Chapter 39 #2
When I come down, I find everyone already waiting for me. Vladimir standing beside the fireplace, Igor leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed, Yuri at one end of the table working on an open laptop, as always, and Yelena on the sofa, legs crossed, with a bandage on her eyebrow.
I walk to the table, drop the mask there, and announce what none of them expected to hear.
“This is over.”
No one moves a muscle.
“Demidov died knowing who the Man in the Mask is and was ready to hand him over to Viktor Orlov.”
Everyone stares at me, faces serious. Yuri looks up from the screen and closes the laptop in silence, giving me his full attention.
“Moscow is ready to attack us. Orlov just needed to confirm who commands the St. Petersburg Bratva.”
“There’s no way to know if Demidov delivered the information,” Yelena says.
“And we can find ways to muddy their trail, discredit him and…”
“No.” I cut Yuri off. “We’re not going to do that.”
“Pakhan…”
Vladimir begins, but I raise my hand to interrupt him.
“I wear the mask because it became a strategy against our enemies. A smokescreen. That’s over. The only advantage we have now is to reach Moscow before they reach us.”
“You’re suggesting…” Yelena lets the question die in the air when I nod.
“The Man in the Mask now has an identity: Maksim Nikiforov. And he’s going to take the war to Moscow.”
The silence lasts only three seconds. That’s all the time they need to digest the change that’s coming. From the back of the room, Igor uncrosses his arms, moves away from the wall, and places his closed fist over his chest.
“Da, Pakhan.”
Everyone stands and follows him, placing their closed fists against their chests and giving me their support.
“Everything for the Bratva.”
They say in unison.
“Come on, we have a war to win.”
Vladimir nods, Igor pulls out a chair from the table to sit down, Yuri opens the laptop and starts typing furiously, and Yelena just remains silent. Her eyes are lost in a bad memory, overtaken by a fury that’s been imprisoned inside her for years.
“Lena,” I call, bringing her gaze to mine.
“Pakhan.”
“Nine years ago you asked me for something I never allowed. Do you still want it?”
“More than anything, Maks.”
Her voice comes out low, but it doesn’t sound vulnerable or emotional. Yelena speaks with a thirst for revenge.
“Prepare your entry. You’re going to Moscow.”
Her face doesn’t change; she doesn’t smile or cry. She just clenches her jaw hard and nods in silence.
“You’re going to build an identity, take as long as you need, and work your way into their ranks,” I instruct. “And when the time comes, you’ll have your revenge, and Viktor Orlov will die by your hands.”
Silently, Yelena comes to me, stops a step away, and takes my left hand in hers. Before I can react, she raises my fingers to her lips and kisses the place where a ring should be.
I banished the old gesture with Boris’s death. I made a point of burning the ring he so prized along with the remains of his body. Now, seeing Yelena pay this deference to me, I only feel proud of who she’s become and certain that she’ll do everything to get her revenge.
“Everything for the Bratva, Pakhan.”
She repeats quietly, her voice now full of emotion, trembling slightly.
After that, everyone takes their place at the table and we begin to plan how we’re going to end Viktor Orlov and the entire Moscow Bratva.
It’s already night when I find Anya in the reading room.
She should be in bed, but of course she’s been stubborn enough to demand to come here. She’s sitting in her usual armchair near the window, her legs covered by a blanket, an open book forgotten in her lap, and a cup of cold tea on the side table.
I follow her gaze to the window and see what has her so captivated.
The garden is lit by low lights, and there’s a huge bear crossing the snow with slow, careful steps. It’s the first time Ivan has left the winter garden since he was shot. He still limps a little on his right side, but he’s clearly interested in sniffing everything around him as he walks slowly.
“He’s walking,” she comments quietly, as if her voice could startle him.
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
Svetlana only looks at me when I sit down in the armchair beside her. She doesn’t look at me with hurt, just with that cold, guarded distance of someone who’s decided to protect herself from the man who could hurt her even more.
“Vladimir bought a house.” I start with the easy part.
“What do you mean he bought a house?”
“He told me today. Said it’s about twenty minutes from here.”
“But he’s lived here for…”
“Twelve years,” I finish, watching her mouth fall open. “I know.”
She frowns, unable to believe there’s a good reason for such a change after so long.
“Wait.” She straightens slowly, careful of her rib. “When did he decide to move?”
I don’t answer, just raise an eyebrow and watch her face flush beautifully.
“Oh my God.” She brings her hand to her mouth. “It was that day.”
“Wednesday, at four fifty-six in the afternoon.”
“Maksim!”
She scolds me while holding back a laugh, and I join in, raising my hands in surrender.
“Those were his words, not mine.”
Then the sound of her laughter fills the room, and it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. Even with the brief groans of pain and the curses she throws at me for making her laugh with broken ribs, it’s still the best moment of the week. It almost feels like we’re back to normal.
“I’ll never be able to look him in the face again,” she says, wiping the corner of her eye.
“He said he’s going to start knocking from now on.” She laughs again. “And that…” I hesitate. “…we should teach our son to knock too.”
The air in the room changes.
Anya stops laughing immediately and looks at me, surprised that I’ve finally brought up the subject. Her hand drops to her belly without her realizing it, as it’s been doing almost constantly now.
“You said ‘our son.’” she repeats in a whisper.