2. Sasha

CHAPTER 2

SASHA

I lean against the stone balustrade of the balcony overlooking Vlad's ostentatious garden and gaze out at the strange collection of cacti and rugged shrubs that flourish in this wasteland. The view is so alien compared to the greens of Hampstead Heath where my friends and I would meet up during weekends.

The Las Vegas sun beating down on my face is cruel. This city seems cruel, especially now that Vlad has decided to settle down here for good.

I want to close my eyes and unsee everything that I’ve seen from the moment I landed and till now. It's too bright, too brash, too loud. A tasteful badge of insanity that assaults me with mad splashes of startling neon and crude colors clashing against one another. The sounds are foreign and they rattle my thoughts like rolling thunder.

I bloody loathe this place already and I haven’t been anywhere yet except for one shopping center Ivan, my brother's watchdog, took me to.

I guess I never truly recognized what I had until it slipped through my fingers like whispery grains of sand on a beach in Sussex.

"Cheer up," Alfie would've said, "it's just a bit of sun, mate."

But Alfie isn't here, is he?

Silence has taken his place.

I take a pull from the can, the tepid beer washing down like yesterday’s piss. The taste is revolting, but I don’t care. I want to numb myself with whatever I can get my hands on. Unfortunately, it’s hard to acquire anything stronger than this bloody excuse of a brew on Vlad’s watch.

Wanker deals guns and drugs left and right, yet there’s nothing in his house but water, protein shakes, and whatever it is I’m consuming right now. You’d think a saint lives in this architectural abomination.

It's lunchtime, I think, but the clock stopped ticking the moment Alfie’s life was snatched away in a cloud of flames and debris. His parents likely remain unaware of the actual narrative that led to their son's untimely departure. It was branded as an accident. A reckless prank that spiraled out of control. The campus rumor mill buzzed about some envious soul itching to taint my flashy wheels. Their supposed solution? A handful of pyrotechnical party favors.

Yes, my brother’s bloody hands stretched out this far, across the ocean. From one continent to another to weave a tale so unbelievable.

But the truth is simple.

Alfie was friends with the son of Yuri Solovey.

The can crinkles under my grip—my third? Fourth? Who's counting anymore?

The heat is oppressive, smothering, as if the Nevada desert itself is trying to suffocate me with its brutal embrace. I hate it here. Hate the fake smiles of the housekeepers coming and going, hate the armed, stone-faced Russian dudes patrolling the perimeter of the property, hate my room, hate that my friends are thousands of miles away and I can’t talk to them.

I feel like I’m in prison.

"Fuck all," I mutter under my breath, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. Ash and burnt skin. One thought of Alfie dying from the bomb meant for me has me shaking. I want to end this, this guild clawing at me from the inside. Because he’s gone. Six bloody feet under. And here I am, swigging beer like nothing happened. Plus Vlad yanked me from uni right before graduation. I guess bye-bye degree in graphic design.

There’s a part of me that wants to smash things, but what's the point? It wouldn't bring my mate back, wouldn't erase my family's sordid legacy written in blood and tears.

I let the last gulp of beer slide down my throat, bitter and sharp. The can joins its empty mates on the floor with a thunk. I shuffle back to the monster of a bed that’s more like a raft adrift in a sea of plush carpet. My lids grow heavy as I sink into the mattress, the world tilting slightly. Exhaustion wrestles with anger, each vying for dominance.

As much as I’m terrified to fall asleep because there, in my dreams, I know I’ll see Alfie again turn into thousands of tiny pieces, I can’t keep this up. My head has been throbbing non-stop for days now, my inner voice telling me to stop fighting it. To just let nature take its course. In the end, I give in.

As I drift off, shadows dance behind my eyes, painting scenes of Alfie's laughter turning into echoes of a blast. And even in my sleep, I can feel anger and sorrow coiling around my chest, tightening its hold with every shallow breath.

I’m dragged back to reality by impatient rapping on my door.

I peel my eyes open only to see my older brother looming from the threshold. He’s the epitome of power and poise, Father’s favorite. And even though the bedroom is fully sunlit right now, his invisible shadow stretches over to me like a spirit of the bloody dynasty we're chained to.

"Alexander, for Christ's sake!" The voice slices through the haze, sharp and commanding. "What is it I hear about you driving off another bodyguard I hired for you?" His tone is clipped, cold as the steel of a blade.

Vlad crosses the space between us, each step a measured beat in the silence. He kicks an empty beer can that stands in his way. It skitters across the floor with a nasty rattle like an unwanted intruder in his ordered world.

He's dressed to the nines, looking like he's stepped out of some high-end fashion mag rather than the sweltering Nevada heat. Tailored suit, perfectly creased, shoes shining as if competing with the sunlight, a small fortune on his wrist in the form of a watch. Dark brown hair neatly cut and styled, not a strand daring to defy him.

His face, though, it’s like looking at a ghost. It bears the stamp of our father, the same chiseled jaw, the same piercing gray eyes. It's a mirror reflecting a legacy I loathe, a reminder of the blood that ties us together. Sometimes, I see myself looking exactly like Vlad years down the road, and then as I get older—Yuri. If I make it this far, of course.

"Vlad," I grunt, my own voice rough with sleep and disuse. "Always a joy." I don’t bother getting up.

He doesn't smile. Never does when it comes to family or business. Or both. He only smiles when he gets a new ride. And as I glance up at him, all decked out and filled with authority, I can't help but feel a wave of something far darker than resentment—the desperate need to tear my way out from under the weight of his—of our—surname.

"Did you scare off this one with your scowl or was it the Shakespearean soliloquy at breakfast?" my brother asks as he comes to a halt when he reaches my bed.

"Get lost, Vlad," I mutter, my eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it holds the universe's secrets. "I don’t need a bloody babysitter."

Another step and Vlad's silhouette looms over me, a monolith of overpriced fabric and barely restrained irritation. "You're a target, Sasha. I am not able to protect you all the time. I have a business to run."

"Maybe I fancy a bit of danger," I snap, pushing myself up to sit. The mattress dips under my weight, a willing accomplice in this familiar dance of defiance.

"Is that right?"

"Better than being smothered." I swing my legs over the bed's edge, the floor cold against my bare feet—a nice contrast to the searing heat outside these walls.

"Smothered?" He shakes his head, for a moment the hard lines of his face soften. "I'm trying to keep you safe, ti, ushlyopok tupoi . To give you a chance to finish college and get a good job in the field you want."

"For real?" I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. "Since when do we care about art in this family? Or what this family wants in general?"

"Since you showed talent," he says quietly, the steel in his tone melting for a second. "Since I saw something other than this"—he gestures vaguely at the lavish room—"for us."

"Us?" The word tastes sour like a bitter reminder of the rift between intention and reality. "There's no 'us' in this family, Vlad. There's power and there's fear. That's all."

"Maybe once." His gray eyes flicker with something akin to hope—or is it regret? "But things can change, Sasha. We can change them."

"Can we?" I challenge, rising to meet his towering figure. "Or are we just deluding ourselves, playing dress-up in a world that will never accept who we really are?"

For an instant, the facade cracks completely, and I see my brother—the boy who once shared whispered dreams in the darkness, before the mantle of leadership and Father’s sanction forced the light out of his eyes.

We stare at each other. The room is thick with heavy silence and my heart is beating so hard in my chest I’m terrified Vlad can hear it, can tell how much of a coward I am on the inside. How a fraction of me—a small one but still—is secretly glad it wasn’t me in the Lambo when it blew up.

"I want you to research universities in the area. Something within an hour's drive. Meanwhile, I’ll have Andrey handle the transfer of your credits from London. Get back to your studies to complete your degree," Vlad insists, the mask of authority sliding back into place. "Prove you can be more than what's expected of you. Then we will talk about your future."

"Prove it to whom?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling. And not from fear. But from fury. "To you? To them? Or to the ghost of a man who would’ve rather seen me dead than different?"

He doesn't answer, but the silence speaks volumes, a thick veil that neither of us can lift.

"You think this is about college? About some bloody degree?" I spit out. Sometimes, I want him to read my mind, to see right through me so we could be done with this charade. Because I’m tired of it, tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of looking over my shoulder, wondering if I said something wrong, if I did something out of line with whom I’m expected to be.

"What do you suggest?" Vlad asks. "That I simply let you go? Bratishka , you will be dead within days on your own."

"Well, maybe it’s better that way!"

His jaw tightens, and I can see the battle raging behind those steely eyes. "Don’t you dare say that to me again, Alexander!"

When he starts calling me by my full name, I know he’s pissed for real and there won’t be any reasoning with him. Although, I’m not sure if I’m a worthy productive discussion opponent right now. My thoughts are all tangled up, and my mouth spouts shit I don’t mean.

"It is not just about you or your whims. It is about the survival of this family," Vlad grits out, his voice dropping several octaves.

"Survival?" I scoff, my laugh lacking any real humor. "Is that what you call it? Living under constant scrutiny, flinching at every shadow because one day it might be the one with a knife? Or better yet, a gun. Bang, bang and you’re done. Like otetz dearest. Executed."

Vlad steps closer, the air between us electric with words unspoken. "It's the world we were born into. But I am trying to keep you out of the worst of it. Can you trust me on this?"

"By suffocating me? By taking me out of uni months before graduation? By putting me in this atrocious house in the middle of the desert?" My hands are shaking, but I won't let him see that. "I'd rather take my chances with the shadows than be strangled by your so-called protection!"

"Dammit, Sasha!" The room seems to shrink as he raises his voice, his frustration matching my anger. "If you will not do it for yourself, do it for your dead friend! He died because—"

"Because of this family!" I cut him off, the statement tearing from my throat like shrapnel. Guilt is there, hot and throbbing and ever-present. "Don't you dare bring him into this."

The ultimatum from Vlad comes like a thunderclap, splitting the tension. "Enroll in college. Get your act together." His tone is iron, unyielding. "Otherwise, you're off to Saint Petersburg. And we both know what that means."

I'm seething. Each word from his mouth is another nail in the coffin of my freedom. "You can't control me forever, Vlad."

"That is not what I am trying to do here."

This is the last thing he says to me before I watch him turn on his heel and head out. His expensive shoes click a rhythm of finality across the floor. The door slams shut with a resounding echo, a grim punctuation to our brotherly love.

"Arsehole," I mutter into the silence.