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Most people were like reeds. This, Nikolai knew. Most people would bend whichever way the wind blew them.
Kirill was one such person. Nikolai had known from the moment they met.
There was no shame in it. Not everyone could be as strong as the wind, gusting over hill and plain to lay low everything before them. Not everyone could be so powerful. Those who are not powerful must bend to those who are. If a reed cannot bend it will surely break.
Nikolai had seen it clearly. Kirill was a reed, and his father was the wind ā a great Eastern gale that flattened whole towns, great cities, strong captains and cunning foot soldiers. Frightened boys didn't stand a chance, not even when they grew into angry men. Kirill had been bent to his father's will since the day he could stand up on his own feet.
This, Nikolai knew from his very first day as the Vory V Zakone's driver.
***
"The son will be a problem," said Yuri, as he flicked his cigarette against the wall of the rooftop rail. This, so soon after everything had fallen into place. Even the babe was safe. Nikolai was beginning to think Yuri had no faith in him.
"He will be no problem," replied Nikolai evenly.
Yuri regarded him coolly. "He is true Vory V Zakone, and his father's son. Even if he accedes leadership to you, he will never help us. He will turn against you once he discovers your true plan."
Nikolai looked down onto the city street. He knew the truth when he heard it, and he knew that it was useless to dismiss or turn his back on the truth for blind hope's sake. The nature of the Vory V Zakone was to defy legal authority until the very end of life itself.
Still. He knew Kirill. And he knew himself. He knew that he had the power within him to shape reality into the truth he wanted it to be. Shape places, and events. Shape people.
"We'd like to send him away as well. There are a number of other charges we can lay against him, not the least being violation of parole," said Yuri.
"No," declared Nikolai firmly. "I need him." He gripped the rooftop railing and looked out over the cold, grey city. "I need his help to run Semyon's operation."
Yuri put his hand on Nikolai's shoulder. "You don't need him. There is no facet of his father's business you didn't know after your first month." He looked Nikolai in the eye. Removing his hand, the Scotland Yard detective took a step back. "There is nothing that that fool can teach you. You are making excuses."
Nikolai met his level gaze. "Yes, perhaps I am," he admitted. "But you must admit that it would go easier, to have Kirill with me. And Iā¦" Nikolai opened his mouth to say more, then decided carefully against this. He shook his head. "Give me one week."
***
Nikolai's heart had been rent in two by the sight of Kirill on that lonely dock. Kirill would have killed that baby girl if Nikolai hadn't been there. No matter the pain and the guilt, he would have done it. His father's will was law to him, and he was absolutely subject. Nikolai forgave him this, for it was Kirill's nature to obey. That night, he had proven that he would sooner obey the voice of reason and mercy.
Nikolai vowed that night that Kirill would never have to obey such an evil command again.
***
He found Kirill in his bedroom, the spout of a vodka bottle between his lips. Crouching down before the low chair in which Kirill was sprawled, Nikolai reached over to pry the bottle from Kirill's hands.
Kirill wouldn't meet his gaze. His eyes shifted hungrily from the vodka to Nikolai's chest, where the first touch of ink could be seen on his skin at the part of his shirt.
"The other Vory say you are taking my father's domain from me, and now you would take my drink as well?" accused Kirill. His words were still clear; the bottle was still almost full. Nikolai had chosen the time of this meeting well. He didn't want Kirill to be drunk now. Not for this.
"I wish to do you a service, Kirill, even if I do so by defying you." Standing up straight, Nikolai placed the vodka on the table, out of reach.
Kirill's hawkish features twisted in a brief spasm of anger. "My father has heard of what you did to his stables. Half the girls sent home, and the other half being paid more than whores are worth."
"The money, for us, is still being made," Nikolai pointed out calmly.
"That's not the point!" shouted Kirill. His hands gripped the armrests, but he didn't rise. The hot rage which bubbled to his surface must have been inherited from his mother, for it was none of Semyon's; the old man had nothing but cold, reptilian fury when he got angry at all. "And that is not the only thing he has heard."
Kirill closed his eyes in despair, and when he looked up he smiled the toothsome grin which he used as a mask. It even reached his eyes. Nikolai had often wondered where he had learned to do such a thing.
Kirill told him, "If it were any other man but you, I would kill him." He looked down and let his smile drop, revealing only sullen, weary sadness. "But I will not kill you, Nikolai. So let me drink." He gestured to the bottle and held out his hand, waiting for Nikolai to give it to him.
Instead, Nikolai picked up the vodka, walked slowly over to the window at the other end of the room, and poured it out onto the street below. As desperately as Kirill wanted the drink, Nikolai desperately wanted him to be clear for just one moment.
His jaw working slowly and his nostrils flared, Kirill glared at him. There was some of Semyon's cold rage.
"Your father was right to be angry with me," explained Nikolai. "I have plans."
"What plans?" Asked Kirill, his eyes flashing dangerously.
"I think you know."
Kirill rose. He grabbed Nikolai by the front of his shirt. Nikolai sometimes forgot that Kirill was taller than he. He practically loomed over Nikolai, his rage lending him the presence that his flippancy usually diminished. Kirill pulled him so close that Nikolai could smell him ā the vodka on his breath, the musk on his shirt, the distant scent of leather from the jacket he usually wore.
"You would replace my father? You would replace me?" His teeth and the whites of his eyes were showing, like a frightened animal. "My father, he would kill you, Nikolai."
Nikolai brought his hand up to touch Kirill's jaw. With his steady gaze he held Kirill still, and watched as the other man's anger slowly melted, leaving only haunted desire and despair.
"You are not your father, Kirill. And I could not replace you. Never."
With that word, Nikolai crossed the chasm between them. Their lips met. Nikolai pressed himself forward onto Kirill, and Kirill instinctively pressed back, hungrily and with his entire body.
Then Kirill tore himself away, shoving Nikolai off with both hands. He pulled back his fist to strike, but Nikolai caught his arm before the blow could land.
"Please, Kirill, stop. Do not fight me," Nikolai begged before Kirill could raise his other fist. Such was the desperation in his voice that Kirill stopped. Even Nikolai was surprised by the urgency of his own need, even though he knew that this was the moment he would either gain Kirill or lose him forever.
Naked fear in his eyes, Kirill pulled away from Nikolai's grip. "What is this? Is this some kind of joke? What do you think I am?" demanded Kirill. He looked so hurt and bewildered, and Nikolai wanted so very much to take him close and make him understand, but he could feel Kirill slipping away from him.
"You," answered Nikolai, "Are a man of great strength. And great desire." Gently, he approached Kirill. Taking him by shoulders, he drew him in and pressed their bodies together. Kirill lowered his eyes in shame even as he shuddered at the contact of his obvious need pressing against Nikolai's abdomen. Nikolai shifted his legs to make his own answering desire felt, and watched Kirill's surprise.
Leaning up, he spoke quietly in Kirill's ear. "I want you by my side, Kirill. Your father has told you that you are weak, but I am telling you that he is wrong. About many things. We will show him together. Please, stay with me."
Silenced by pain and confusion, Kirill gripped Nikolai's shoulders as Nikolai gently guided him towards the bed. He watched in shock as Nikolai knelt in front of him and slowly peeled away his defences to pay him sweet homage.
It would not be easy. With his mouth, and his hands, and his body, he sought to convince Kirill that so much he had been told in his youth was a lie. He would have to make Kirill unlearned it, and give in to the truth that he'd known all along, the desire that Nikolai had seen burning brightly in him from the very moment they met, shrouded though it was in shame.
Kirill was so battered and worn, caught as he was between two great wills. Nikolai feared he would break.
But in the end, Kirill found the strength to bend.