Page 14 of Unspoken

LOGAN

I lock the door behind me as I step out of my apartment the following morning. Day one of babysitting Alexander Solovey went well, considering all his theatrics. Hopefully, he’ll get tired of this nonsense soon. And if not, it’s a game two can play.

A memory of my conversation with Ivan resurfaces the day I was officially hired, where he explained in his limited, broken English that I had the authority to take any actions necessary to protect Alexander. And protect my own job.

Basically, Vlad didn’t want to look for another bodyguard.

Okay, message received.

All these thoughts are swirling through my mind as I take the elevator down. In the lobby, my mailbox protests with a screech as I wrench it open. I remind myself to ask the management to check the lock. Among the usual junk, there's one envelope that feels like a brick in my hands. My name stares back at me in clinical black ink.

Not now, I think, pocketing the letter. I push through the front door, the morning sun failing to warm the chill in my bones.

The car greets me with the faint smell of leather and stale coffee, remnants of yesterdays stacked upon each other. Beforethe engine's hum fills the space, silence hangs heavy, pregnant with the dread of what I'm about to see. My fingers hesitate, then tear into the envelope. Another bill from the hospital, its figures glaring at me like an accusation.

I draw a deep breath. The paper crumples under the pressure of my grip while I sit there with the anger simmering beneath my skin. This anger—it’s a familiar companion. It’s been there ever since I stopped being a cop.

And this bill is chaining me to a job that involves babysitting a grown man with the impulse control of a thirteen-year-old child.

The drive is a blur, the city passing by in shades of gray, as if the world has lost its ability to surprise me. I pull up to Vlad's fortress of a home, steeling myself for the onslaught of juvenile disobedience that awaits.

Let’s see what Alexander will try to pull off today.

Then I remind myself that this job isn't about him. It's about survival. It's about the hospital's halls, the IV drips, and the quiet sobs that echo in the night. About my mother’s life I’m trying to hold on to so badly.

I need this gig. I need the money. Even if it means enduring the little shit that is Vlad's brother, with his green eyes that challenge and his blond hair that seems to mock the very notion of order.

Inside, as I enter the main space I struggle to call the family room, Vlad greets me with a nod. He is back from a trip he apparently took yesterday. He’s in a suit, not a single hair out of order. Unlike his younger sibling. His voice is a distant murmurinto the phone. "Hold on a second," he commands the unseen caller.

He turns to me, eyes sharp, words clipped. "Sasha wants to get out of the house. Mall or something like that."

"Understood." It's all I offer, my response automatic, honed by necessity.

"Be careful," Vlad adds. The concern that flickers across his face for a second is not for me but for the liability I'll be guarding.

I tip my chin, quickly absorbing the instruction, acknowledging the potential danger outside these walls.

"He's upstairs. Getting ready. Take the Navigator. Ivan has the keys." Vlad's attention is already snatched back to his call, and I am dismissed, left to traverse the maze of corridors that lead to Sasha's bedroom.

His door is the last one on the left. I’ve never been inside but I had to learn the layout of the place just in case. Thanks, Ivan, for the blueprints of the property.

I stop in front of the room. There’s music blasting inside.

Not just any genre but classic rock. That reminds me of his Black Sabbath and Sex Pistols display of insolence. I’m surprised Alexander Solovey—who is Gen Z through and through—favors the real musicians over the auto-tuned white noise they call music these days.

Immediately, this triggers my nostalgia.

I was weaned on The Stones and Zeppelin, their timeless riffs and lyrics entwined with fond memories of my father's car rides and family gatherings.

I shake myself from this grip of unnecessary reminiscence before it starts to choke me.

My knock is both question and intrusion, met with a brusque "Yeah."

I push the door open and take in the view unveiling in front of me.

The room is chaos, clothing strewn across furniture like casualties of a fashion show. And there he is, Alexander, half-dressed in a pair of ripped jeans. Lean muscles on his back shift under pale skin as he pulls a T-shirt over his head down his torso—an image of careless strength that hooks into my gaze, unbidden and unwelcome.

I blink away the distraction as he turns to me, irritation lining his features like cracks in porcelain. "I need new shit. This place is like Satan's arse. Too hot."

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