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"Sergei, I'll be back." She promised.

I was young, not stupid.

People don’t leave with a suitcase big enough to fit half their wardrobe if they’re planning on coming back before breakfast.

The wheels scraped against the black marble as she dragged it through the hallway, the sound loud enough to wake me at three in the morning.

She froze when she saw me standing there, then turned around with a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

My throat tightened so much I couldn’t swallow. She was leaving.

She was leaving me.

But she said she’ll be back and Vasily wasn’t at home, so I waited on the stairs only for my father to find me. He knew Mama was gone the moment he laid eyes on me.

I didn’t want to be alone with him, he was terrifying.

I’d spent years listening to his fists collide with mama’s skin, memorising the sounds through bedroom walls that were never thick enough.

I knew what happened when there was no one left to stand between him and his anger. I was terrified that this time, he’d choose me.

That first night, he walked straight into his office and started breaking things. I stood by the door, watching, and he didn’t spare me a single glance.

I didn’t sleep that night.

I knew he might come in and beat me like he did mama. He didn’t.

He didn’t come into my room that night, or the next six. Every night, I went to bed expecting to wake to the sound of his footsteps outside my bedroom door.

A week later, Vasily forced me to wear a black suit that itched at the collar and buttoned it all the way up even though I told him I couldn’t breathe properly.

He only grunted, and told me to suck it up and stop whining like a child. He just fixed my tie again and again until it sat perfectly straight.

He told me that I should shut my mouth and keep my head low at all times.

Then he handed me off to a man I didn’t know—a bodyguard who tried too hard to smile and asked if I liked football. I nodded even though I didn’t want to talk about football.

Someone had died.

I knew it was funeral, the air was thick with sobs and pretence, strangers giving me tight lipped smiles and unwanted hugs of pity.

“I’m so sorry.” They kept saying. Sorry for what? I wanted to ask. Maybe I was young and stupid.

I didn’t sleep that night as well, but I lay there feigning sleep nonetheless.

From my room, I could hear my father shouting, throwing things, cursing at someone who wasn’t there. For a brief moment, I remember wondering if he was simply…sad.

Maybe Mama shouldn’t have left.

Or maybe she should’ve taken me with her. I wondered where she was, whether she was finally sleeping peacefully, because neither Father nor I seemed capable of it.

It must’ve been a moment of childish weakness that made me leave my room.

My tiny steps creaked against the wooden floor as I crossed into his room without a knock.

His shoulder stiffened slightly as he sensed a presence and lifted his head, his eyes red from the alcohol and what could’ve been tears. My father was crying.

It wasn’t a matter of pride. Bratva men didn’t cry. He was the one who taught me that. So, on instinct, I reached out to wipe his tears away.