12. Ruslan
Ruslan
Colorado still smells the same: like cold air, pine, and money. The breeze coming down off the mountains stirs something deep inside me. I remember my mother’s winter coat and the way it smelled of wood-smoke. Her hands leading me at an ice-skating rink.
How strange to think that once I was just a child, worried about slipping and nothing else.
I stand beside the hotel window Tuesday morning, watching gray clouds drag slowly across the mountains while the city sprawls beneath me in polished steel and early autumn gold. Four days.
Four more days until the engagement party. Four days until Andrei sees me standing beside the woman he discarded.
My pulse settles pleasantly at the thought. Finally.
For years I stayed away from Colorado, not because I wanted to but because I had to. Business expanded better from California, and distance kept old ghosts buried where they belonged. Everyone benefited from the arrangement.
Especially Andrei.
Because my little brother truly believed I would never come back here.
He mistook restraint for surrender. A dangerous mistake.
Behind me, the suite remains quiet. Emma is still asleep after fighting me until nearly two in the morning over the sleeping arrangements.
Eventually she claimed the bedroom while I took the sitting area couch, though not before threatening to stab me with a hotel pen if I “loomed ominously” near her again.
Charming woman.
I should focus entirely on strategy right now.
Instead, I keep thinking about the way she looked wrapped in the hotel robe afterward, glaring at me while her curls dried damp around flushed cheeks.
Distracting.
Unhelpful.
I adjust my cuffs and force my attention back toward the city below.
Four days. Time to begin.
* * *
The journalist arrives twelve minutes late to lunch. I notice because men like Victor Hale survive by being punctual around people like me, which means something is off. Either he’s nervous, or my team missed a key piece in this arrangement.
He walks into the private dining room, visibly nervous anyway, adjusting his tie twice before sitting across from me at the table.
“Mr. Smirnov.”
“Victor.”
He glances once toward the security guard, Stepan, stationed discreetly outside the room before accepting the bourbon poured for him. Smart enough not to comment on it being a little early.
Victor came up years ago writing nightlife pieces and local political gossip nobody respected. Then I quietly redirected certain information toward him. Exclusive leads. Financial whispers. Society scandals just valuable enough to elevate his career without exposing my involvement.
Now he writes for one of Denver’s largest publications. He’s been a useful investment.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” Victor admits carefully. We’ve never met in person, and I can feel his eyes flickering over my face as I read the menu. He’s trying to suss me out, figure out what kind of man I am outside of the short-and-to-the-point texts.
“No,” I say calmly. “You were frightened to hear from me.”
His silence confirms it. Good.
When lunch arrives, neither of us touches it. I lean back slightly in my chair instead, studying the skyline through the restaurant windows while Victor tries unsuccessfully not to sweat through his collar, despite the drop in temperature to the low 60s today.
“You are going to run a story tomorrow morning.”
His fork pauses immediately. “About?”
“My return.”
Victor blinks once.
Ah.
There it is.
Interesting how quickly word spreads through political circles in this city. Even now, the idea of me returning clearly feels impossible to some people. So Victor did his research, as any good journalist would.
He knows at least the seed of who I am—was—before I left.
“That’s…unexpected,” he says cautiously.
“I enjoy surprising family.”
His eyes narrow slightly at that. Victor is intelligent enough to understand tension when he sees it, but not stupid enough to ask direct questions about the Smirnov family and the abrupt left turn it took after my father died, publicly.
“Your brother’s engagement party,” he says slowly. “This is related.”
“Yes.”
Victor exhales carefully through his nose. “And what exactly would you like the article to say?”
I smile faintly. “Something sentimental.”
That confuses him more.
“The return of the prodigal son,” I continue smoothly. “Family reunited during a time of celebration. Older brother returns home after years building an international business empire.”
Victor stares at me. Then laughs once nervously. “You want warmth.”
“I want visibility.”
The distinction matters. I don’t want anyone making the mistake that I’m here to make amends with my demon of a brother.
Andrei built his political career carefully. Controlled, sanitized. A public image polished until nobody remembered the blood underneath our family name. The truth is, Andrei is just as dirty as I am deep down inside. He just hides it better.
I intend to crack that image open publicly before I destroy it privately.
“Andrei knows you’re in Colorado?” Victor asks.
“No.”
I lean slightly forward at last, lowering my voice just enough that the room suddenly feels smaller around us.
“He will read your article tomorrow morning,” I say softly. “And he will be blindsided.”
Victor swallows. “Understood.”
“Good.”
Silence stretches briefly. Then, because I enjoy honesty when people are frightened, I add calmly: “If the headline disappoints me, Victor, your replacement will have considerably less career potential.”
The man goes pale instantly. Excellent.
Lunch ends twenty minutes later. His plate, a salmon salad, is barely touched.
By the time I leave the restaurant, snow threatens faintly in the clouds above Denver. I know from experience that it won’t come—not yet. But still, I can smell it there, high up above us all.
Security falls into step behind me automatically while the city hums around us in expensive cool-weather jackets and that certain brand of “outdoorsman” that has drawn people here.
Colorado. Still pretending it’s clean.
My phone vibrates before I reach the SUV. It’s Angel, the PR rep I left in California. She’s sharp despite being in her late sixties, a genius on most tech. She doesn’t need to be here to keep up with things.
I ignore the call, knowing neither of us really wants to speak on the phone. A message appears seconds later.
She tells me that Andrei’s campaign is already requesting clarification regarding “family reconciliation rumors.” Angel’s intercepted emails, and they’re scrambling, checking the flight logs from this week and their underground connections on the streets.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. Perfect. The trap is already working.
I should feel satisfied.
Instead, restlessness keeps prowling beneath my skin like an animal refusing to settle. Revenge sharpens it further rather than easing it. The closer I get to confronting Andrei, the more the old version of myself keeps surfacing.
Ruslan. Not Russ.
Not civilized.
And underneath all of it, another truth irritates me steadily: I want to return to the hotel suite.
To Emma.
I almost ask the driver to pull over and bring me anywhere else. It’s dangerous wanting to be around her. I shouldn’t—
I shouldn’t be staying up at night, tempted to step into the bedroom. See if she’d really put a pen in my throat, or if she’d sit up and look at me with those eyes. Like the sky overhead now—swirling blues and grays, hints of green.
Instead, we continue back to the Four Seasons. When I picture going upstairs now, I don’t imagine strategy meetings or fake relationship planning. I imagine her barefoot on the hotel carpet, glaring at me. I imagine provoking her until she loses that careful control again.
I imagine hearing her laugh unexpectedly in the middle of an argument.
Problematic. Very problematic.
But for the first time in years, revenge isn’t the only thing waiting for me in Colorado.
* * *
By that evening, Emma has rebuilt every wall between us. Deliberately.
I notice because I’ve spent most of my life studying distance. The emotional kind matters more than physical space ever does. My mother, after my father’s death, did everything she could to remove herself and keep me from seeing her grieve.
Did she ever grieve? That small, traitorous voice in the back of my head whispers. She’s been gone for twenty years now, and I’m still not sure.
Emma barely looks at me while getting ready for dinner in the suite. Answers come clipped and polite. Controlled. Every trace of the reckless woman who snapped at me in California and kissed me like she hated me has vanished behind careful restraint.
I dislike it immediately.
My phone buzzes with an unknown number, and a photo of an article proof lights up my screen. It’s exactly as intended; Denver’s political circles will spiral, wondering why I’m back. As much as both sides pretend to be innocent, they know my name.
They’ll know why I returned.
Maybe one or two will even be tempted to sacrifice Andrei and save themselves.
RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON: RUSLAN SMIRNOV RETURNS FOR brOTHER’S ENGAGEMENT CELEbrATION
Perfect. A short message follows after the image from a nameless man or woman somewhere out there: papers delivered at 5 a.m. tomorrow.
Yet the victory tastes strangely muted while I watch Emma fasten earrings across the hotel suite from me without meeting my eyes.
“You’re quiet,” I observe.
Normally she would narrow or roll her eyes. Tonight, she doesn’t make eye contact—just smooths down the front of the crushed green velvet dress she’s wearing.
I lean back against the bar near the hotel windows, studying her carefully. The dress clings elegantly to her curves without trying too hard. It’s sophisticated, beautiful. Something the “real” business side of me envies.
“I’m fine,” she quips, her voice higher. Emma grabs her clutch from the counter and walks toward the suite door without waiting for me. Not close enough for my hand to settle naturally against her back. Not touching.
Too much distance.
People notice these things.