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The kitchen hadn’t been renovated in the past thirty years, but it was still expansive and homey.
Roman had liked it here. He remembered that now.
A near-full pot of coffee sat on the counter, several mugs in the sink. Roman made his way through the empty kitchen, following the strains of the music emanating from deeper in the house.
He came to a wide hall with wood floors, a staircase leading to the second floor. An empty living room sat across the hall, more formal than the enclosed porch, the furniture old-fashioned and barely worn, a fire burning in the fireplace.
He turned down the hall, the music getting louder as he walked, careful to mind his footsteps on the old wood floors.
He passed a powder room and came to a door at the end of the hall. The music was loud and coming from the room on the other side. He knew this music, could picture his father sitting at a desk, head tipped back, eyes closed.
He stepped into the room and took it in: a fire blazing in the hearth against one wall, bookshelves lined with leather- and cloth-bound books, a modest desk at one end of the room, the chair turned with its back to the door — to Roman.
It was an apt metaphor for his last interaction with his father. Roman standing there, waiting to be recognized and being met with his father’s back.
Except the closer he looked the more confused he became. The man in the chair had thinning black hair, not the thick gray hair of Roman’s father.
Roman stepped closer, not as carefully this time, and one of the old floorboards creaked under his boot.
The chair swiveled and the man came into view.
Not his father but Konstantin.
Kon studied him in the moment of shocked silence that followed. Then he reached for one of the desk drawers.
Roman removed the safety on his gun. “Don’t.”
Kon returned his hands to the desk. “I’m surprised you found this place.”
“It was Erik,” Roman said.
Kon scowled in disgust. “I’m guessing you didn’t come alone.”
“You might be surprised to hear this, but I’m not that stupid.” The derision Roman was used to seeing in his father’s eyes had always been mirrored in Kon’s. He’d never liked Roman, and the feeling had always been mutual. “Where is my father?”
“Resting,” Kon said. “I’m afraid it’s all he’s been capable of doing since the Orlovs’ funeral.”
And now Roman understood. It hadn’t been Igor pulling Erik’s strings.
It had been Konstantin.
“You’ve been running things,” Roman said.
“It’s a dirty job, but…” Kon turned his palms upward. “Well, you know.”
Roman shook his head. He should have seen it. It wasn’t like Igor to be so out of view. He wasn’t an effective leader, but he knew enough to know the men needed to see you leading in a crisis. “Always a snake.”
Kon shrugged. “I think your father would approve. Who else is capable of leading the organization? You?”
Kon’s feelings on the matter were clear: Roman wasn’t up to the job. He wasn’t capable enough, wasn’t strong enough.
No surprised after the decades Kon had spent watching Igor dominate and abuse Roman but still a slap in the face.
“That’s right,” Roman said. “Me.”
Kon’s gaze strayed to the gun. “I see I’ve misjudged you. Your father was clearly wrong. I see no reason we can’t work together, especially now that we have a common enemy.”
Roman pretended to consider it.
