Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
The silence between us stretches heavily. He’s a single father now, and it’s still so recent. He’s barely had the time to process the death of his wife, and still he shows up to work without complaint. Like his life hasn’t been turned inside out. He has always been a stubborn one, but the stubbornness has sharpened since his wife’s death. Pain has a way of doing that.
He shifts, running a hand over his beard. “It’s been fine,” he says at last. “We’re both just tired. She hasn’t been sleeping well. I think she’s having nightmares, but I can’t tell. She lies awake most nights staring at the ceiling. Some mornings she won’t even look at me.”
He doesn’t like admitting weakness, not even to me. Especially not to me. But he says it anyway, as if the words have been waiting to escape.
I lower myself into the chair opposite him and study the depth of exhaustion etched into his face.
“It’s been rough on you since Lena’s death,” I say. “Anyone can see that.”
He looks away, his jaw tightening. He presses the ice pack back to his temple as if hiding behind it.
“Anya is a child,” I continue. “She needs rest. And so do you.”
He shakes his head. “I’m getting by just fine.”
I reach forward and press the intercom button on my desk. My assistant answers immediately, her voice crisp and professional.
“Yes, Mr. Volkov?”
“Send a night nanny to Davýd’s house by seven this evening,” I say.
Davýd groans quietly and drops his head into his hand.
“Of course,” my assistant says. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Good,” I answer, then release the button.
Davýd pushes himself to his feet as if ready to argue, but the moment he meets my eyes he stops. He’s known me since we were boys. He knows exactly what that look means. It says I’m done discussing it.
“Samuil,” he says. “It’s too much. I don’t need all this help. I can handle Anya on my own.”
“You’re already handling everything else,” I say. “Let someone else take care of her bedtime. At least this once.”
He opens his mouth, searching for words that won’t offend me. Apparently, he finds nothing that works, so instead, he stays quiet.
“This isn’t about pride,” I say. “She deserves some normalcy and stability. So do you. Accept that this is happening. It’s all I can offer you. It’s the least I can offer you.”
He lets out a breath, long and defeated, and sinks back into the chair. He holds the ice pack more gently now, no longer pretending he doesn’t need it. He closes his good eye and leans his head against the back of the chair.
“You don’t have to carry every burden alone,” I tell him. “Not as long as I’m around. This is what brotherhood is all about.”
“All right,” he murmurs. “All right. Send the nanny.”
I lean back in my own chair. The leather creaks softly beneath me. For a moment the room feels quieter, almost peaceful, though peace isn’t something that visits us often.
“How is she doing?” I ask after a moment.
His eyes remain closed.
“She’s completely silent,” he says. “She hasn’t spoken a word to me in months. Not since the night her mother… not since then. The doctors say it’s trauma, but no one knows how to reach her.”
As long as I live, I’ll never forget the image of the small girl staring up at me with wide, terrified eyes as her mother’s blood soaked the pavement. I push it away. Some things are too difficult to dwell on.
“She’s young,” I say. “Children are resilient. She’ll get through this and be okay.”
He lets out a broken sound, perhaps a sob or a scoff of disbelief.
“I hope you’re right,” he says quietly. “I feel like I’m failing her. I don’t know how to get her through this. I’m barely getting through it myself.”
“Keep showing up for her,” I tell him. “Show her that you’re not going anywhere. She knows how much you love her. She’ll come around.”
He takes a long breath, gathering himself, then opens his eyes and looks at me again.
“And what about you?” he asks. “How are you doing?”
I almost laugh. What are my troubles compared to the loss of a wife and mother?
“I’m fine,” I answer with a casual shrug.
“You say that,” he says. “But every time someone comes after you, I see it in your face. You’re getting tired of this.”
“I’m not tired,” I lie. “I’m just focused.”
He studies me silently, then nods once. He knows better than to argue.
“Go home,” I tell him. “Keep ice on that eye. Let the nanny put Anya to bed. And be ready for my call.”
He stands slowly, careful of his ribs, careful of the swelling above his eye. He hesitates before speaking again.
“They’re not going to stop coming for you until you’re dead,” he says.