9. Mikhail
MIKHAIL
Idon’t call for my wife for days. I don’t send for her or ask where she is or what she’s doing. If her name comes up in a report, I shut it down and move on. I bury myself in work because work has rules, and rules don’t blur when you cross a line you were supposed to protect.
Sleeping with Alina was a mistake.
I don’t say it out loud. Naming it gives it weight, and I don’t need more weight pressing in on this house. I tell myself it was situational. Grief. Proximity. A moment that got out of hand. I tell myself distance will correct it.
Distance always has before. But none of my befores involved a girl with eyes like the forest lit up by the sun or a mouth like a rose with a bunch of thorns. She moves me, she makes me yearn for her, and that’s precisely why I keep myself away.
I double the patrols on the outer grounds and increase rotation on the internal cameras. I pull two men from the city and station them near the north road. This has less to do with her and more with the fact that Sergei’s unfinished business keeps surfacing in places it shouldn’t.
Vienna notices silence.
I sit in my office with files stacked high and screens lit with movement logs.
Every delivery gets flagged. Every unfamiliar car gets noted.
I don’t like patterns that form too quickly, and I don’t like gaps at all.
It isn’t new news that I took what belonged to my brother, because succession inside the Morin structure has never been sentimental, and Vienna understood the shift the moment Sergei died and I stepped fully into his place.
What bothers me is that the Bratva knew well enough that there was another buyer, and yet I wasn’t informed, which means silence was chosen over warning.
That doesn’t happen by accident.
In Vienna, my name carries weight because the Morins didn’t rise on noise or spectacle, and we didn’t carve territory through chaos.
My father built influence through ports, shipping lanes, and finance structures that made violence optional and reputation mandatory.
We were the family you dealt with when you wanted stability, when you wanted contracts enforced quietly and mistakes contained before they became wars.
The Bratva respects that kind of order, even when they resent it, because order keeps money moving and funerals rare.
Vladimir Kosov represents the opposite tradition, even if he wears it well now.
His syndicate grew out of border violence and forced consolidations, and his rise was fueled by absorption rather than alliance.
Where the Morins integrated, Kosov consumed, and where we relied on internal discipline, he relied on fear and spectacle to keep his people aligned.
Older Bratva leaders remember that history because they lived through it, and they also remember that Kosov survived every purge meant to break him.
That’s why they didn’t come to me.
Warning me would have meant choosing a side openly, and choosing me would have meant acknowledging that Kosov still needed to be managed rather than appeased.
Instead, they let it play out, because Bratva politics favor outcomes over intentions, and whoever emerged intact would be recognized as having earned it.
Kosov’s connections mattered because he knew how to keep conversations off record and pressure indirect, and he knew exactly which elders would rather avoid another open conflict between old rivals.
By positioning himself as the wronged party without ever stating it outright, he made silence seem reasonable and caution seem wise.
They didn’t warn me because they expected resolution through attrition.
They assumed Sergei would fold or disappear, and when he didn’t, they assumed I would absorb the consequences quietly and restore balance without forcing anyone to declare loyalty.
What they didn’t account for was that I don’t forgive being excluded from my own political reality, and I don’t forget who decided I didn’t need to know.
At any rate, I can’t act unless I’m certain Kosov is the one behind the killings. The Bratva would never forgive a man who prioritizes impulse over reason. Enzo brings me updates every two hours. I don’t ask for opinions. I ask for facts.
Men are asking questions outside our circles because Sergei left doors open that I didn’t know existed, and now everyone who ever brushed against his operations is checking to see whether those doors still lead somewhere.
Sergei handled money loosely and relied on speed and intimidation rather than clean separation, which meant he reused intermediaries, shared logistics contacts, and let short-term fixes stand in for long-term control.
When he died, those half-secured channels didn’t close.
They went quiet, and quiet in this world invites testing.
Money is moving through places Sergei touched because he never finished unwinding his positions, and because he never told me where the weak points were, people assume those routes might still be viable.
These aren’t large transfers. They’re probes, small movements designed to see who responds, how fast, and with how much authority.
Old contacts are resurfacing under new names because Sergei never severed relationships properly and because he let favors replace structure.
Men who should have been cut loose were kept warm with promises and partial access, and now they’re reappearing to see whether the Morin name still protects them or whether it’s time to sell what they know.
That’s how it starts in Vienna. No direct hits. No overt challenges. Just curiosity framed as business.
The Bratva didn’t warn me about the second buyer because they assumed Sergei had already done the damage, and because stepping in would have meant acknowledging how much he'd mishandled. Letting me discover it on my own spared them from admitting they’d tolerated his recklessness for too long.
By noon, I shut down three accounts Sergei left accessible to intermediaries who should never have had visibility, and I freeze two more before they can be emptied, because allowing money to leak signals that the center didn’t hold.
I reroute shipments that Sergei scheduled through mixed-control ports and cancel a meeting he set up as a shortcut, because shortcuts are what got us here.
It keeps me occupied because cleaning up after my brother requires total attention.
It doesn’t keep me settled because every correction I make reveals another place Sergei trusted the wrong person or assumed I’d clean it up later.
Every report lands louder than it should because it confirms the same truth from different angles, and every potential threat feels closer because Sergei’s carelessness gave too many people a reason to believe the Morins could be tested.
Alina complicates the perimeter in ways no map shows.
She’s no longer just proof of Sergei’s arrogance or my response to it. She’s a woman who knows my body, who has seen me without the distance I rely on to stay functional. She knows how fast my temper rises and how quiet I get when I’m thinking.
She knows where I pause.
That knowledge doesn’t belong to anyone. It never has.
I convince myself that avoiding her restores order. That if I don’t see her, the line resets itself. I keep meetings scheduled during the hours I know she walks the garden. I eat late. I leave early. If we pass in the hall, it’s because I misjudged timing.
Her presence still registers. Even when I don’t look.
The house knows she matters now. Staff react faster. Guards straighten when she speaks. I didn’t order that. It happened on its own.
That’s dangerous.
I make a note to rotate senior staff assignments, then stop myself. Changing too much, too fast, draws attention. Attention invites testing.
By evening, I’ve gone through Sergei’s last month again. I trace his steps until the pattern starts repeating in my head. Meetings he didn’t clear. Transfers he justified too easily. He thought speed could replace caution.
He was wrong.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. I let it ring out.
If they want me, they’ll try again.
Enzo comes in just after sunset. He closes the door and stands where he always does.
“Outer teams report increased movement near the west boundary,” he says.
“Define increased.”
“Foot traffic where there shouldn’t be any.”
“Testing,” I reply.
“Yes.”
I nod. “Adjust routes. No confrontation.”
He pauses. “Alina’s been asking questions.”
I look up. “About what?”
“The house. Staff. Old names.”
That doesn’t surprise me. “What did she get?”
“Nothing useful,” he says, then adds, “At least not yet.”
I don’t comment. If she’s digging, it’s because she understands the danger better than I expected. That makes her smarter than most people who end up here. It also makes her a liability if someone realizes it.
“Keep her routine visible,” I say. “Predictable.”
Enzo studies me. “And you?”
“I’m predictable,” I reply.
He doesn’t argue.
I don’t go to her room that night, although what I want most is her under me, silken hair fanned out, watching me with those eyes and moaning my name while I take her apart. I don’t sleep well, either.
Morning brings more reports. Two delayed shipments. One missing courier. Nothing alarming on its own. Together, it’s an issue. I call in my logistics head and reassign routes again. I cancel an appearance I was supposed to make downtown. Let them wonder why.
By midday, my patience is thinning.
I step outside to walk the perimeter myself, not because I don’t trust my men, but because ground truth matters. The air is cold and clean. The trees are still. I stop near the east fence and listen.
Nothing obvious.
That’s the problem.
When I return inside, Lira passes me in the hall.
She freezes for a second, then moves on.
I register it and move past it. She’s loyal to Alina now, and while that shifts dynamics I don’t have time to manage, Alina needs a friend.
I let her have it. In the afternoon, I get a call from the city, an old contact checking in.
I shut it down and end the call.
Distance should be working by now.
It isn’t.
Alina’s name shows up again, this time in a routine log. Garden walk delayed. Staff assistance requested. No details.
I tell myself not to care. I sign off on a security request and move on.
At dusk, Enzo returns.
“There was activity last night,” he says.
I look up slowly. “Explain.”
“Near the outer road,” he continues. “Three men. No vehicles. They didn’t cross the fence.”
“They didn’t need to,” I say. “They wanted to be seen.”
“Yes.”
“How close?”
“Close enough to map response times.”
My hand stills on the desk. That’s the line.
“Any identifiers?” I ask.
“None we can confirm,” Enzo replies. “But it wasn’t random.”
They’re measuring me, the house, how much damage they can do before I move.
Alina is not the reason they’re here. She’s the reason they think they can get closer.
I lean back in the chair and stare at the screen showing the estate map, routes marked and recalculated again and again.
Distance didn’t restore order. It invited attention.
“Lock it down,” I say. “Quietly.”
Enzo nods. “And her?”
I pause, just long enough to register the question. “Keep her unaware,” I say. “For now.”