4. A Romanov Always Fulfills a Promise
A Romanov Always Fulfills a Promise
Zhenya Romanov
Seven days.
As the elevator carried me up toward my office, I found myself thinking about it—not the strike itself, but the exact moment before it.
The second I looked up from my phone and caught sight of him crossing the motor court, a sheer, violent quality of relief hit me before anything rational could intervene.
There was no strategy, no tactical assessment, just a single thought: there he is.
I hadn’t expected the force of it. Not after seven days of endless search grids, worthless bus terminal footage, and Lev’s updates that all ended the exact same way—nothing. Then he’d simply walked back into my life, a cheap baseball cap pulled low over Nikolai’s face.
He was thinner. Whatever cash he’d taken had long since run out, leaving the sharpness of his jaw more pronounced and his clothes hanging looser across his frame, with exhaustion sitting quietly beneath the anger.
But those weren’t Nikolai’s eyes looking back at me.
They belonged to the man who kept him alive—cold, alert and calculating every movement before it happened.
Dr. Bozheva had been right. Fyodor wasn’t an episode or a symptom; he was a person. And standing across from him in the penthouse, I’d made a decision. If I wanted Nikolai back, I couldn’t spend my time trying to erase the man who had spent years protecting him.
When he’d demanded to know about his grandmother, I saw it clearly: Fyodor’s anger carrying Nikolai’s grief, separate voices bound by shared pain. You couldn’t pull one from the other without cutting them both; they were two edges of the same broken piece of glass.
My cheek still burned where he’d struck me, and my knuckles ached from putting the guard on the ground, but I ignored both.
Romanov Pharmaceuticals stretched out before me exactly as it had every morning for the last decade—a fortress of glass, steel, and money.
Assistants crossed the executive floor with tablets tucked tight against their sides, while meetings had already begun behind soundproof doors.
Phones rang, markets opened, and the empire moved as if nothing were different.
Employees straightened as I walked past. Nobody spoke unless spoken to, and nobody looked at the fading mark across my cheek for longer than professional etiquette allowed. Fear, at least, was still efficient.
My office overlooked nearly half of Moscow. Normally, I appreciated the view, but today it only served as a reminder of how easily one man could disappear inside a city of twelve million. I crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out for a brief moment before turning back to my desk.
Work was waiting: regulatory clearances, contracts, board approvals—problems that would have commanded my entire attention a week ago. Now they looked entirely small.
A sharp knock sounded against the door.
“Come in.”
My assistant stepped inside, the morning briefing already open on her tablet. “The European board meeting is in forty minutes. Legal requires your signature on the Novosibirsk acquisition, and your lunch with the investors has been confirmed—”
“Cancel lunch.”
She paused, her fingers hovering over the screen. “It was scheduled six weeks ago.”
“Cancel it anyway.”
She nodded once, making the note without another question. As she turned to leave, she hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the side table. “Mr. Romanov?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve received flowers.”
“From whom?”
“There wasn’t a card.”
I looked back down at the contract sitting unread on my desk. “Throw them away.”
The heavy door closed behind her, leaving silence to flood the room once more. For a long moment, I stared at the unsigned paperwork without reading a single word.
Then I reached into my coat, pulled out my phone, and dialed mother.
She answered on the second ring.
“Zhenya.”
“Good day, mother. I assume preparations are on schedule.”
“They are.” Papers shifted faintly on her end. “The church confirmed the time this morning. Security has been coordinated with the city. The burial will proceed on Saturday.”
“Good.”
A brief silence settled between us, until she broke it. “Has your fiancé returned?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “Though not entirely.”
She didn’t ask what that meant. She knew me well enough to understand that if I wasn’t volunteering an explanation, there wasn’t one she needed.
“I’ll take that as progress,” she said.
“It is.”
“The invitations have all been delivered.”
“Who has confirmed?”
“Dmitry.”
Of course he had.
“And the others?”
“The immediate family will be present.” She consulted something on her desk. “Including Mikhail.”
My grip tightened imperceptibly around the phone. “He accepted?”
“This morning.”
“I thought he’d left the country.”
“He has.” Her voice remained calm, almost detached. “Apparently grief has inspired him to make the trip home.”
I almost laughed. Grief. The man had poisoned an elderly woman without the slightest hesitation.
“I’ll make sure he receives the welcome he deserves.”
“I assume you would.”
Neither of us elaborated, because we didn’t need to. Katerina had lived inside this family longer than I had; she understood the difference between justice and revenge, and she understood that I no longer cared about the distinction.
“Has Dmitry said anything?” I asked.
“No.”
“He will.”
“He usually does.”
Another quiet settled between us, and when she spoke again, her voice had softened by the smallest degree. “How is the boy?”
Not your fiancé. Not Mr. Levin. The boy.
I looked out across Moscow. “He’s alive.”
“And?”
“And that’s enough for today, mother.”
“I see.” She didn’t push. “Thursday, then.”
“Thursday.”
The line disconnected. I placed the phone back on the mahogany, and three sharp knocks sounded almost immediately.
“Come in.”
Lev stepped inside carrying a leather folder beneath one arm, stopping precisely four paces from the desk.
“You asked to see me, sir.”
“I did.” I rose, slipped my coat on, and fastened a single button. “Has Nikolai settled in?”
“He refused breakfast.”
“I expected as much.”
“He did accept lunch.”
That earned the faintest movement at the corner of my mouth. Progress. “Good.”
Lev waited, knowing there was more. I picked up my car keys. “Prepare the vehicle.”
“Destination?”
“Kuzmar.”
The tight control Lev maintained gave out completely. Recognition flickered across his face as he remembered the name from Dr. Bozheva’s file.
“Nikolai’s former partner.”
“Yes.”
“The abusive one.”
I met his eyes. “The abusive one.”
Lev gave a single nod. “I’ll have the car ready in five minutes.”
As he turned toward the door, I stopped him. “Lev.”
He looked back.
“I want him,” I said quietly, “to spend the rest of his life wishing he’d never learned Nikolai Levin’s name.”
Lev inclined his head once. “I understand.”
The office door closed behind him, and I looked once more at the skyline stretching beyond the glass. Kuzmar had convinced Nikolai that fear was another name for love. I had been too late to stop it once, but I wasn’t too late to make sure it never happened again.
* * *
The sedan rolled to a stop without a sound.
Lev shifted into park and glanced up through the windshield. “Third floor.”
I followed his line of sight to an apartment block wedged between two newer developments, forgotten by the city years ago.
Concrete stained dark by decades of rain, rust bleeding beneath balcony railings, and satellite dishes clinging to the facade like parasites.
Over the entrance, a flickering security light buzzed uselessly against the afternoon sun.
No gate, no concierge, no cameras worth mentioning.
I imagined Nikolai climbing those stairs, carrying groceries or books tucked beneath one arm, returning to this place simply because he believed he deserved it. The thought settled heavily beneath my ribs.
“So this is where he lives.”
Lev nodded once. “Our surveillance confirms Kuzmar has occupied the apartment for six years. Same unit, same routine.”
“He never moved.”
“No.”
Of course he hadn’t. Men like Kuzmar rarely changed; they simply waited for someone weaker to orbit them.
I opened the door, cool morning air meeting me as my polished shoes touched cracked pavement. Lev stepped out beside me.
“Sir,” he said, his expression completely neutral.
I buttoned my coat. “You’ll stay here.”
“I’d advise against that.”
“I know.”
“He has no record of firearm ownership—”
“I know.”
“—but we can’t guarantee—”
I looked at him. “If he sees two men in suits walking toward his building, he’ll become cautious.”
“He should.”
“I don’t want cautious.”
“What do you want?”
“I want honest.”
Lev understood immediately, giving a brief nod. “Two minutes.”
“Two?”
“If I hear shouting, glass breaking, or anything brute—”
“The rest of you come upstairs.”
“Correct.”
I turned toward the entrance.
The stairwell smelled of damp laundry and cheap, stale cigarettes.
On the first landing, the fluorescent tube buzzed faintly before giving up entirely, plunging the corner into shadow.
Three floors, no elevator, and every step echoed sharply beneath my shoes.
On the second-floor landing sat a child’s bicycle missing a wheel alongside a plastic bag of empty bottles, obscenities carved into the peeling green paint years ago that no one had ever bothered to cover.
I wondered how many times Nikolai had climbed these exact stairs with bruises hidden beneath long sleeves—how many neighbors had seen him, and how many had simply looked away.
Third floor. Apartment 311.
I stopped outside the door, holding back from knocking just yet. From inside came the murmur of a television, sports commentary—mixed with the clink of a bottle against glass and a careless laugh. Comfort. He had moved on with remarkable ease.