Chapter 26
The Toothless Wolf
One week after the banya, Viktor received a message: Vasiliev would see him at his dacha. Not for war. For something else.
He carried no guards. No visible protection. Only a porcelain pot containing a rare Paeonia tenuifolia—the fern-leaf peony, native to the steppes, nearly impossible to cultivate in captivity.
Ivan Vasiliev met him at the garden gate. The old man was dressed in mourning black, though his grandson's birthday banners fluttered from the birch trees behind him. His eyes were clear. His hand, when he gestured toward the house, was steady.
They had met twice before—once in the echoing silence of the conservatory, once in the scalding steam of the banya. This time, there would be no performance. Only a choice.
"You came without your bear," Vasiliev observed.
"I came without my teeth," Viktor replied. "As you requested."
The garden was small, manicured, filled with the aggressive order of a man who believed nature should obey. They walked between rows of military-straight tulips until they reached a stone bench overlooking a pond.
"I have a gift for you as well," Vasiliev said. He snapped his fingers.
From the treeline emerged two men. Between them, bruised and bound, knelt a young man Viktor recognized—Fedor, the nephew who had stabbed Konstantin. His nose had healed crooked. His eyes were wild with terror.
"He came to me begging for men," Vasiliev said. "He wants to finish what he started at your grandmother's house. He wants to burn your garden with your daughter inside."
Viktor's hands twitched. The old instinct screamed—take the knife, open the throat, send the head back in the peony pot. He felt the Pakhan rising in his chest like a hunger.
"Kill him," Vasiliev said softly. "Not for me. For yourself. Prove that the wolf is still a wolf, even if he wears a gardener's gloves. Prove that our truce is between equals, not between a predator and prey who has forgotten how to bite."
The nephew whimpered. Viktor looked at him—the boy who had grinned as the blade went into Konstantin's side, who had crushed lavender under his boot, who had scarred the Gospel.
Then Viktor looked at the tulips. At the peony in his hands. At the life he was trying to build, which required a different kind of courage.
"No," Viktor said.
Vasiliev's face darkened. "You refuse me in my own house?"
"I offer you something better." Viktor set the peony down carefully.
"Fedor's life is worth nothing to me dead.
But his debts are worth something to you alive.
He owes three hundred thousand euros to bookmakers in Tula—bookmakers you control.
I will transfer the debt notes to your name.
You will own him. You will use him as you see fit.
And in exchange, you will guarantee, in writing, that no Vasiliev soldier comes within five kilometers of the public garden. Or my family."
The old man stared at him. "You bargain like a banker."
"I bargain like a man who knows that blood is the weakest currency.
" Viktor met his eyes. "You asked me to prove I am an equal.
An equal does not perform tricks on command.
An equal offers trades that benefit both houses.
Kill him yourself if you need the spectacle.
But I am done staining my hands to earn the respect of men who confuse cruelty with strength. "
For a long moment, Vasiliev was still. Then he laughed—the same rusty sound from the banya, but louder now. He waved his hand, and the guards dragged the nephew away.
"You are toothless," Vasiliev said. "But you are not weak.
A weak man would have killed the boy to prove himself.
A weak man would have begged for peace." He reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded document.
"The guarantee. Signed by my lawyer. The garden is safe.
Your family is safe. Until the day you show me that your spring was a lie. "
Viktor took the paper. "And if that day never comes?"
"Then I will die wondering how a Spring learned to bloom." Vasiliev turned toward the house, where his grandson's laughter rang out. "Plant the peony near the fence, Viktor. The soil there is acidic. It suits stubborn things."
Viktor planted it himself, his hands in the dirt, while Vasiliev watched from the window. When he left, the old man did not say goodbye. But he did not send snipers after him, either.
The truce was not trust. It was architecture—built on mutual benefit, mutual threat, and the shared understanding that some gardens were worth more than graves.
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