than he wanted to admit.
And then his mother had slipped—that comment about his father threatening his grandfather.
It wasn’t a new suspicion, not really. Adrik had always wondered.
But hearing it from her, even accidentally, made the old questions flare up again.
He needed air. Movement. Something to shake the heaviness off.
He grabbed his leather jacket and helmet as he stepped out the back door. The familiar weight of it settled across his shoulders, grounding him. He rolled the garage door up and wheeled out the brand new shiny black motorcycle. He tightened his helmet.
Adrik swung a leg over the bike and fired up the engine to rumble beneath him for a moment, the vibration settling into his bones.
The air was chilly enough to sting, but it felt good—sharp, bracing, something to cut through the mess in his head.
He eased out onto the road and let the wind take over.
Warnemünde slid by in a blur of winter colors.
The dunes were pale and wind-carved; the Baltic stretched out in that moody gray-blue he was recognizing as its default expression.
Fishing boats rocked lazily in the harbor, ropes clacking against metal.
The old brick buildings, the cafés with chalkboard menus, the lighthouse standing stubbornly against the sky—all of it passed in a steady rhythm that loosened something tight in his chest.
He didn’t have a destination. He just needed movement.
By the time he reached the Rostock train station, the city was winding down—trams rattling by, students weaving through the crowd, the smell of roasted nuts drifting from a vendor’s cart. He slowed at a crosswalk, and that’s when he spotted her.
Amelia. Standing near the station steps, hugging her coat tightly, scanning the street like she was waiting for someone who was late. Adrik sighed under his breath, not annoyed, just resigned, and pulled over. He flipped up his visor and waved to her.
She noticed him and her face lit up.
“Adrik?” she called, stepping closer. “Is that really you?”
“You need a ride home?”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”
He nodded.
She laughed, a little breathless. “Okay, yes. Please. The train was delayed and I’m freezing.”
He handed her his helmet. “Put this on.”
She hesitated only a second before sliding it over her head. It was too big on her, wobbling slightly as she adjusted the strap. Cute, in a way he didn’t want to think too hard about.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Just two blocks and turn left. Right there in those apartments.”
He nodded. “Hold on tight.”
“Oh, I will,” she replied—and she did. Her arms wrapped around his waist, snug and warm, her head pressing lightly between his shoulder blades. The contact startled him more than he expected. He wasn’t used to people holding on to him like that. Not gently.
He pulled away from the curb, keeping the speed easy. She let out a small, delighted sound when they merged onto the main road.
“This is amazing!” she shouted over the wind.
Adrik couldn’t help but smile. “It’s just a bike.”
“Not to me!”
The cold air whipped around them, her grip tightening whenever he leaned into a turn. She was light, careful, not clinging too much, but enough he felt every shift of her weight.
When he pulled up in front of the apartment, she reluctantly let go. After she slid off the bike with a grin, Adrik helped her pull off the helmet.
“That was incredible,” she said, handing back the helmet. “You’re full of surprises.”
Adrik shrugged again, trying to play it off. “Just a short spin.”
“Well… thanks. Really.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Hans is going to lose his mind when he finds out you gave me a ride.”
He ignored her comment. “See you around,” he said, starting the engine again.
“Wait. I’d like to take you out dancing this Friday night,” she said.
“Sorry, I’m all booked up.”
“Maybe another time.” She waved as she headed inside, still smiling.
Adrik pulled away, the sky dimming into early evening as he rode back toward Warnemünde. The wind felt colder now, sharper, but his thoughts were clearer. Not quieter—they never were—but clearer.
And he knew exactly where he needed to be.
Inside the cottage, he peeled off his jacket and headed straight for the shower.
The hot water loosened the last of the tension in his shoulders.
When he stepped out, he felt clearer, steadier—or at least capable of pretending he was.
He winced as the alcohol stung his piercings which thankfully, were doing better than yesterday.
He dressed in a nice pair of slacks and a clean shirt. He sat on the couch afterward, hands clasped loosely between his knees, listening to the quiet tick of the clock on the wall. Six o’clock wasn’t far off.
He was ready to see Hans. Or as ready as he was ever going to be.