Page 88 of One For my Enemy

And neither was Roman the same son who could so easily fall in line.

“Give me something, Papa,” Roman implored his father. “There must be something I can do for you in the meantime, without Dima.”

Koschei rose to his feet, straining under the grimness of age.

“No,” he said, and Roman blinked.

“But Papa—”

“Had you not been so childish, Roman, Levka would still be alive,” Koschei reminded him bluntly, and Roman flinched. “Dima would be my faithful son, as he’s always been. Masha would be alive, but her attention would be elsewhere. We had no reason to intervene and now, forever, we will be the subjects of Yaga’s enmity, held to the meager hope she will keep to the terms of our deal.”

“But Papa, if I could have just—”

“No ifs,” Koschei said, cutting him off. “The devil lounges in the word ‘if,’ Roma. The circumstances of our conditions are not for us to ponder without slowly losing our minds.”

He waited a moment, and then reached out, cupping his hand around Roman’s cheek.

“You are my son, Romik, and I would deny you nothing,” Koschei said quietly, “but for now, I beg you, be patient. Do nothing. Let the storm of Dima’s anger pass, and when he is ready, you will be, too.”

It seemed Koschei was unaware how much he asked.

“Dima is not your only son,” Roman said bitterly.

With a slow, tender circle of his thumb on Roman’s cheek, Koschei withdrew his hand.

“I do not forget I nearly lost two sons,” Koschei said. “Forgive me, Romik, but even if you resent my decision, it will not change my mind. If I keep you in a vault, it is only because you’re too precious to lose.”

He turned away, preparing to leave, and paused just before he reached the door frame.

“If he asks for me,” Koschei began, and Roman nodded, voice thick with difficulty.

“Yes, Papa,” Roman said.

“And do not tell him of my visit to The Bridge,” Koschei warned. “Let that be between us. If he wishes to be angry with me, to forget what I would do for my sons, then so be it.”

Roman nodded again, already spent.

“Yes, Papa.”

IV. 8

(Aftertaste.)

“Damn,” said the man, lifting his head from the marble countertop and brushing away the crushed tablet powder from his nose. “That’s clean. Who’s the supplier again?”

“New,” Eric replied, leaning back against the cushions. “And private. You interested?”

“Of course I’m fucking interested,” the man replied. He was a banker of some sort, with a financier sort of name; Warner or Mark or Charles. Eric slid his arm around Sasha’s shoulders; she gritted her teeth in annoyance, doing what she could not to shove him away. It was better, she knew, to play it off as if she were nothing important. The mute, pretty girl on the arm of the showy asshole was never suspected of wrongdoing. She was only ever a pawn, and that was all Sasha wanted Greg or Andrew or Jonathan to think she was. Safer that way. Better.

Much as she loathed it.

“What’s in this?” the man pressed. “PCP?”

“You ask a lot of questions, my man,” Eric said, in a tone that Sasha (or any woman, for that matter) probably would have slapped him for. “Can’t go giving away my supplier’s secrets, can I?”

The man stared thoughtfully into the distance. The high was probably increasing in intensity now, though Sasha didn’t have much patience to wait. She’d done as much as she needed to, anyway.

“Baby,” she said to Eric, “are you done?”

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