Page 87 of One For my Enemy

Dimitri’s gaze fell glassily on Roman’s, dismissing Koschei, who was quietly sipping a whisky.

“Out,” Dimitri said.

“Dima,” Koschei sighed, beckoning for him. “Sit with me, won’t you?”

Dimitri’s eyes slid from Roman to their father.

“Why,” he remarked flatly, “are you taking stock of inventory? Count your sons carefully, Papa.” His mouth hardened. “You’re still one short.”

In that particular moment, Dimitri looked both more golden than usual, gleaming and sure, and also substantially less. He looked untouchable, in fact, in a way Roman had scarcely seen him; hard and statuesque but lifeless, as if he’d been carved that way from stone. Dimitri was immovable and indestructible, and looked more like their father in that instant than Roman had ever seen him look.

For the first time, Roman felt the wordsson of Koscheirise up in his lungs while looking at his eldest brother, and it gave him a sudden, unforeseen chill.

“Dima,” Koschei said gently, “please. I understand you’re angry with me—”

Dimitri turned and walked away. It was something Roman had seen their father do to other men many times; there was power in absence, in judging one’s time too valuable to waste. It was a tool by which to subjugate the other party, and now Dimitri employed it effortlessly, turning his back on both Koschei and Roman and slipping into his bedroom without a word. It wasn’t a tantrum; there were no slamming doors, no stomping feet. Dimitri Fedorov had simply determined them not worth his attention and left them in his wake.

Koschei exhaled slowly.

“You should tell him,” Roman advised his father in a low voice.

Koschei scarcely blinked. “He would only resent you more, Romik.”

“Maybe he would,” Roman agreed, “but still. It can’t be easy on you to see him like this.”

Koschei’s dark gaze fell on Roman’s. “It is no business of Dima’s whose debts I choose to settle, or how. My arrangement with The Bridge is not for Dima to question. I only chose to tell you because it concerned you, and because if he’s right—”

“Because if The Bridge told the truth and Masha is alive, then it’s me she’ll come for,” Roman murmured to himself, and Koschei made a little disapproving scoff.

“You think too small, Romik. Always too small.” Koschei reached out, brushing his fingers against a shadow on the wall as Roman stiffened, unexpectedly slighted. “Yaga and her daughters are not idle players,” Koschei explained. “They do not take revenge when there is nothing to be gained aside from vengeance. The stakes, for them, will always be higher than that, and if The Bridge is right—or if they choose, ultimately, to defy the deal we made,” he clarified grimly, “then it will not be a little fish Baba Yaga aims to catch.”

“You think she’ll come for you?” Roman asked, surprised.

“Me,” Koschei permitted, “or Dima.”

Roman blinked. “Why Dima?”

“He’s my heir,” Koschei said, shrugging. “He is the future of this family.”

“You’re saying—” Roman cleared his throat. “Papa. Are you saying the Antonovas would come for Dima over me because he’s… more valuable?”

Koschei’s mouth tightened. “This is not a question of value,” he said flatly. “I saved your magic, didn’t I? I saved your life. Do you still question whether I consider you worthy, Romik? Because I have a vacancy where my kidney should be that suggests you should put your childish insecurities aside.”

Roman reeled, stung. “I was only saying—”

“If they ruin Dima, they as good as ruin me,” Koschei said. “Dima is the one the Borough witches know. He’s the one they trust. He’s the one who represents me in my business, who handles things when I do not. If Dima falls, it is a signal to the rest of the witches in all the Boroughs that this family is vulnerable. Weak.”

“But I’m the one who killed Masha,” Roman said slowly. “Do you really think that means nothing to Yaga?”

“To Yaga? Yes, surely,” Koschei said, shrugging. “And yes, maybe they have some sort of payment in mind for you, too. But your loss would only be personal to them, not strategic, and Yaga is too clever by half to waste her time on an emotional vendetta.”

He sounded almost admiring of her. Roman shoved the observation aside.

“You could transfer some of Dima’s power to me,” he suggested instead. “Look at him,” he added, gesturing to where Dimitri had disappeared. “He’s secretive now, Papa, reclusive. He has other agendas.”Dimitri belongs to Marya Antonova in a way that he does not belong to us,Roman didn’t say, though he wished he had, because Koschei didn’t seem to lend his input much consideration.

“Dima is a Fedorov son,” Koschei insisted without pause, his hand tightening on the arm of his chair. “He is my son. He is angry with me, but he will not turn against me.”

It seemed quite a gamble, in Roman’s view, to assume that Dimitri, who had already shown signs of being irrevocably altered, would make the same decisions he’d always made. The Dimitri who’d just walked in the door wasn’t the same one who had existed before his reckoning at the hands of Marya Antonova.

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