68. Chapter 68

68

Leonid

Two weeks later

T he scotch burns going down. Two weeks. Fourteen fucking days of silence from the room upstairs.

“Still brooding, boss?” Maksim sprawls in the leather chair across from my desk, boots propped up on mahogany like he owns the place. “Or is this your new thing now? The whole dark and mysterious act?”

I don’t bother looking up from the security feed. Third floor, east wing. Clara’s door hasn’t moved in six hours.

“ Blyat .” Maksim’s chair creaks as he leans forward. “You know what your problem is? You’re thinking too much. Should’ve seen your face when Aleksei started screaming. The moment Ludis pulled out that skinning knife—” He whistles low. “Heart attack did us a favor, really. Saved on cleanup.”

The crystal tumbler cracks in my grip. “ Zatknis .”

“What? Too soon?” He grins, all teeth. “Come on, boss. Two weeks of watching you pace like a kicked puppy. It’s painful. Even Golubka’s stressed—tried to eat my favorite boots yesterday.”

“Your boots were already garbage.”

“They were Italian leather!”

“They were knockoffs.” I set the cracked glass down. “And my python has better taste.”

Maksim clutches his chest. “You wound me. Also, she’s getting fat. Maybe ease up on the comfort rats?”

The security feed flickers. Movement. Clara’s door opening a crack, then closing. My shoulders tighten.

“Ah.” Maksim’s voice shifts. “Still not eating?”

“Kayla leaves food. It disappears.” Sometimes. When Elijah visits with drawings of him and that damn snake.

“Better than week one.” His boots drop to the floor with a thud. “Remember when she threw that vase at your head? Good aim for someone running on grief and rage.”

I trace the scar on my temple. “You found that funny.”

“Found it hilarious. Also found it interesting.” He pauses, studying me with unusual intensity. “You let her.”

“What?”

“The vase. You saw it coming. Could’ve dodged.” His eyes narrow. “But you didn’t.”

I reach for the scotch again, but Maksim’s next words freeze my hand in mid-air.

“ Blyat , never knew you had this side to you, boss.” His voice carries an edge of wonder. “The great Pakhan , taking ceramic to the face because he thinks he deserves it.”

“One more word—”

“What? You’ll feed me to Golubka?” He snorts. “She likes me better, anyway. I don’t make her fat.”

The urge to punch his smirking face wars with the truth in his words. The same truth I’ve been drowning in scotch for two weeks.

Clara’s sobs echo through the walls at night. Maxwell’s words before he left—“Take care of her. Please.”—hang like smoke in every room. The weight of Stephan’s lies crushes what’s left of her world while I sit here, uselessly watching security feeds.

“You did what needed doing.” Maksim’s hand lands on my shoulder, startling me. His usual sarcasm gone. “Truth’s like surgery, boss. Hurts like hell, but infection’s worse.”

“When did you get wise, mudak ?”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve always been wise. You just never listen.” He squeezes once, then steps back. “Now, about those knockoff boots…”

“Out.”

“Fine, fine. But, boss?” He pauses at the door. “Maybe try talking to her instead of watching cameras all day? Just a thought.”

The door clicks shut behind him. On screen, Clara’s room stays dark and silent.

Maksim’s words echo in my head. Talk to her. As if it’s that fucking simple.

As if I didn’t force her to watch her father figure bleed out in my brother’s torture room. As if I didn’t destroy every last piece of her world in one night.

I open a drawer on my right. The black velvet box sits where it has for years, since I found it in Papa’s safe after his death. Inside, the emerald catching light like it does in every photo of her—deep green against pale fingers, three carats set in vintage platinum. The only piece of my mother I have left.

In the photos, she’s always smiling. Young, beautiful, wearing this ring like it was made for her. Papa said she chose it because it reminded her of the Siberian forests she left behind. Said she wanted her sons to give it to someone as fierce as she was.

I trace the box’s edge. For years, I never understood why Papa kept it. Now, all I see are Clara’s fingers, delicate but strong enough to pull a trigger. To swing a pipe at her enemies. To draw pictures with Elijah.

To teach our son how to be brave.

Blyat . I rake a hand across my stubble.Since when did I start thinking of us as a—?

I slam the drawer shut.

I reach for my phone instead. Need to check on Elijah. But before I can pull up Dmitry’s number, my phone buzzes.

Dmitry’s text shows Elijah beaming at the camera, cotton candy bigger than his head, brown eyes bright with sugar rush. Behind him, carnival lights blur against the gray December sky. Another photo loads—my son hanging off the merry-go-round horse, Dmitry’s hand steady on his back.

Having fun, boss. Kid wants a stuffed snake. Says Golubka needs a friend.

Cold rain pelts the windows, typical New Orleans winter. The grounds turn slick and dark while I sit here, watching an empty fucking doorway like some lovesick teenager. Three screens over, Clara’s curtains shift. A pale hand pulls them shut against the dreary light.

One month. Christmas decorations mock me from every store window in the city. Maksim’s already hung mistletoe in every doorway like the insufferable piece of shit he is.

I down the rest of my scotch, fingers hovering over the phone. “Tell the little terror no more sugar. What does he want for dinner? And Dmitry—if that snake is bigger than Golubka, you’re feeding it.”

Movement on the security feed catches my eye. Clara’s door opens. My face inches closer to the screen, like some teenage security guard on his first night shift.

A ghostly figure emerges—Clara, wrapped in what looks like every blanket from her bed. Her hair’s a wild mess, dark circles under her eyes, but she’s moving. Actually moving.

Suka . Where the hell is she going?

My breath catches as she turns left. Then right. Then—

Blyat . She’s heading straight for my office.

The scotch glass slips from my fingers.In thirty seconds, she’ll be at that door.

Thud, thud, thud.

I don’t get a chance to answer before the door swings open. Clara stands there, drowning in blankets, rings beneath her eyes making her look like an angry ghost.

She takes three steps forward, and my body tenses automatically—remembering the vase, the paperweight, that bronze statue from last week. My ribs still ache from the crystal ashtray she launched at me four days ago.

But her hands stay buried in the folds of fabric. Her eyes, red-rimmed but clear, bore into mine like she’s searching for something. The blanket slips from one shoulder, revealing my missing black hoodie.

"We..." Her voice cracks from disuse. She swallows, chin lifting. " I have to visit Jake."