Chapter 3 Fyodor
FYODOR
January
I've been at this for five hours now, hunched over my desk with the phone pressed to my ear more times than I can count, listening to the same excuses delivered in different voices from contacts spread across three time zones.
My neck aches from holding the same position too long, muscles tightening into knots that radiate down between my shoulder blades and settle at the base of my spine.
The coffee in the mug by my elbow has gone cold, a thin film forming across the surface that catches the light shining through the window behind me. I should get up and stretch, maybe brew another pot, but I don't move because moving means losing momentum I can't afford right now.
Marat Koslov is out there somewhere, tucked away under state protection with guards and safe houses and protocols designed specifically to keep men like me from getting anywhere near him.
Every lead I've chased since November has turned into a dead end, every contact who promised solid information has delivered nothing but vague possibilities and requests for more money.
Kazan was a bust. Volgograd might've held promise except by the time my investigator confirmed the location, they'd already moved him again.
The state's taking this seriously, which means they know exactly how dangerous it would be to let someone from the Gravitch family get close enough to finish what should've been handled months ago.
The map pinned to the wall across from my desk is covered in red circles and crossed-out names, a visual representation of my failure that I'm forced to stare at every time I look up from the notes scattered across the desk’s surface.
My handwriting fills page after page of a notebook, phone numbers and addresses and half-formed plans that dissolve the moment I try to execute them.
I've made calls to Moscow, to contacts in Perm, to a fixer in Yekaterinburg who claimed he had inside access to the protection program but couldn't deliver anything more substantial than rumors.
I've paid out thousands in bribes and promises, and I'm no closer to finding Marat than I was when Yuri first handed me this assignment at the funeral.
The trial is set for March, which gives me less than two months to locate a man who's being moved every few weeks to prevent exactly what I'm trying to accomplish.
It's a persistent weight on my chest that tightens every time I think about standing in front of Yuri and admitting I've failed. He's counting on me to protect Inessa.
I lean back in my chair and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until colors burst behind my eyelids.
The leather creaks beneath me, which only reminds me how long I've been sitting here accomplishing nothing.
My phone sits on the desk in front of me, waiting for the next call I need to make.
I've got three more contacts to reach out to before the day ends, people who might have information or might waste another hour of my time with empty promises.
But before I can make the next call, Lazar's name flashes across the screen. I pick it up and answer without a greeting, bringing it to my ear while straightening in my chair. "What is it?"
Lazar sounds rushed as he says, "Boss, you need to come downstairs now."
"What happened?" I ask, annoyed at the interruption, but I stand and stretch my legs, knowing a response is warranted. If Lazar is upset, it must be big.
"We have a… situation," he says, and then he hangs up before I can ask anything else.
I shove the phone in my pocket and leave the study, heading toward the stairwell. Whatever this is had better be deadly important for him to interrupt my work. He knows exactly what situation I'm in and what's expected of me. And he knows how delays will only make my job harder.
Lazar is standing outside the guest bedroom door when I hit the bottom of the stairs and round the corner.
His broad frame blocks most of the entrance and his arms are crossed over his chest in a tense posture.
His dark blond hair is disheveled, sticking up at odd angles where he's run his hands through it, and his hazel eyes meet mine with a tired and weary expression.
I stop in front of him and wait for an explanation, but he just steps aside and pushes the door open without saying anything.
The hinges creak softly and light spills into the hallway from the window inside the room, and I move past him and cross the threshold, my eyes adjusting to the brighter space.
A boy sits on the edge of the bed with a book resting in his lap.
His small hands grip the pages but don't turn them.
He can't be more than ten years old, small-framed and thin, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and partially obscures his eyes.
He's staring at the wall opposite him with a blank expression and his cheeks are flushed and damp, streaked with the evidence of recent sobbing, and his breathing comes in shallow hitches that make his narrow shoulders rise and fall unevenly.
I stand there frozen in the doorway, unable to process what I'm seeing. There's a child in my guest room, sitting on my bed. Nothing about this makes sense. I turn back to Lazar, who's still hovering in the hallway, and wait for him to explain what the hell is happening.
He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and extends it toward me. "Boss… an advocate stopped by. It's been about ten minutes. He refused to stay even when I pulled my gun on him. Like he knew I wouldn't shoot him in front of a kid." Lazar's eyes are wide, his eyebrows high.
I take the paper and unfold it slowly, feeling the expensive stationery between my fingers.
The handwriting is neat and precise, each letter formed perfectly in black ink that hasn't smudged or faded on letterhead that announces it came from a college of advocates.
My eyes scan the first line, then the second, and the house seems to shift around me.
Mr. Gravitch,
I am writing on behalf of my client, Murial Koryabin, to inform you of the existence of your son, Sasha Koryabin.
DNA testing has confirmed paternity with 99.
9% certainty. Enclosed documents support this claim.
Ms. Koryabin is currently unable to care for the child due to medical circumstances and has requested that he be placed in your custody, effective immediately.
All legal documentation has been filed with the appropriate authorities.
The words blur together as I read them again, trying to make sense of a message that seems straightforward but feels impossible.
I look up at the boy again, really studying him this time, searching his features for anything familiar.
The dark hair matches mine. The shape of his face, the set of his jaw, the way his eyebrows draw together like he's uncertain—all of it mirrors aspects of my own reflection that I see every morning in the bathroom mirror.
My hands have a slight tremor, and the paper crumples where my fingers grip the edges too hard.
I force myself to breathe slowly, pulling air deep into my lungs and holding it there before releasing it through my nose.
The boy is watching me now with wide, red-rimmed eyes, tracks of tears still visible on his cheeks.
He's terrified. I can see it in every line of his small body, the way he's drawn in on himself and clutched that book like it's the only solid thing left in his world.
"Where's the mother?" I ask harshly, snapping my gaze to Lazar, who shifts his weight behind me and scuffles his boots on the floor.
"The lawyer wouldn't say. He just dropped the kid off and left. He said someone would be in touch if we needed documentation."
I read the letter again, focusing on the name this time—Murial Koryabin.
The name is vaguely familiar, tugging at memories I can't quite grasp.
There've been too many women over the years, too many nights that fade together into meaningless encounters I never bothered remembering.
But if this DNA test is legitimate and the documentation is real, then this child standing in front of me is my son.
The concept feels foreign, impossible, completely at odds with everything I know about my own life.
I fold the letter and shove it into my pocket, then turn back to Lazar. "Find her. Use our investigator. I want to know where she is, why she can't take care of him, and what 'medical circumstances' means in this context."
"I already made the call, Boss. We should have something by tomorrow." He glances past me at the boy, then back to my face. "What do you want me to do with him in the meantime?"
I don't have an answer because I don't know what to do with a child.
I've never had to care for anyone but myself, never had to consider what another person needs or wants or requires to survive.
My life is structured around solitude and work, around tasks that demand focus without the complication of dependents.
A child changes everything, introduces variables I'm not equipped to handle, especially not now when I'm supposed to be hunting down a witness who's slipping farther out of reach with every day that passes.
I step fully into the room and close the door behind me, leaving Lazar in the hallway.
The boy watches me approach, and I notice his posture shift as I approach.
He presses himself back against the headboard, putting as much distance between us as the small space allows.
His knuckles turn white where he grips the book.
I stop a few feet from the bed and look down at him, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say. "What's your name?"
"Sasha." His voice is barely audible, a whisper that trembles with fear.
"Sasha." I repeat it, testing how it sounds in my mouth. It doesn't feel like mine to say. "Do you know who I am?"
He nods, a jerky movement that makes his hair fall farther into his eyes. "The man said you're my papa."
The word is so foreign and surreal. I can barely wrap my mind around it. If a woman told me she was pregnant, I'd believe her. But this? A ten-year-old showing up on my doorstep? It's inconceivable.
"Where's your mother?" I ask without turning around.
"She's at home, I think." His bottom lip trembles and I sigh hard. Like they'd tell this kid anything. For all I know, she just dropped him here and ran, and I don't even know who she is.
I close my eyes and press my palm to my forehead, feeling my head beginning to throb.
"I wanna go home." Sasha's voice rises higher and there's an added tremor to it now. "I want my mamochka."
"You can't." The words come out too blunt, too harsh. I hear him whimper and hate myself for it, but I turn back to face him. "You'll have to stay until we figure out what happens next."
Fresh tears spill down his cheeks, and his whole body starts shaking with sobs he's trying to suppress. "But I don't want to stay here. I want my mamochka."
I cross the room and stand in front of him, towering over his tiny frame. I dwarf him by more than double his stature, and I know I must be terrifying to him. "I know you want your mother. But she's not here, and I am. So you're staying with me."
He stares at me through watery eyes, lower lip trembling. "Are you going to hurt me?"
I wince at the question because I realize how mean I must sound to him with my curt responses. I'm just not equipped for this. "No. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Mamochka said you were dangerous." He says it carefully, like he's trying to see if I'm being honest. "That's why she never let me see you before."
"Your mother's right." I step back, needing distance. "But I won't hurt you. You're safe here, understand?"
He doesn't look convinced, just turns his face toward the window and hugs the book tighter. His small body continues trembling, shoulders shaking with silent crying. I watch him for several long seconds, completely out of my depth, before I turn toward the door.
"I'm hungry." His voice stops me with my hand on the handle.
I look back at him. "What do you want to eat?"
"Anything. Please." The “please” makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
I leave the room without answering and find Lazar still waiting in the hallway. "Find the mother. I need answers."
"On it." He walks away, and I head toward the kitchen.
I stop in the center and stare at the refrigerator, realizing I have no idea what's inside. I don't cook. I order takeout or eat at restaurants when I need food. The kitchen exists for coffee and nothing else.
I open the refrigerator and survey the pathetic contents. Half a carton of eggs. Milk that's probably expired. Some deli meat still in its plastic packaging. Nothing a child would want. Nothing that constitutes an actual meal for an adult, let alone a child.
The freezer offers frozen dinners stacked in neat rows, so I grab one at random—beef stroganoff, according to the label—and shove it in the microwave. The machine hums while it heats, and I lean against the counter with my palms pressed flat against the cold granite.
This is the last thing I need right now. I have a witness to hunt down, a trial deadline approaching, and Yuri expecting results I can't deliver. There's no room in any of that for playing father to a frightened ten-year-old who wants his mother.
Lazar needs to find that woman, and fast, because this kid has got to go. Maybe when I find and kill Marat Koslov, I'll investigate this situation a little better. Being a father wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to me, but I don't have time or patience right now.