Chapter 17
Mikhail
“Mr. Solokov, it’s a pleasure to have you visit again. I’m sure she will enjoy seeing you.”
I nod to the desk attendant as I strip off my coat and hang it over my arm. “How is she doing today?”
The man’s gaze shoots down to the plush carpeting. If my last visit was anything to go by, she’s certainly not getting any better.
“She…” He trails, exuding nerves. “She’s been having a rough time this week, but she seems to be doing well, so far. She is currently in the sunroom having tea, if you’d like to join her.”
I thank the man, making my way through the familiar halls of the private care facility.
Thanks to the hefty admission cost, the facility hasn’t spared a cent to make the place as lavish and homely as possible, boasting expensive furnishings and around-the-clock medical attention.
Still, this place puts my senses on high alert.
The faint combination of cleaning solution and calming eucalyptus from the diffuser on the front desk sears through my nostrils.
The sharp scent sets me on edge like a Pavlovian response.
My eyes find her form the second I set foot in the sunroom.
She’s positioned herself in front of the biggest window in the room, just as she always used to do every morning after breakfast. Her sight flits through the pages of the worn book she’s probably read a thousand times, a teacup resting on the little table beside her.
If I squint just a bit, I wouldn’t even know any time had passed.
Her long, blonde hair is still immaculately dyed and styled, her blouse crisp and pressed even as she curls up with her book, settled back against the chair.
After a few minutes of lingering at the entrance, her eyes finally lift to mine.
“Mikhail,” she whispers, slowly taking inventory of me with her gaze.
“Hello, Mother.” I take a hesitant step forward.
She launches up, haphazardly tossing her book aside and running over to me with open arms. I tense, preparing myself for the contact.
The second her hands land against my back, I flinch, grinding my jaw to negate the feeling.
She notices a moment later, instantly pulling back with an apology on her face.
“Sorry, love. I know you don’t like that.” Her voice is soft and meek. The voice she used with my father to coax him from his bad moods.
I hate it.
“It’s okay,” I say, taking a step back and reaching for a chair. She follows the cue, sitting back down. My skin still vibrates with physical irritation from the touch, but I shrug it off as best I can.
“You never did like being touched, even as a child.” She sighs wistfully.
“The doctors all said you must have had some kind of sensory sensitivity issues, but I always wondered how much it had to do with your father and me. Perhaps I should have done better for you.” Her voice trails off, like she’s forgotten I’m even here.
“It’s not your fault, Mother,” I say, but she seems to be lost in her mind once again, staring off into the distance like she’s revisiting an old memory.
Then her head snaps to mine with renewed intensity.
“Mikhail, why are you back from assignment so early? Does your father know you’ve returned?” Her voice shakes as she asks, fingers curled up into tense fists.
I sigh, trying to remember what the doctor had suggested I do when she slips into one of her episodes.
“Father is dead, Mother. I’m the Pakhan now, and you are safe. You have nothing to fear anymore.” I explain gently, watching her face morph into heartbreaking confusion.
Then her expression shifts.
“Mikhail, where is your brother? Where is my Nikolai?” Her voice comes out in a raised panic, like she somehow remembers the answer to her own question. Like some part of her mind knows the harsh truth she’s blocked herself from facing.
I remain still, even as my mother, the same woman who tried her hardest to shield me from the abuse of my father, who taught me to cook her favorite dishes on bright Sunday mornings, stands up and screams.
“Nikolai! Where is my baby? Nikolai?”
Orderlies rush into the room, but not before my mother grasps the handle of her teacup with her delicate, manicured finger and cracks it against the large window. The glass splinters and webs before shattering to the floor.
The staff surrounds her, and one woman dressed in light pink scrubs unloads a syringe of clear liquid into my mother’s vein, causing her to go limp in their arms.
I do nothing to stop them.
I can feel the younger version of myself banging against the walls of my mind, pressing through each fiber of my skin to climb into his mother’s arms. I quickly lock that part back down with thickened walls of guilt and shame.
This is what I pay for, I suppose. The highly skilled and prominent facility that takes care of the hollow vessel my mother has become. A woman scorned. Her golden son lost to a pointless war.
She never had a chance.
I remain standing in the room for several minutes after they carry her out, staring down at the shattered pieces of her teacup at my feet.
I’m just finishing up some paperwork for one of our artillery accounts when a knock sounds at my office door. A second later, Ivan, Lev, and Andrei file into the room with tense looks on their faces.
“What’s wrong?” I cut right to the point, looking at Ivan for a rundown.
“Another shipment has been pillaged. This time, it came back missing at least 100K in profits,” Ivan replies, his sharp green eyes cutting into me with intensity.
I look over to my Head of Security for an explanation.
At least Andrei has the good sense to look uneasy. “The cameras have been completely wiped. I have my best guys trying to undo the damage, but so far, the bastard who did this has gotten by without a trace.”
“Fuck.” I hiss, leaning back into my chair.
“There’s another thing, Pakhan.” Andrei rasps out, stepping toward me. “Whoever’s responsible must have known when the change of guard is scheduled, because the incident occurred during the security transition from the night team to the day shift.”
I glance back towards him, processing the information he just confirmed. Whoever is stealing the shipments has access to the logistical schedules, and I only give those out to a small portion of my organization.
They must have someone working on the inside. Which means my little demonstration last week failed to make my point.
“I want each of you to comb through your entire department. If you find anything worth looking into, report to me. In the meantime, Lev, you need to change the guard schedules and put them on a rotating timetable. This cannot happen again.” I demand, anger carving through my tone.
This bastard stole from my Bratva not once, but twice, and managed to get away with it. He’s just become my number one priority.
I dismiss my men from the room, consumed by the thought of a threat existing right under my nose.
I have spent months carrying out the extraneous and brutal process of reaping my father’s well-placed supporters from the ranks, and I’ve finally gotten the Bratva to a place of loyalty and solidity—or at least, that’s what I thought.
Ivan lingers behind, glancing over at me with a strange expression.
“Did you visit your mother today?” He asks, the unexpected topic shocking me into putting down the pen I was holding. I watch him for a moment before answering.
“Yes, I did.”
“And how is Alina Solokov doing these days?” He asks.
I push the pen back and forth across the paper.
“She thinks they are still alive,” I say quietly.
“She spends every day scared of a dead man’s wrath.
” I shake my head softly, the events of this morning filtering through once more.
It is such an incredible absurdity that one slain man can leave so many scars on the living.
Everywhere I look, I seem to find another.
Ivan steps closer, then bends to sit in the chair across from my desk.
“Do you ever hate me?” I suddenly ask, airing out the question that has bothered me for years.
“What?” Surprise dances across his pale face.
“I share blood with the man who ruined your life. The one who ended your parents’ lives. And yet here you are, forced to serve his disappointment of an heir,” I mutter in earnest.
I know full well I was never in a lifetime expected to take up this role in the family empire.
And though I knew I was merely the spare, I never once resented Nikolai for the respect he was shown as the heir apparent.
I was able to leave on assignments throughout my early twenties, train the way I wanted to train.
I was able to get away from him. My brother wasn’t so lucky.
“No, Mikhail. You cannot take responsibility for the actions of your father. You have enough weight on your chest. Please do not add my grief to that load. It is not yours to bear.”
I shake my head slightly, stretching my jaw. He is wrong. My role as Pakhan is to be the martyr of all our past failures. But after coming face to face with one of my biggest ones this morning, I find myself unusually speculative on the subject.
I promised Cassandra I’d open up to her, but how can I, knowing what this world does to outsiders? My mother’s vacant stare fills my memory once again, a woman beaten into submission by the very organization I’m trying to lead. I won’t let that be Cassandra.
“And, no, Mikhail.”
“What?” I ask, distracted.
“No,” he repeats, locking eyes with mine. “I could never hate you, brother.”
An unusual emotional intensity overwhelms my senses, heating the cavity of my chest. I meet his eyes and nod, expressing all the gratitude and loyalty I feel with the depth of my gaze.