1. Daniil – Present
Daniil – Present
The car window blurs in front of me as I chew my nails down to nothing, and blood coats my tongue with that familiar metallic taste.
The raw skin burns where I tore my thumb too deep, but I can’t stop.
My other hand picks at my sleeve, pulling threads loose one by one, the repetitive motion the only thing keeping my brain from spiraling completely.
This is stupid. Beyond stupid.
If my father found out about this, I’d be fucked. Not the regular kind of fucked where he yells and throws things. The real kind. The kind where he looks at you with those dead eyes and you know you’ve crossed a line you can’t come back from.
Roman made it clear when I was young: I’m an Avrorin. Questions about before don’t exist.
That topic is buried, and asking about it is basically saying his family isn’t enough, so I never did. I’ve spent my whole life wondering anyway, though. Who my biological parents were, where I actually came from, why they died, and how I ended up here.
It took me days to work up the nerve to tell Mikhail I wanted to do this, but when I finally did, he didn’t even hesitate.
He said I should go for it if it’s what I needed, that maybe taking a DNA test would give me some closure.
We agreed immediately to keep it between us, that the rest of the family couldn’t know, especially not our parents.
Roman and Lina raised me and are the only parents I’ve ever had. The life they gave me is complicated, which is the understatement of the century when you factor in the whole criminal empire situation, but I’m okay with it.
Because this life, messed up as it is, gave me Mikhail.
He’s been my constant since we were kids, the one person I can count on, the one thing in this entire disaster of a family that has never once felt uncertain.
I go quiet, he gets loud. I pull back, he pushes forward. It’s been that way since we were kids.
I love my family. I wouldn’t replace them for anything, not even for a normal family where people discuss normal things over breakfast instead of which rival needs to disappear by Thursday.
Not that contract killings bother me. I don’t have a moral high ground here, stopped pretending I did years ago.
My role is finding people. Breaking into systems, tracking locations, running data across every branch of the family’s operations.
Not just New York but the entire country, Europe, the Balkans, Russia, anywhere really.
Thousands of names. Thousands of people I’ve tracked down and handed over to be eliminated.
I didn’t understand any of that when I was young. I thought we were just rich. The older I got, the more I understood what the Avrorin name actually means.
Roman comes from generations of Russian mafia royalty, old dynasty power that predates the Soviet Union, survived its collapse and came out stronger on the other side.
His family wrote the codes everyone else still follows. The vor v zakone structure, the rankings, the laws about loyalty and blood, all of it built on foundations his ancestors created.
Other families cross themselves when they hear our name because they know the stories their grandfathers told them about what happens when you challenge an Avrorin.
When Roman moved us to America, I remember the private jet, remember him telling us we were going to build something bigger. He did.
Every construction contract flows through him now. Every police captain knows to look the other way. Judges retire early when they make the wrong ruling, and half the city owes him favors; the other half owes him money. Nothing happens in New York without his knowledge or permission.
Roman has never treated me differently from his actual sons. He’s easier on me than he is with my brothers, and Lina protects me more fiercely than she does her own blood, but sometimes I catch her looking at me with this guilt in her eyes.
Okay. I think about it for real this time.
What’s the worst that could happen?
No, actually, I can’t answer that. With this family, the worst is always worse than whatever I imagine, and the thing I keep landing on is my father finding out. That’s it. That’s the ceiling of bad.
The deepest breath I can pull burns in my lungs from the pressure, and then I push the car door open and slam it behind me. Pulling up my hood, I tug the sleeves over my hands. The fabric sticks to my damp skin.
It’s scorching outside. New York summer hitting that sticky, unbearable heat that makes you question every life choice leading up to this moment.
The hoodie stays on in ninety-degree heat because it hides what’s underneath.
Sweat pools at the small of my back, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out on this sidewalk.
The building’s smaller than I expected. Clean glass front, generic signage, and it’s private DNA testing. They won’t sell your information, or so they claim.
I spent hours researching before I contacted them through an encrypted email, because growing up in this family teaches you one thing faster than anything else: trust no one, verify everything, and assume someone’s always watching.
The woman behind the desk stops typing and looks up. “Good afternoon, do you have an appointment?”
Obviously. That’s why I’m standing here at the front desk instead of just wandering around like a lost idiot.
The words stick. Won’t move.
Selective mutism, the doctors called it, like giving it a name made it less infuriating.
My voice stops working when anxiety spikes and nothing I do can force it back.
I know exactly what I want to say. The words are right there, perfectly formed, sitting in my throat like they’ve forgotten how to move.
With Mikhail it’s effortless. We used to go to our tree every single day after we found it, whether it was raining or snowing, it didn’t matter.
He’d sit me down and try to teach me how to talk, patient in a way he’s never been with anything else in his entire life.
He never got frustrated with me, never made me feel broken for not being able to speak.
He didn’t give up even when my first word didn’t come until I was eight years old, three full years of sitting there with me and getting nothing in return.
And when it finally happened, when I finally managed to push that first word out, he was the one sitting there when it came.
After that, the words started flowing, spilling out easier each time, but only for him.
Every word I’ve ever spoken belongs to Mikhail. Always has, always will.
Digging into my pocket, I pull out my ID and hand it to her.
She looks confused for a second, glancing between me and the ID. Then her eyes go wide and her whole demeanor shifts, spine straightening. “Yes, of course. One o’clock. Mr. Daniil Avrorin.”
I want to roll my eyes but settle for a nod.
She smooths her skirt and stands. “Follow me.”
My stomach turns the whole walk down the sterile hallway. She opens a door into an office where a man sits at a desk, glancing up when we walk in.
“Your one o’clock. Daniil Avrorin.”
“Mr. Avrorin, welcome. Please, sit.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk.
I drop into it and watch him pull supplies together without saying anything. No small talk. He actually read that part of my email. Thank god.
“I’ll swab the inside of your cheek. Thirty seconds each side.
That’ll give us everything we need. Genetic markers, family matching, future health risk indicators.
All of it.” He steps close, swipes the inside of my cheek, the cotton rough and invasive, then turns around and drops the swab into a tube and seals it.
“That’s it. Results in about two weeks.”
Two weeks to find out the truth about who I am.
I’m up and walking out to my car before the thought finishes forming.
The car door slams behind me, and the breath I let out feels like it’s been trapped in my lungs for the last forty minutes. I drag my hands down my face, wiping away sweat, and sit there staring at nothing through the windshield for a full minute trying to collect myself.
I can’t believe I actually did it. Mikhail wanted to come with me, probably figured I’d lose my nerve at the last second and needed backup, but I had to do this alone.
Starting the car, “Life is Beautiful” by Lil Peep blasts through the speakers and I crank it louder.
Next stop: pick up Mikhail from the gym. He lost his license driving under the influence, which makes me his chauffeur, though I don’t mind it since we’re together constantly anyway. Traffic’s heavy from the lunch rush, but I make it fast enough.
The second the doors open, the smell hits me: sweat and leather and whatever cleaning product they’re supposed to use but clearly don’t bother with.
Our father forced him into the fights when his temper started becoming a problem, thought fighting would give him an outlet that served a purpose instead of getting himself killed somewhere inconvenient.
Now he does private cage matches constantly, underground invite-only bullshit where the rules are more of a loose suggestion.
Costs thousands just to get a ticket to watch.
He drags me to spar with him constantly, even though he’s six-four and I’m barely five-nine.
Not exactly fair, but I’ve learned a lot over the years, and it’s fun, even when I’m sore for days after.
My body’s changed since we started training together, put on muscle, filled out from the scrawny disaster I used to be.
I spot him in the far corner doing jump rope drills while his trainer watches.
He’s moving at insane speeds with his feet barely touching the mat, wearing nothing but black athletic shorts that sit low on his hips.
Sweat drips off his buzzcut and runs down his tattooed chest, sliding over the defined lines of his eight-pack as the rope snaps against the mat in perfect, relentless rhythm.