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The door behind me opens, and for a moment, hope and madness rush into my heart.
But when I turn, all I see is Zhanna stepping onto the terrace, bundled up in fur, with a tight grip on her ebony walking stick. Despite the biting cold, she looks immune to the winter weather and shows no discomfort. She looks regal, like a snow queen from a fairytale, with every step she takes across the snow-covered terrace.
Her visit is unexpected but perhaps not unwelcome. Her unfiltered advice can be brutal, but the conversation will take me out of my head for a little while.
“Krestnaya,” I say. “A pleasant surprise. Would you like to go back inside? It’s cold out here.”
Her violet glare pierces through the swirling snowflakes. “What are you doing here, Kolya?” she asks. “Sulking?”
I don’t pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “I took an oath, and it will cost lives if I break it.”
She waves her hand in front of her face as if my words are a nuisance. “Eden will be raising a future Starukhin alone if you keep standing here doing absolutely nothing.”
I stand taller, looking down on her. “You care for no one but the Bratva, and you shall love none other than the Bratva.”
“Ridiculous,” she replies with a scowl. “I came here to talk sense into you, Kolya,” she says bluntly. “And all you can do is throw those words at me?”
“She has Zakhar to protect her and the child.”
“Thechild?” Zhanna scoffs. “Yourchild.” Her voice softens. “The life that you created. What use is it for you to be a pakhan when you won’t even fight for those you love?”
Her words hit the mark, and my anger loses its strength. Zhanna’s concerns echo Zakhar’s, and I wonder for a moment if they’ve talked.
“Krestnaya,” I reply softly. “Dead men have no choices. I swore an oath to the Bratvas.”
“You mean Radomil?” She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t let that old man’s bitterness dictate your life. Do you want to end up like him?” She glances back at the penthouse and turns back, her lips pursed. “Alone in a castle and hoarding old dead things?”
I turn away from her and stare at the snow falling faster now. As much as I want to believe Zhanna, it’s not that simple. The Bratva is governed by violence, not compromise. Forgiveness is a rare commodity, and love is even rarer.
Still, the very thought of Eden torments me.
“Zhanna,” I say quietly, “I need a favor.”
Smiling, she nods and tucks her arm into mine.
“Of course, Kolya,” she says. “Remember that you are a Starukhin. And don’t forget that Gunsyn is still out there. Now, what is this favor you need from me,malchik?”
Gunsyn’s name is like a rough shake of the shoulders. Gunsynisstill out there. He has gone underground since the end of the war, but he’s still alive.
And he knows Eden is pregnant.
The threat he poses will never go away until he’s gone.
I take a deep breath, and cold air jabs my lungs. I need to act, not react. I need to take control of my own future, and that means tying up this one final loose end.
“I need a meeting,” I reply calmly. “Popov, Sorokin, and the rest.”
“And you shall have it.” Zhanna nods. “Don’t let that oath get in your way. What matters to you is also good for the Bratva.”
She hugs my arm tighter as we watch the snow filling the park.
“Now come inside,malchik,” she smiles. “It’s cold out.”
She tugs gently on my arm, and I follow her back inside into the penthouse. I ignore the mess on the floor, discarded clothing and crumpled papers that should be in a garbage can. Zhanna stops. Not to comment on the mess but to look at a painting.
“Have I seen this one before?” Zhanna asks.
“No.”
