Page 25 of Silent Ties

“Piotr Zimin.”

The new comer takes me by surprise. His eyes are familiar, and they’re the warmest I’ve seen all night. Not jovial like Lev’s, but kinder if that’s possible. His shoulders sag inward like he’s used to making himself small, but everything else is confidence.

He nods at one of the men in the photo. A group of five look to be meeting in some sort of basement. “My father.”

“Oh.”

Thatmeans he’s. . .

“Dmitri,” he introduces himself. He’s also got a glass of alcohol but he’s casual in a zip-up hoodie and jeans, further distinguishing himself from his brother.

“Nice to meet you.”

Marissa’s mentioned him a few times in the past couple of months, but while I’m accustomed to the long-winded rants about Lev, any intel on Dmitri is sorely lacking.

His face is naturally creased, his lips tugging downward. But he’s neutral and quiet rather than sad when he speaks.

“Born in Moscow,” Dmitri explains about his father. “Came from nothing. I know because he liked to press upon us how good me and Lev had it.”

I’m beholden to his storytelling.

“No one took any notice of him for years. Until one day, five seconds after this photo was taken, he killed every single man in that huddle.”

I’m lucky I don’t drop the glass in my hand.

He meets my eye when he says, “It only works once that type of plan. No one expected it but afterwards, when he staked his claim and started to run things, then everyone expected it. Because they knew him to be capable.”

He doesn’t press me to speak and I think that’s what he wants. For me to listen rather than respond.

The next photo on the wall is in color, but it’s grainy and based on the clothes worn. It appears to be from the nineties.

Dmitri taps the glass over the photo. “Maks Petrov. My uncle. This guy was brilliant. In 1998, the cartel wanted to do more business. There were some disputes, though. So Maks decides we need a distraction. For weeks the cartel busies themselves with trying to figure out where a mole is coming from. And while they do that, we cut off their head.”

He’s the strategist.

Taking a sip of his liquor, his eyes never leave mine, waiting for my response.

“Do you know that game, capture the flag?”

He sips his drink, otherwise all ears.

“You know the game where there’s two teams and they’re trying to find each other’s flag.” I give a simplistic version in case he’s never played. “The teams do all these things, running around, hiding their own, coming up with strategies and tactics to get the other flag and win the game.”

He doesn’t rush me but I can hear him questioning where this is going.

“Do you ever wonder about the flag itself? After a while everyone gets bored, decides to go do something else and that bit of flag, whatever it is, that’s been passed around and torn apart all in the name of sportsmanship, gets left on the ground. Crumpled. Used.”

That’s me. If I was more eloquent I’d compare this all to a game of chess, but I know nothing about it. I don’t know the rules or why everyone loves it and quite frankly I think it’s pretentious.

That little strip of flag, that piece of fabric that nobody actually cares about, that’s me. I don’t care who wins or loses because it’s a stupid game. One in which, I will never win.

All because there’s some power on the line. This house wasn’t gifted to Lev Zimin. He bought it with cash from a wide-ranging operation that’s so sinister I don’t want to think about it.

Yet, here I am.

Dmitri’s eyes never darken or narrow like his nephew's. His face is blank, if not a little tired, but the stare drags on until the back of my neck pricks.

And then his eyes move down and for a split second, I swear it’s like he knows what burdens sit on my chest.

---