Sergei
The phone buzzes on my nightstand, too early to be anything good.
I’m already awake, lying there with one arm draped over Sofia, listening to her breathe.
She hasn’t stirred once. For the first time in a long while, her sleep is deep and steady, no tension in her body, no sudden shifts or quiet nightmares pulling her under.
The news of her father’s passing will take time to process.
It’s too complicated to be easy or quick.
I smile at the thought of the new life inside her. Eight weeks. Her doctor’s appointment yesterday confirmed conception was likely our first time. It was always meant to be.
I don’t move right away. I let it buzz once, then again, watching her face for any sign of waking. Bad news is always going to be there whether I answer immediately or not.
Carefully, I slide out of bed, easing my arm from beneath her so I don’t disturb her. She shifts slightly as she settles back into sleep.
I glance at the screen. I take the call in the hallway and close the door behind me.
“Sokolov.”
“Sergei. I trust I’m not calling at a bad time.”
It’s never a good time for this kind of call.
“No,” I say. “Go ahead.”
“We’ve been following developments.”
Of course they have.
Yuri’s death didn’t stay contained. It never does when someone like him goes down.
“I imagine you have,” I reply.
Another pause. Longer this time, more deliberate.
“We’d like a meeting.”
It’s our mediator of sorts. A neutral party that facilitates the meetings between the families when necessary.
I don’t believe Yuri had a chance to make any meaningful alliances with anyone, but he was sneaky.
And desperate. If he got the Italians or Irish to take up with him, I might have a problem.
“They’re interested in stability,” he continues. “In understanding the new arrangement.”
Who’s in control. Whether it will hold. Whether they need to intervene.
“They’ll find it stable,” I say.
“I’m sure they will. Yuri had brothers,” the man says.
I don’t respond.
“They’re making noise,” he adds.
“They’ll be handled,” I say.
“We’ll see you soon, Sergei. The details will follow within the hour.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a moment, phone still in my hand, the silence pressing in.
I go back into the room to shower and get ready for the day. Sofia sleeps through it all.
Kirill is already in the office when I walk in. He looks up, takes one look at my face, and skips anything unnecessary.
“You got the call?”
“I did.”
"Details?”
“Don’t have them yet. Any news?”
“They’re making noise. Testing the boundaries.”
“Do they have support?”
“Doesn’t seem like it, but they could be trying to operate underground.
“Just keep a close eye on things,” I tell him. “I want to know if they try to board a plane.”
“Of course. Have you told her yet?”
“Not yet.”
“She deserves to know,” he says. “She needs to be ready in case they get through.”
“I’ll tell her when I decide.”
“Okay. You ready to go check on things?”
We leave the brownstone. I find it harder and harder to leave every day.
When I return a few hours later, I find Sofia in the living room.
She should be in class. I immediately notice she’s curled up, a blanket pulled over her despite the warmth in the house.
The television is on, but muted. She isn’t watching it.
Her gaze is fixed somewhere distant, her mind clearly somewhere else.
And fuck. I know. Yesterday was hard, even though the old man never was a good father to her.
She looks composed, but I can see the weight sitting just beneath the surface.
“Any decisions on the funeral?” I ask.
“Yes.” Her voice is steady. “Three days from now.”
Public. Visible. Strategic.
“You’ll go.”
“Yes.” She pulls the blanket tighter around herself. “I’m not going to mourn him. But I’ll be there for everyone watching. I want it very clear who’s in control.”
It already is. But this will make it undeniable.
“You’ll have full security,” I say.
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“My father died a long time ago,” she says. “I just didn’t know it.”
There’s no anger in her tone. No grief.
“I don’t hate him,” she continues. “I thought I would. I thought I’d feel something when this happened. All I can think is his death was too easy.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“And I hate that I feel like that. But after what he did to her, this was nothing.”
I don’t argue with that.
I press my lips to the top of her head.
“You didn’t tell me everything, did you?”
I go still, just for a fraction of a second.
“Something’s coming,” she says. “I can feel it.”
Of course she can.
“It’s handled,” I say.
She tilts her head slightly, looking up at me.
“You don’t get to decide what I can handle anymore.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t keep me in the dark.”
I hold her gaze.
I could tell her everything, but not today.
“You trust me?” I ask.
“I do.”
“Then give me a day or two.”
“Okay.”
She settles back against me.
There will be time to worry about Moscow tomorrow.