Chapter Thirty-Three
Adrik
Seversk, Russia
Adrik felt someone shaking his shoulder—gentle, rhythmic, almost careful.
For a second he thought he was dreaming, but then he opened his eyes and found his father leaning over him.
Viktor’s hand slid through his hair the same way he used to when Adrik was a young boy afraid of thunderstorms. The familiarity brought him back to his childhood.
Not going to let Viktor lure him back into this mess with him.
“Wake up, my little prince,” Viktor murmured.
Adrik rubbed his eyes, pretending not to hear Viktor using his pet name from the past. “Is it time to pick up Mom?”
“We have an hour,” Viktor said. “Take a shower and then we’ll have breakfast.”
Adrik nodded, watching his father leave the room.
The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.
He shoved the covers off and stepped onto the cold wooden floor, wincing as the chill shot up his legs.
Russia in the morning always felt like it was daring him to complain.
Nine a.m. here meant three a.m. in Germany. Hans would be curled up in bed, probably hugging his pillow like he always did. The thought softened Adrik’s expression for a moment.
He showered quickly, letting the hot water pound against the tight knots along his shoulders, heat sinking into muscles clenched since the plane touched down.
The spray loosened nothing at first, just stung, and was too hot before it finally coaxed a dull ache out of hiding.
His outfit comprised black slacks, a gray shirt, and a sweater that was very soft.
He checked his phone and typed out a message.
Adrik: Miss you so much. We’re going to pick up my mother. Call you later when we get back. I love you.
He stared at the screen for a second before hitting send. Just seeing Hans’ name made him feel steadier.
He hurried to the kitchen, hoping coffee would help him survive the day. Instead, he walked in to find Viktor and Burian already seated, drinking coffee like they were civilized men instead of… whatever they actually were.
Viktor’s fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the mug, a habit he only slipped into when calculating outcomes. Burian didn’t bother pretending; his gaze tracked Adrik’s entrance as if he were assessing a threat, not greeting his younger brother.
Adrik’s muscles coiled with tension. He glared at Burian, who looked far too comfortable in a place he had no right to be.
“It’s good to have both of my sons at the table,” Viktor said, as if this were some kind of family reunion instead of a powder keg waiting for a spark.
An older woman from the house staff shuffled over, her back slightly bowed and her gray-streaked hair pinned into a tight bun that had probably been her style since the Soviet era.
Deep lines framed her mouth, the kind carved by years of cold winters and harder work.
She poured Adrik a cup of coffee with steady, practiced hands, then flashed a questioning look toward Viktor.
“This one speaks Russian,” Viktor said, and Adrik caught the trace of pride in his father’s voice; subtle, but there. Viktor’s chest even lifted a little, like he was showing off something he’d built with his own hands.
Adrik took the mug, muttering a thank you in Russian. The warmth seeped into his hands, grounding him.
Burian didn’t bother with pleasantries. He leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp and assessing. “Why are you here?”
The question hit him like a slap—sharp, deliberate, the blow Burian never hid. It snapped something tight in his chest, that familiar mix of irritation and wariness he only ever felt around his older brother. Of course, Burian would go straight for the jugular. Direct. Accusatory. Typical Burian.
Adrik lifted the mug to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering. Anything to buy himself a second to keep his temper in check. Why was he here? Because his mother almost died. Because he’s an idiot who keeps getting pulled back into this family’s gravity.
He set the mug down, meeting Burian’s stare head-on. Adrik leaned back in his chair, voice cool. “Same reason you are, I guess.”
Burian’s eyes narrowed.
Adrik took another sip of coffee, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue.
Burian looked at his father. “Is he returning to New York with us?”
“Ask him. He’s sitting right there.” Viktor pointed at Adrik.
Burian just glared at Adrik.
“No.” Adrik returned the death stare to Burian. “I live in Germany.”
“Why would you live there?” Burian asked. “You can’t speak German.”
Adrik barely had time to breathe before Viktor’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.
“Enough!”
Both he and Burian snapped their heads toward him.
Viktor rarely raised his voice anymore, which somehow made it worse when he did.
The sound hit Adrik low in the gut, a cold tightening that made his spine go rigid before he could stop it.
His pulse kicked up—annoyingly fast—and he felt that old, automatic urge to square his shoulders, to look composed even as a prickle crawled up the back of his neck.
Burian went still beside him, the stillness that meant he was waiting for orders, and that only sharpened the edge of irritation scraping along Adrik’s ribs.
Viktor didn’t have to shout to make the room shut down.
“I’m going to explain my expectations for today,” Viktor said, tone sharp enough to slice through the tension. “Both of you listen.”
Adrik leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. Great. A morning lecture. Exactly what he needed.
“We’ll bring your mother home,” Viktor continued. “No fighting. Make her see her family is one unit again. She can fly out in five days to New York with me and whoever else wants to support her. But she hasn’t agreed yet.” His eyes landed on Adrik. “She will look for your approval.”
Adrik exhaled slowly. “I told her to go home before she was taken to the hospital.”
Viktor blinked. “You did? Why would you?”
“Her going back home to you isn’t about me,” Adrik said. “It’s about her loving you. But I expect my mother to be treated with respect.”
That landed harder than he had expected. Viktor’s expression shifted—softened, even—surprise flickering through the cracks. “Ah. I see.”
“Respect means honoring what she wants for her own life,” Adrik continued, voice steady but edged. “Let her teach at a public school. Let her earn her own money. She trained for a long time before you arranged your marriage to her. And let her skate again. Support her instead of displaying her.”
He’d carried those words for years, swallowing them every time he’d been too young or too powerless to speak. Not anymore. Not when Viktor needed something only he could give.
Viktor’s jaw tightened. “Your remarks border on disrespect. Mind your tone.”
“If respecting her is a problem for you,” Adrik said, calm as a blade, “then I’ll tell her to stay here, where her life doesn’t have to shrink to fit your expectations.”
“I trained you too well for your own good. And you drive a hard bargain, Adrik.” Viktor nodded.
“Do I have your word?” Adrik asked.
Viktor nodded. “Yes.”
Burin snorted. “You’re such a kiss-ass, Adrik.”
Adrik’s patience snapped. “Fuck off.”
He could feel the pressure building behind his ribs—anger, exhaustion, the urge to walk out and never look back. He wanted to go home. He wanted Hans. He wanted out of this house.
Viktor cleared his throat loudly, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls. “We will not continue the day like this.”
Too late. The day started the moment he woke up in this house.
Viktor looked at him again, more carefully this time. “Do I have your word you will tell your mother she should return home with me?”
Adrik smirked without meaning to. “Yes, Boss Marinov.”
The old title slipped out naturally, and all three of them burst into laughter. Even Adrik couldn’t help it. It felt strange—warm, almost nostalgic. For a minute, Adrik feared his father was luring him back in.
“I haven’t heard that in a while,” Viktor said, staring into his coffee mug. Steam curled up toward his face, and Adrik noticed the shine in his father’s eyes. Viktor didn’t wipe them away. Pretended it wasn’t there. “I miss you every day.”
Adrik swallowed. “You’re still my father. No one can change that.”
Across the table, Viktor reached and touched the sleeve on his arm. “Please forgive me.”
Adrik met his gaze, steady but honest. “I’m not ready to do that yet.”
Viktor nodded, accepting it without argument.
Then Burian spoke up. “Hey, Adrik. You were right about one thing. I can’t take your place beside Dad.”
Adrik raised an eyebrow. “So, now what?”
“I’m back to being the family accountant.”
Good. That’s where he belongs.
Adrik pushed his chair back and stood. “I need to check in for all my flights to Germany for tomorrow morning.”
Viktor nodded, though disappointment flashed across his face. “I wish you were making plans for New York City. But I understand why you don’t want to come home yet.”
“Not this time.” Adrik feared if he stayed any longer at the table with his father, he might be sucked back into the family.
Not working. A future with no work bothered him.
Viktor was right. He wasn’t ready to retire, and getting a job would be nearly impossible.
He wasn’t sure he could operate within the bounds of legality.
The thought alone made his stomach tighten—he honestly had no idea.
“Wait,” Viktor said. “Burian has something to say to you.”
Adrik stopped in the doorway and turned, arms crossed.
Burian shifted in his chair, not quite meeting Adrik’s eyes. “I’m… sorry,” he said, the word dragged out like it cost him something. “For my part in the Sergei situation. I didn’t expect it to… escalate.”
Adrik heard the unspoken you made it worse tucked neatly under the apology.
“What part exactly are you sorry about?” Adrik asked, voice flat.
Burian’s jaw twitched. “The rumor. About Sergei talking to the FBI.” He said it like he still wasn’t convinced it was a rumor.
Adrik let out a short, humorless breath. “Of course.” He didn’t bother hiding the contempt. “You always had a talent for stirring shit when you’re jealous.”
“What does that mean?” Burian asked.
“I never want to see or hear from you after I leave here.”
Burian’s eyes flicked up, sharp and defensive, but he didn’t argue.
Viktor cut in. “Does that go for all of us?”
Adrik hesitated, the weight of the room pressing in. “I don’t know yet.”
Burian muttered something under his breath—loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to pretend he hadn’t meant it. “Bet he saw Sergei here. I wasn’t wrong about them.”
Adrik felt the jab land. Viktor did too; his gaze sharpened. “Did you see Sergei?”
“For five minutes,” Adrik said. “That’s it.”
Burian leaned back, smugness creeping in. “See? Just like I said. They were sneaking around right under your nose.”
Viktor turned to Adrik. “Do you love Sergei?”
Adrik rolled his eyes, irritation spiking hot. “There was never anything between us. Not like that.” Then he shot Burian a look. “And you can stop projecting your fantasies onto my life.”
He faced his father again. “Sergei tutored me. Protected me. Under your orders. That’s all. This whole circus is exhausting.”
He didn’t wait for another question. He walked out, heart pounding, and headed straight to his room. He packed quickly—he’d gotten good at leaving places behind—and made all his check-in calls.
He emailed the itinerary to Hans, then typed out a message with fingers that finally felt steady.
Adrik: Picking up my mother from the hospital. I can’t wait to see you.
He paused, staring at the blinking cursor.
He hit send.