Chapter Text
The day Grigori Rozanov died, the world kept moving. It didn’t care that Ilya and Alexei Rozanov’s lives were falling apart. It didn’t care that his wife, Polina, hadn’t left her room in days, her wails echoing down the compound hallway like a banshee. No, Grigori died and the world kept spinning.
No one knows that he’s died yet. Ilya isn’t ready for the world to know. He’s not ready for the vultures to pick at his father’s corpse, to fend off the wolves currently circling him and Alexei. His funeral is small. Only a few most trusted friends and his family- what’s left of it.
Ilya snubs the cigarette out on the wall of the church. The black stain he leaves only makes him feel a little guilty. He’s hiding around the back, just for a moment, trying to escape Polina’s cries and the murderous stare of his brother. He hates funerals. Hates churches. But his father was a pious man - Russian through and through - and this is the last favour Ilya will ever have to grant him.
He laid in their home for three days, the rest of the time he spent in the funeral home. Ilya knows his father would have been apoplectic if he’d known but after day three Ilya couldn’t stand having him there anymore.
The house stank of decay. Everything did. Rot lingered in his nose no matter how much he tried. His father, usually layered professionally with a family of expensive scents, hadn’t been able to escape the smell all older people have. The smell of his own impending death.
Ilya flicks his lighter. The Harbour is cold this time of year; the icy air wafting from the sea front like a ghost. He’s bundled up in a long coat and his scarf. All black. His crucifix sits warmly against his sternum. The last reminder of his mother.
The door slams open and a red-faced Alexei appears. He’s dressed in black too. His torso-length coat is fastened tight and does nothing to hide the beer belly he’s developing. It’s funny that both of Grigori’s prodigal sons are things that he hated - one is fat, the other is a faggot.
“Are you going to piss about out here all day?” Alexei snaps, “we’re starting. Get the fuck inside.”
Ilya doesn’t dignify him with an answer. It’s time to bid farewell to their father.
The service after the funeral is in his father’s favourite restaurant. Ilya booked it immediately after his father’s death, it’s probably the last time Ilya will ever be here, but sometimes it feels more like home than the compound.
Ilya, Alexei, Polina and even fewer friends than were at the funeral sit around the long table his father liked to conduct meetings at. Even his funeral is a business deal. His place at the head is empty. His placemat has a single piece of black bread, his military awards and his police badge, and a glass of his favourite liquor.
Ilya knows he should feel something, but his heart is frustratingly empty. The murderous looks Alexei sends him, Polina’s sniffling, the hunger in his father’s associates eyes, the gentle touch on Ilya’s arm from Svetlana - none of it means anything. It hasn’t for a while.
The meal is his father’s favourite, gamey meat and sickeningly indulgent gravy, followed by the traditional small bites found at Orthodox funerals.
No one talks. The silence is only broken by the scraping of cutlery and the fucking incessant nose blowing from Polina. Ilya keeps his eyes trained on his plate, never daring to look up.
When he does, he catches Alexei’s stare. He has eyes like Grigori. Steel blue and cold, heavy lidded and filled with disdain. He wants to see Ilya.
Ilya decides he’d better not poke the bear. He excuses himself to Svetlana and stands, walking over to the cloakroom, Alexei’s footsteps are heavy behind him.
“Do you have the agenda for the meeting?” Ilya asks him.
“I’m not going.”
Ilya spins around, Alexei has the decency to look a little ashamed. Not enough though. He’s staring at Ilya defiantly with red rimmed eyes. He keeps sniffing and wiping his nose.
“What the fuck do you mean ‘you’re not going’?” Ilya snaps. “You’re the boss! Father left all of this to you!”
Alexei’s eyes shift to the doorway. “It’s been a hard day for Anya and Natasha, I need to think of my family-“
“Bullshit. Is family what you call the girls at Euphoria-?”
Alexei grabs Ilya’s shirt and slams him into the wall, knocking the breath from his lungs. He makes a shhh-ing gesture with his hand, trembling from rage, and points to the dining room.
His wife doesn’t know. Or if she does she keeps it very quiet. Anya is meek and quiet like a church mouse. Back when Ilya was younger, he made it a personal decision to sleep with his brother's girlfriends whenever he pissed Ilya off. After Alexei had beaten him badly, he tried Anya. Ilya got as far as meeting her before giving up. A year older, there was something childlike about her. Something disturbing about her downturned eyes and melancholy demeanour. It’s so hauntingly familiar.
Natasha is only a year old. Plump and beautiful, always smiling, time and loss have not touched her yet. Ilya prays it never will.
“What am I supposed to say, huh? Everyone is here, waiting to hear what you have planned for the future - our future, their future.” Ilya presses his thumbs into the joints of Alexei’s wrists and pulls himself from his brother's grasp.
Alexei stumbles back, clenching his hands at his sides. Ilya fixes his crumpled shirt without looking away from his brother.
Ilya waits for an answer, even though he knows the outcome. He hopes it will be different. Alexei had promised.
“Well, you’ve done such a good job the last few months since I took over father’s care,” Alexei says, clearing his throat and smoothing down his appearance. Ilya’s jaw clenches. “I’m sure you can manage one more meeting without me. I’ll be at the next one, I promise.”
He leaves Ilya behind, Ilya feels like he’s just been punched in the stomach. Dread crawls up his spine, a familiar feeling for Ilya. His ears ring. What the hell is he going to do? He’d planned the funeral because Alexei was going to plan the meeting afterwards.
He feels embarrassed that he ever put any trust into his brother. Ilya peeks his head around the doorframe. The dinner has ended, his father’s associates are fidgeting with their drinks, glancing at their watches, and at Alexei. Svetlana, the daughter of a fellow Russian gang leader, is trying to placate them, making idle conversation to keep the atmosphere light.
Ilya ignores the dull ache in his head and pulls out his phone. He finds the information he gathered from the meetings he led on his father’s behalf. Notes on expectations, deals, member’s names, all written down for Alexei to read over and plan with.
Ilya slips out into the foyer, closing the door quietly behind him. He rushes to reception and asks for a pen and some paper. Then, he gets to work.
The first time Grigori hits Ilya, he’s five years old. Ilya is crying over something. So inconsequential that years later, despite how often he thinks of this event, he can’t remember the inciting incident. His father slappedhim across the face, whipping his head sideways, the force shocking him like he’s been soaked in ice water.
His mother cried out, immediately gathering little Ilya into her arms.
“Grigori!” She cried, shielding Ilya from him.
His father’s face curled into a sneer that Ilya still hasn’t forgotten.
“I hate crying.” Is all he said. Alexei is seven, his hands grip the doorway to their living room tightly. He doesn’t dare come in lest his father see him.
“He is a child, Grigori, he doesn’t know any better.” Irina pleaded, pressing Ilya’s face into her body. “You cannot just hit him because he does something you don’t like.”
“It worked, didn't it?” Irina looked down. Ilya had stopped crying. Ilya is blinking hard, his little mind still trying to comprehend what has happened. All the tears have dried, a bright red mark marred his face, the perfect shape of his father’s hand.
“My boys are going to stand by my side as I rule my empire. I cannot have them snivelling at the slightest inconvenience.”
Irina pulled Ilya closer, “They will not stand by you, not if it means you beating them senseless.”
Grigori left, ignoring Alexei and not giving his wife and youngest son a backwards glance. Irina’s gentle fingers flutter over Ilya’s face, tears streaming from her eyes. She traces the throbbing outline of Grigori’s hand and apologises over and over, though Ilya isn’t quite sure why.
“You can cry, Ilushka, it’s okay, you can cry.” She said.
The tears are there, Ilya can feel them burning his eyes, but no matter how he tries, he can’t get them to fall.
Despite everything, the meeting goes okay. Grigori’s colleagues are surprisingly forgiving about Ilya’s surprise takeover, but he’s been running this in his father’s stead since his diagnosis so maybe they were expecting him to just continue.
The problem is the Rozanov empire has lost its biggest asset. Grigori’s position as chief of police was essential to building his reputation. He had everybody at his funeral in his pocket, and now, Ilya’s bargaining chip is dead and rotting underground.
He is their second best option.
Ilya knows the Rozanov business inside and out, he knows the game they're playing. Maybe he’s not the chief of police, but he’s not an idiot, and neither are the men he deals with. He is Grigori Rozanov’s son, and they know it.
Doesn’t mean they won’t push their luck though.
Ilya tried to make the meeting as respectful as possible. It’s just a formality, and a thanks for attending the funeral, but despite his status he can feel his grip slipping. They want more freedom, more money, more territory.
One man, Foster, wants Ilya’s service, to get rid of someone - something he hasn’t offered in many years. They are pushing him, learning what they can get away with, like petulant children.
The seat at the head of the table feels more like the electric chair.
He’s satiated them for now, but how much longer can he keep them in line? His father used blackmail and bribery, Ilya can only use violence. Beaten dogs who are loyal through fear aren’t loyal at all, that much he knows
He checks his phone. Alexei has sent him a text that he’s taking his family home. The money that friends of his father have collected at work finally went into their accounts. Ilya wants to give it away. In reality he knows he’ll put it aside just in case. It’s not a lot, but it’s earnest money from his father’s actual, unsuspecting, work colleagues. It’ll do to keep someone quiet, at least until Ilya has to shut them up permanently himself.
The meeting room is empty, the decor is the same as the dining room they all ate in, just across the hall. Everyone has left, Ilya remains sitting in his father’s chair.
The static still hasn’t stopped. It feels like the meeting never happened at all, even with the notes Ilya has made on his restaurant themed notepad from reception and the warmth of vodka sitting in his belly.
He looks down. It’s strange to think that his father sat here, in this chair. Blood red fabric and black wood, just old enough to be cool and vintage rather than gaudy. Its seat has been repaired more times than Ilya can count, the last time was a courtesy from their designer, a symbolic gesture, replacing the seat for the new head to take his place.
It should have been Alexei.
Slowly, Ilya’s left arm begins to expand. His fingers swell around rings he doesn’t remember putting on. Emerald and sapphire and ruby, shiny and gold and suffocating. Ilya’s breath comes in quick bursts. He grips the chair, whatever hand is fused to his body doesn’t work, it flexes but he doesn’t feel a thing.
With horror he realises it’s his father’s hand.
He jumps to his feet, chest heaving, the edge of the table in a vice grip. He can’t ground himself. Can’t help the feeling of turning into his father.
Ilya grabs his things and stalks out the room. He heads downstairs to the employee parking lot out the back, he doesn’t think that he’s allowed here. The parking lot is half full with beaten up cars.
Ilya lights his cigarette and inhales, letting the smoke fill his lungs. It doesn’t feel as good as it used to but it’ll do for now. Smoking is the only thing that quiets the noise in his brain. It’s a literal mental reset.
For a brief moment, nothing matters. The chill of the brick wall against his thin shirt fades into a dull ache, the sharp edges do a better job of grounding him than his breathing exercises do. The pain reminds him that he’s still alive.
Ilya takes another puff only to realise that his cigarette has gone out. Fuck, how long had he been out here? He relights it, the freezing night air makes it hard for the flame to catch.
“I don’t think you can smoke here.”
Ilya doesn’t startle, but he is a little surprised he didn’t hear the voice’s owner approaching. He glances up. The man is standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a long coat like Ilya’s, unclasped so that Ilya gets a full view of his dress shirt which is buttoned right up to his neck.
His slacks are well fitted but fraying at the seams, well loved but beginning to show signs of wear.
Ilya drags his gaze up and down the man who is staring at him expectantly.
“Okay.” He replies, because what else is he meant to say to that? It feels strange, being chided, it makes Ilya feel like a child again. His eyes slide over to the very clear NO SMOKING sign that is next to the man. Ilya looks back at him and very deliberately takes a long, slow, drag of his cigarette. The man’s throat bobs.
“Uh. I'm Shane. Shane Hollander.” He says, holding out his hand to Ilya.
More perplexed than anything, Ilya takes it. He glances at the man, Shane Hollander, from head to toe fully allowing himself to see him. He’s Asian, only just shorter than Ilya is. Shane has a ridiculous haircut. Short, straight, and black with weird spiky bangs that make Ilya want to ask him if he cut his hair himself.
It’s not unusual to be propositioned at any and all hours, but it is unusual to be propositioned by the human equivalent of a kitten.
Then Ilya realises that Shane is waiting for his name. That raises his heckles. Is he waiting for confirmation of identity? Most unassuming assassin Ilya’s ever seen if so. He’s kind of impressed.
His gun is in its holster around his waist. He doesn’t feel like drawing it. He could. He has before. Many times. Under more stress than this. Hollander has both of his hands in view, unguarded.
But Ilya doesn’t want to. Maybe, if Shane does him the favour of killing him now, he’ll get some good sleep.
“Ilya Rozanov.” He replies, shaking Shane’s hand once.
His fingers burn when Shane lets go.
“Oh, cool. We, uh, we’re in the same business.” Shane stresses the word ‘business’ like he’s being discreet.
Being in business as long as Ilya has, this sense of newness is rare and mostly unwelcome. But there’s something so earnest about Shane Hollander- all tailored and freckled.
Ilya doesn’t want to see him be eaten. Or maybe he does. Just to watch that innocence be churned between teeth.
Ilya raises his eyebrows and nods. “Cool.”
Shane looks like he’s burning to say something else. Whatever it is, he doesn’t explain. It’s amazing how easy he is to read.
“Cool. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” He says, raising his hand goodbye. “See you around. Enjoy your night.”
“Goodbye, Hollander.” Ilya replies, voice weirdly soft.
“Shane gives him a small smile before walking away. He vanishes into the night quickly. Ilya spends another few minutes finishing his cigarette and trying not to think of Shane.
As he stubs out the smoldering remains he realises that Shane never asked about Alexei or his father. He doesn’t know what that means, if it means anything at all. Something about Hollander has thrown him for a loop.
Before he can spiral, Ilya heads back inside and decides to phone Svetlana.
The second time his father beats him, Ilya is thirteen.
His mother had been dead for a year. Ilya thinks he died with her. The world tilted 90° when he found her surrounded by pills and he’s never been able to set it right.
Ilya spent his days by his father’s side. Alexei had changed too. He’s violent still, but his father had managed to tame him only slightly. They shared a room now. It’s more like a dormitory than anything else. His own private space, filled to the brim with memories, has been sterilised beyond recognition. Ilya can never go back.
Ilya saw the scars when Alexei was changing. Small circles and long, straight lines down the length of his back. Alexei knows the cost of his disobedience. He doesn’t bark anymore.
It is a nightmare being his father’s favourite son.
Ilya got all of the perks and all of the ire. His father has given up on Alexei, for whatever reason, he beats his first born into submission and decides that that will do.
Ilya is different. He doesn’t know why, and that scares him.
By his father’s side, he met boys his age from other groups. One boy, Sasha, was almost exactly his age. He was off putting, like a haunted toy, big, empty doll eyes and lanky limbs. Sasha had a thousand yard stare at all times, never focusing on anything. It unnerved Ilya to his core.
“My father has me kill dogs as practice,” he said, one day, totally out of the blue. His eyes snapped to Ilya’s face, suddenly piercing. “Does your father not make you do that?”
He didn’t. Ilya, with an unusual manner of confidence, asked his father why.
Grigori didn’t even look at him. “Why waste the energy?”
Ilya realised that his father doesn’t even acknowledge dogs, or anything that isn’t of relevance to him and his small life. His circle consists of Ilya, Alexei, and some of his colleagues. Ilya wonders if his father even considers dogs alive. They’re so beneath him that he doesn’t even notice they exist.
Then, he gave Ilya his first assignment.
He and Alexei are to accompany him to a very important meeting. His father told him exactly where he wants his boys, either side of him. Ilya was thirteen, and not exactly someone who struck fear into anyone, but his father wanted him there anyway.
He led Ilya and Alexei into one of their “training” rooms - white, windowless, with a small cupboard in one corner of the room. He locked the door.
“You will stand straight with your hands behind your back,” Grigori told them, going for a cane from the cupboard. Ilya’s throat is dry.
“You will stand like this until I am satisfied. You will not move.”
Grigori guided them both into their stances. Arms bent, hands clasped behind their backs, knees a shoulder width apart, posture straight and their gaze focused directly ahead. Ilya imagined that the pair look how Ilya feels - entirely inadequate, impostors.
Grigori circled them. Exhaustion seeped into his body quickly, like sand. He sagged, so slightly that the common man wouldn’t even notice.
Grigori does. The cane hit Ilya’s back with a loud crack that echoed off the walls, the breath is knocked from his lungs and he gasped for breath. The pain radiated up his back spreading like wildfire.
“Don’t move.” Grigori seethed, allowing Ilya a moment to get back into position.
The rest of their time flowed like molasses. In this room, Ilya couldn’t figure out how long has passed. It feels like seconds and years and an eternity.
He struck Alexei across the stomach for breathing too noticeably. He struck Ilya again for dropping his eyes to the floor. He struck them both for flinching at the snap of the cane.
Ilya fell into a weird space between consciousness and awareness. His mind wandered, being pulled back by the occasional hit from his father. He dropped into a weird headspace where everything is fuzzy, he watches himself transform into the man his father wants him to be. Ilya is entirely out of his mind.
Like a ghost, he watched himself relax at his father’s request, only to snap back to attention. He doesn’t feel the pain of his father hitting him anymore.
Grigori gets the boys to walk around the room, getting them into position at random. Every time they fail, they are struck.
It’s strange, feeling so floaty, watching his body like a tv show. There was a sense of panic at the situation curdling in his belly, but Ilya was too numb to worry about it.
Eventually they are released, Grigori is happy with their progress, they are worthy to stand by his side at this meeting.
Ilya blinked and he was in the shower. The welts on his back, thighs, stomach and arms burn under the water.
He blinked again and he was in bed. He still couldn’t feel his hands. Across the room, Alexei was staring at the ceiling, highlighted by the moon shining into their room.
Ilya tried to sleep but his back is too sore. So he mirrors Alexei. The ceiling is uninteresting. Ilya wanted to cry. But his eyes wouldn’t water. He wondered if he’ll die during the night. His injuries weren’t that extensive. But he wonders anyway. Somewhere that wonder mutates into ‘hoping’.
The uncaring sun rose for him regardless.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Ilya can barely hear Alexei over the thumping bass of whatever club he’s in. It’s 8pm, and Alexei is supposed to be holding the next meeting. The meeting that started half an hour ago.
For a brief moment before Alexei decided to pick up, Ilya wondered if someone had finally followed through on the threat of putting him down. No such luck.
“I am busy, Ilya. I’m making connections. Future business deals.” There’s an eruption of giggles from a girl so close to Alexei that Ilya can hear her through the phone.
Ilya wants to rip his fucking hair out. “What about the current business deal, huh? This is fucking important Alexei!” He tries to collect himself, barely managing to contain his rage. “We’re announcing father’s death tonight. Officially. This is important.”
It is. The Rozanov name is slipping quickly. No thanks to Alexei who has spent an extortionate amount on designer coke in the last week alone. The worst part is that people talk. The amount of sympathetic looks people - members of the Rozanov gang, friends, colleagues - give Ilya is sickening. All this slippage and they don’t even know the bastards dead yet.
“If it’s so fucking important why aren’t you in there already?” Alexei snaps.
Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose until it aches. Because I don’t want to be in there. Because I hoped you were dead so I could cancel it.
“You are the fucking leader now,” Ilya grits out, enunciating every word, “this shit stopped being my responsibility when father died.”
“His will said that you were to assume responsibility if I was indisposed. I am currently indisposed.”
Ilya bears his teeth even though Alexei can’t see him. “How is Anya?”
The shift in the air is palpable. “Do not fucking mention her name. Get your fucking ass in there and run that meeting. Don’t fuck this up for me.”
“Suck my dick Alexei.” Ilya snaps.
“Faggot.” Alexei says, then cuts the line. It takes Ilya every millimeter of self restraint not to hurl his phone across the room.
He paces back and forward, hands clutching his hair. The word FUCK blares in his head, bright neon red across his mind. He can’t think of anything else, panic and frustration cloying his neurons.
Forcing himself to focus is painful, it makes the scars that lay across his back throb. He pushes through the panic like he’s pushing his body through a tight hole. Like spelunking, the walls around him threaten to hold him there.
When he makes it to the other side, he doesn’t feel any better, but he is more focused.
Ilya straightens and returns to the meeting room. The air is awkward and charged, these high profile men not used to being left hanging.
Ilya smiles placidly, “My apologies. I was trying to locate my brother, he is unable to join us tonight.”
Those pitying looks follow him around the room. He sits in his chair - Alexei’s chair, actually - and takes in everyone. They may feel sorry for him, but they’re not going to give him any leverage, no space to breathe, no room to make mistakes.
Everyone Ilya looks at is someone he knows. Except for two that he hadn’t noticed at first glance, sat directly across from him. One is a very baby faced man with fluffy hair and a death stare that reminds Ilya of a child having a tantrum.
The other man is Shane Hollander.
If the surprise that rocks Ilya shows on his face, he’s not aware of it. Shane is sitting poker straight with a notebook laying on the table in front of him. His eyes are fixed on Ilya, boring into his soul, his expression both blank and insanely intense.
Ilya breaks their connection apart, sweeping his gaze around the room once more.
“Shall we begin?”
Two hours, a few tense conversations later, and the meeting was over. Ilya smiled and smiled and smiled. It hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped. The east part of the Harbour, led by a man named Sutherland, had been worried about a new gang looking to encroach on their territory. They’d wanted more money for weapons. To send a message.
Ilya couldn't say no. He’d wanted to, but the other men were looking at him like wolves, waiting to see his next move. He’d tried bringing up the trafficking charges that his father had got Sutherland out of, but he’d just laughed.
“Grigori is dead. You cannot hold that over us forever.”
Ilya held his head in his hands, alone in the meeting room. It was a strange feeling - to be both revered and ridiculed. People feared him for his physical prowess and for rumours of things he’d done years before at his fathers request. But now people were beginning to see him, the real him. They clearly didn't like what they saw.
His whole body ached, from his fingertips to the soles of his feet. Exhaustion seeped into his bones, but he couldn’t sleep, not yet. He texted Svetlana asking if she was free, then put his phone back in his pocket and tried to even out his breathing.
There was a deep, cold throb in his chest that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he tried to calm himself down. But Ilya was calm. Horrifyingly so. He felt like a puppet, someone else moving his limbs for him.
A force pulled him up out of his chair and dragged him round the table. The group had made a mess, paper torn out of their diaries littered the table. His father would have executed them for the sheer disrespect, but Ilya couldn't muster the strength.
It felt freeing to be his own person, like having cobwebs blown off of his body. The world, which Ilya had never experienced without his father, was bright and new and exciting. He could sleep in, he could sleep around, Alexei certainly was.
So why did it seem so empty?
Ilya wandered over to the window, letting the shreds of paper fall onto the floor. It gave him a good view of the city, three floors was just high enough to show Ilya the skyline of the city he owned. He didn’t reach out and grasp the image, he wasn’t as dramatic as that, but he did find himself hopelessly lost in the landscape.
The more he looked, the tinier he felt. How had his father done it? How had he managed to keep every person in this city under his thumb?
Ilya’s back throbbed. He knew how, deep down. He knew he was destined to do the same, to earn his father’s legacy and keep the harbour under an iron fist. But sometimes, when he raised his voice, sometimes when he slammed his hands on the table and demanded blood, he saw his mother’s soft, beaten face staring at his father in horror.
Ilya felt like there were two souls in his body fighting for control, one bloodthirsty and savage like his father had wanted, the other was gentle and kind and everything his mother had tried to keep him as. It was suffocating, exhausting to switch between the two.
Ilya never knew how to quieten his violent side's disapproval when he was kind. He never knew how to not be frightened of his own ruthlessness. A singular question haunted his every waking moment - which was the real him?
He swore quietly and turned to the table. Ilya left the scraps of paper lying on the floor, it was a problem for his later self. He swept everything onto the floor, stopping only when he got to Hollander’s seat. There was something on it, a piece of paper, folded neatly rather than torn.
Curious, Ilya picked it up and unfolded it.
Written in stilted capitals was a message, signed by Shane.
‘I HAVE A PROPOSITION. SHANE.’
Below it was the address to his office, Ilya assumed, as well as a date and time. It was dated a week from then, at 8pm. Ilya stared at it, feeling everything and nothing.
Wordlessly he put the slip of paper in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Svetlana had texted him back with a reservation for his favourite restaurant. God he loved her. He left, closing the door behind him, Hollander’s note sitting like rocks in his trousers.
“How are you?” Svetlana asks him over dinner. The best and worst thing about going out with her is that Ilya is constantly the centre of attention.
Svetlana Vetrova is a beautiful woman, dark hair, darker eyes, and beautiful bronze skin. Her father is probably the only man that Grigori actually considered a friend, and so Svetlana is the only person Ilya’s father never had (much of) a problem with.
Ilya loves her. Sveta is smart as a whip and unable to stand Ilya’s bullshit. She was an only child, and Ilya marvels at the person she could have become. Rich, beautiful, untouchable, she could have been a monster - but Sveta is the kindest person he knows.
“Fine,” he replies, shovelling salmon into his mouth as gracefully as he can while starving. “And you?”
Sveta rolls her eyes. She’s having soup. “Your father just died and you’re asking about me?”
Ilya shrugs. “Fine,” she continues, “Is Alexei behaving?”
Ilya fixes her with a look so venomous it could kill. “I will take that as a no.”
“What did you expect, Sveta?” Ilya snaps. She doesn’t flinch, she simply raises a perfectly formed eyebrow. She knows who he’s really talking to. “The man’s useless. All he wants is drugs and women, and I have to provide that for him, apparently.”
“So don’t.” Sveta replies, daintily eating her soup. “Let him drown, god knows he deserves it.”
“I can’t. Anya and Natasha rely on him. I can’t leave them behind.” He rubs his temples, praying for the dull ache behind his eyes to vanish.
Sveta takes his free hand, her eyes filled with worry and fondness. “You’re a good man, Ilyushka. Too good for our world. I would take you away if I could.”
Ilya smiles, sadder than he means to. “Where would we go?”
“Maybe not Russia.” She says, ordering two portions of tiramisu as the waiter clears their plates. “Maybe…the Maldives? You would look good in a Speedo.”
“If it was just the two of us I wouldn’t have to wear anything at all.”
Sveta snorts. “There's only so much of your dick that I can handle.”
“Mm, then that is a problem for you to deal with. You are not alone though, there are not many people that can handle this.” Ilya gestures to all of him, relishing in the way that Sveta laughs, her whole head flung backwards.
They eat their desserts. It's been an age since Ilya has eaten something this sweet. His father, a child of the Soviet Union and the poverty that came with it, had never allowed his sons to indulge as he had. He'd justified his vices by telling Ilya and Alexei that since they hadn't suffered as he had, they had no right to these treats. Since his decline Alexei had gone in the complete opposite direction, Ilya couldn't blame him.
“Have you made any progress with…?” Sveta asks, trailing off mid sentence and not looking him in the eye.
Ilya tensed. “No, not yet. I wanted to work while Alexei ran things but as you can see, that has not happened.”
“Do you think it's a good idea?” Her voice is gentle. Ilya knew the look in her eye well. She was worried about him, she thought he was getting himself into something too deep, going under quickly.
Ilya stabs his tiramisu. “Yes. I need to do this.” He looks up, “Please, don't ask me about this again.”
Her face hardens. She definitely thought he was being an idiot. “Fine. Your choice.”
The ‘don't come crying’ went unsaid, lingering in the air.
McGuire's bar was a well known spot in the harbour area. It sat on a street corner surrounded by flashier establishments, but was well known by the locals to be the better of the group. Ilya liked it because it was small, served really nice cocktails, and was one of his father's haunts. It wasn't the place people would go to find Grigori which is why Ilya thought it would be best to start his work here. Either it would be a lead or a sharp dead end. He wasn't sure what he wanted more.
The building is unassuming. Two stories, the ground floor is the bar, the upper room - from the outside - appears to be too small to be anything but storage. Ilya steps inside, taking off his long coat and hanging it up. McGuire's is an Irish bar, so its interior was supposed to be reminiscent of a traditional bar in Ireland, cosy and warm. Whether it was authentic or not, Ilya didn't know, he hadn't been anywhere other than Canada and Russia.
He sits at the bar, solid oak, deep brown and shining under the dim lights, and orders his usual Irish coffee. There are two people sat at tables, facing away from the bar and chatting quietly. It's McGuire himself behind the bar today. He's a tall gentleman, six foot five inches with slicked back black hair and pale skin, despite his name he is distinctly Canadian sounding.
“Hey, Rozanov! Sorry my head’s in the clouds. How are ya?”
“Good, thank you.” Ilya replies. He speaks Russian with Sveta and Alexei, and despite his English being proficient, he always hates how awkward the sounds are in his mouth. It feels like he's chewing on the words and spitting out the remains, hoping they're recognisable enough for people to understand him.
McGuire's face morphs into pity. Ilya presses his lips together. “I heard about your father. I'm sorry. Nothing more to say, really.”
He slides Ilya's drink across to him. Ilya takes it with a short thanks. “I appreciate gesture. It was not unexpected.”
McGuire begins to polish some glasses. The coffee and liquor is sweet on Ilya's tongue.
“Still, it's always tough when a parent dies. I always liked that five stages of grief thing.” He appears to be talking mostly to himself now. Ilya wonders if he would say the same things if he'd had a parent like Grigori.
“-and then acceptance. Real fascinating stuff. If I'd had the smarts and funds I'd have gone to college-”
Ilya slams back the last of his drink and sets the glass down with a little more force than he'd meant.
“I actually come here with two reasons. One is for delicious coffee, so first thing is done. Second is for information.” Ilya leans forward, his half buttoned shirt tucked into his pants, his crucifix hands centimetres above the bar. “You were very good to my father, McGuire. I hope you can help me too.”
McGuire preens. It's almost embarrassing how easy it is to schmooze people. A few fancy words and they melt. Ilya grins, all teeth, no friendliness.
“I'll certainly do my best, Rozanov.” McGuire replies, though fake nonchalance.
“I want info on the assassination of Irina Rozanova.”
McGuire stills like Ilya has pressed pause on a video. Jackpot. The bartenders eyes flit between Ilya and the floor, perhaps waiting for Ilya to yell ‘psyche!’ or ‘just kidding!’, but no such luck. Excitement sneaks up Ilya's spine as he watches McGuire squirm. The thrill of the chase never got tiring. He traced his finger around the rim of his glass, when McGuire didn't fight back, Ilya pounced.
“You are quiet, McGuire. I thought you had ears everywhere.” Sweat began to bead along McGuire's brow. The blood rushes from his face, leaving him deathly pale. Another minute passes without any words exchanged. Impatient, Ilya leans in closer. “Let me share some information with you first. What is term? Quid quo pro?”
Ilya makes sure he meets McGuire's eyes. He wants the man to feel every inch of Ilya, he wants to make the man cower and squirm under his hand. He needs McGuire to know who's in charge here. “I know you have wife, and children. I know you have this beautiful bar - you are fourth generation, yes?”
Ilya leans fully across the bar, taking McGuire’s tie and using it to pull the terrified man closer, until their breaths mingle. “Would be shame if, I don't know, another type of cocktail was introduced here. Maybe molotov? Would definitely be shame for whoever lives in the apartments above.” McGuire's eyes widen impossibly, the veins stark red against white. “Whoever that might be.”
“H-How do you know…” His tongue flaps uselessly in his mouth, “...about the apartment?”
“You are not only person who has ears everywhere. It is bad idea to keep your possessions so close. It is worse idea to avoid my request.” Ilya slides his hand up McGuire's chest, squeezing the joint where his head meets his neck just hard enough to make a promise. “Now, again, I want information on the death of Irina Rozanova. Names, details, who ordered the hit on her.”
“Sh- She killed herself-” McGuire chokes out, “It was…an accident…”
Ilya tightens his grip. McGuire's pulse thuds against his thumb, every time he gulps his throat jumps against Ilya's palm. The gentle part of his soul screams at him, but Ilya is out for blood, for the greater good.
McGuire's eyes flick between Ilya and the two customers who are blissfully unaware of the fact their host is being strangled. With a shaky hand, he places the glass and cloth he was holding back onto the bar. McGuire's hands grip Ilya's wrist, begging him to stop. Ilya will, once he gets what he wants.
“Go on, tell them, make noise, see where that will get you.” Ilya spits, quickly running out of patience. “I am giving you good deal here. Easiest deal you will ever say yes to. I want information, nothing more. You know something about the murder of my mother.”
“I- I-” McGuire’s voice is raspy, “E-Ease- up and I- I’ll te…ll you everything I know.” His eyes squeeze shut, like he's already accepted that he's a dead man, and Ilya's heart throbs.
Ilya lets him go. As quietly as he can, McGuire gulps in air. Huge, body shaking breaths rock him. He grips the edge of the bar until his knuckles go white. Ilya looks down at his hand, the one that only a few seconds ago was gripping McGuire's neck the same way he's gripping the solid wood bartop. Nausea begins to roll over him in waves.
“I don-” McGuire coughs, rasping and spluttering. “I don't know much about it. Honestly. But I do -” He hacks, “I do remember your father sitting in here with someone. They were discussing a hit. About two weeks before Irina's…death.
“It looked like they- they were friends. Or, at least, knew each other. Maybe another leader. I don’t know I didn- didn't recognise him.” McGuire pauses to collect himself.
Part of Ilya burns, desperate to choke the information out of him. “He was average sized. White. Greying, means he's probably totally grey now. I think…they maybe mentioned his control o- of the western harbour are- area.”
Deep inside Ilya's chest, something twinged. It felt surreal, almost euphoric, to have a lead. Something, anything, A small part of Ilya had assumed he wouldn't get anywhere. That he would have to turn his search to the entire harbour and all the rats it hid in its shadows.
“He had a weird scar,” McGuire continues, “It was the shape of a cross on his left cheek. But that's it. That's all I remember.” His voice had turned pleading, desperation dripping from every word. It was equally heartbreaking and pathetic.
Ilya frowns, the euphoria dampened. It wasn’t much to go on. He couldn't remember a single person matching that description, certainly not in the western region. He'd have to do a bit more digging than he'd hoped. Still, it was better than nothing.
“Was that so hard?” He says, “If you had started with that we could have avoided the…inbetween.”
McGuire laughs harshly. “You forget, Rozanov, that I'm in business with a lot of people. If I say the wrong thing and they find out, it's not you I have to worry about molotoving my house. I rely on these connections. One wrong move and it all comes tumbling down on top of me.”
Ilya’s frown deepens. “Who are you afraid of?”
“Fuck off. You've depleted my good will for the evening.”
Ilya thinks about Alexei. For that remark, Alexei would probably kill him. That makes Ilya feel even sicker. He wants to get on his knees and apologise, beg for forgiveness, but nothing can be put back into Pandora's box. Ilya looks at his hand again, then at the faint bruises that are beginning to show on McGuire's neck.
He slaps a 100$ bill on the counter and stalks out, hoping he looks more self assured than he feels. On the walk home he replays their encounter over and over, looking for anything in the interaction that makes him human.
Inside he knows this is par for the course. Ilya's done a lot more in exchange for less, but it doesn't make him feel any better. He no longer has his father to blame for his violent tendencies.
He thought, hoped, dreamed, wished, begged, that once his father died things would be different. But McGuire's pulse echoes through his hand, the thrill of having a man's life in his hands leaves aftershocks that shake him to his very core.
Ilya's mind is so very loud. He fights with himself all the way home. In his nightmares, he is asked to choose between his parents, his mother begging him to come to her while his father threatens to kill him if he does.
When Ilya wakes, he is no better rested, his mother's pleas reverberate in his ears for the rest of the day.
Casey McGuire watches Ilya Rozanov stride out of the bar. His throat aches, but what hurts more is his bruised pride, and his reputation. McGuire is only forty, old enough to remember when Ilya Rozanov was a babe being dragged around by his father.
He knew the time would come eventually. Irina Rozanova's death was a shock, second only to a natural disaster. McGuire wonders if she even knew the extent of her reach. A small woman creating big waves. He's been in this industry for a long time, and, as corny as it is, violence is a great short term solution. Kindness lasts longer.
He sees it in Rozanov's conviction to avenge his mother, even though she's been dead over a decade, even though his father is still warm in his own grave.
The effects that Irina had still linger, and now her son is rising to awaken the dead. McGuire shivers. He wonders what will happen to him when Ilya knows the truth. He doesn’t want to think about it. Instead, he decides to move his girls out of the bar. They need more space, and McGuire needs them safe from Ilya's wrath if he decides to exact his vengeance on anyone - no matter how lightly they were involved. ‘If’ is the only word that keeps him together.
Truthfully, McGuire only knows how the story ended, not the inbetween. But Ilya has begun to shake things up faster and more violently than he'd expected.
“Who am I afraid of?” McGuire says to himself, glancing to the door to the ‘storage’ unit that houses his small, precious family. He scoffs. “You, Rozanov.”
At the allotted time, Ilya finds himself in front of an office building. He's early, actually, because if Russians are ‘on time’ they're late.
But also, Ilya is curious. The Rozanov compound is two floors and perfectly square. They have a hidden basement that takes up the same space as the building above it. The compound is hidden in plain sight - in a junkyard, a repurposed abandoned warehouse that came with its own camouflage. Although, as his father's lips loosened, it’s become more of an open secret.
Shane Hollander appears to be operating out of a rented office.
The building is in the centre of downtown, and Shane appears to be the only person making use of it. There's a column of buzzers, but Shanes is the only name that appears.
Ilya is blasted by an intense heat as he steps into the building, a welcome reprieve from the chilly February air. The girl at reception is snapping gum and watching videos loudly on her phone. Ilya stands in front of her. She doesn't bother to look up.
“I have appointment at 8pm with Shane Hollander.” He says.
The video shuts off. She checks the time on her phone. It's 7.45.
“Just head up. The elevator's there. Third floor.” She tells him, then goes back to her phone.
For the first time in a while, Ilya doesn't know how to react. There's a million different thoughts that circle: rude. Who does Hollander employ? She's kind of funny. Ilya steps into the elevator and sighs. It's unusual for him to accept an invitation like this. If Hollander is a hitman, he's a very good one. He's got Ilya alone, in a position where no one knows where he is, in a basically abandoned building.
Ilya does wonder why he's come.
Personal curiosity? To meet the man that has the audacity to invite Ilya fucking Rozanov to his building, and not even greet him personally? To have a snotty secretary greet him instead? Or maybe he's still hoping that Hollander will put him out of his misery.
The elevator dings and the doors open, revealing a long corridor leading to what is, presumably, a head office. The head office that houses the strangest man Ilya has met in a while. The office looks like it's straight out of a TV show, stereotypical “office”, a far cry from Ilya's own office at the compound. He stalks to the end of the corridor. Ilya's wearing his usual attire, perhaps a little more fancy than he would normally. His black dress shirt is unbuttoned one more than usual, revealing a sliver of his chiseled chest. His coat is fur lined, deep brown and suede.
Ilya knocks on the door at the end of the hall. There is a plaque that reads ‘SHANE HOLLANDER’, so he's in the right place at least. He knocks twice. A second passes, then a familiar voice calls him into the room.
Shane's office is spacious and similarly generic as the rest of the building, so uninteresting that it becomes interesting. It's very office-y. Had Shane himself not been there, this could have belonged to anyone. The desk he sits behind is clutter free, there is a desklight, his laptop, and a glass of water on a coaster. To Ilya's left is a plush black couch, to his right is a bookcase, directly in front of him is Shane.
His laptop is open, it's a brand that Ilya has never heard of. Hollander's fringe is slicked back, the tendrils hang over his face like vines.
He glances up and rises. “Rozanov, I'm glad you got my note. Thanks for coming.” He holds out his hand and Ilya shakes it. When he lets go, Ilya returns to his normal stance, hands behind his back and standing straight a poker. Hollander seems uncomfortable with the formality. “Would you like to take a seat?”
Something twitches in Ilya's stomach. “I will stand. Thank you.”
Hollander sighs, taking his own seat. “Sit, Rozanov.” Ilya twitches again. Then, gentler, Shane adds, “please?”
He follows the command. The seat across from Hollander is as comfortable as it looks. Despite having pedestrian taste, Hollander clearly likes his comforts. Ilya shrugs off his coat and sits, his ankle resting on his knee. It's manipulative, Ilya knows how attractive he is, the way that Hollander's eyes sit everywhere but his crotch is proof. The slight pink blush only emboldens him.
“Thanks for coming,” Hollander says again. “I wasn't sure if you'd show.”
Ilya shrugs. “You caught my interest. Is not every day I get left a love note,” Hollander blushes deeper, “so I had no choice but to come.”
“It was not a love note, asshole,” Hollander hisses, glowering at him.
Oh, this will be fun. “No? I thought you were propositioning me.” Ilya juts out his lower lip, pouting hard. “You got my hopes up.”
Hollander is visibly seething. His teeth are clenched, his fists are balled up, but he's still got that beautiful hue over his face. It brings out his freckles. It's been a while since Ilya has been able to push someone's buttons like this.
“I have a proposition. A proposition. Not- fuck, was my note unclear?” He grits out, like he's in pain.
Ilya pulls the offending article from his trouser pocket, dangling it in front of Hollander like bait.
“Oh, it does say ‘a proposition’, my bad.” Shane's glare sends a thrill up Ilya's spine. He pockets the note. “So, Hollander, what is this proposition you have for me? I have been on edge all week.”
Like the flick of a switch, Hollander changes. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and metamorphosises. Ilya wasn't lying - he's been hanging on by a thread, eager to know why he's been summoned by a man he's met only once.
Hollander clasps his hands in front of him, and meets Ilya's eyes. His gaze burns, and Ilya feels strangely naked under the intensity of his stare.
“I'm looking for a dog.”
A beat passes. “What?”
“I'm looking for a dog.” Hollander doesn't waver.
Incredulity bursts in Ilya's chest, forcing a laugh out of his mouth. What the hell?
“A dog? What do you think I am, Hollander, a breeder?” Hollander doesn't laugh, his face is carefully neutral, not giving anything away. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“I know what you are, I know who you are. I know what I'm asking. Ilya Rozanov, I want you to be my dog.”
Suddenly, the incredulity curdles, making way for a much more sour feeling. He hadn't known why Hollander had chosen him, but in retrospect it seems painfully obvious. Hollander is successful, but there's only going up if he has Ilya. The idea of being owned again makes Ilya want to scream.
“Why?” He asks, instead of cussing Hollander out.
“My parents never let me have one as a kid. So I'm making up for lost time.” Hollander has a small smile that Ilya wants to punch and kiss.
“So go to pet shop, Hollander, fuck! Do you know what you're asking? I have killed people for asking less of me.” Ilya shouts, throwing up his arms. The smile vanishes from Hollander's face.
“I know what I'm asking.” He repeats, louder. Then, Hollander tilts his head. “Are you gonna?”
“Going to what?”
“Kill me. For asking this.”
Ilya considers it. It would be as easy as Hollander killing him. He's lying a little though, Ilya has never killed someone on a personal whim. That's his father and Alexei's specialty. He has killed on request, however. For a second he imagines his hands around Hollander's neck. Would his pulse jump like McGuire's had? He seemed calm, unwavering, unafraid. He imagines Hollander's face turning that pretty shade of pink as Ilya restricts his breathing. Ilya shifts in his chair.
“No,” he says, eventually. His nerves are on fire. “I won't.”
Hollander swallows, Ilya wants to feel it under his palm. “Okay. Good. Means my offer's still on the table.”
All the bravado rushes from Ilya and leaves him boneless. “What do you want, Hollander.” It's not a question, rather than a plea.
“I want a dog. Someone who'll put their trust in me, who'll be by my side for everything. I want someone I can trust.” Ilya notices how dark his eyes are. “It's a collaboration. I'll give you my life, and you give me yours.”
Ilya shakes his head. “No.”
“No?”
“I cannot.” He says, Hollander has one eyebrow raised. “I have employees to look after, I have responsibility. I can't just abandon them to be your dog.”
Hollander looks abashed, like he's just been scolded by a teacher. “I know that. It wouldn't be immediate. We would have a transition period and a contract and boundaries. We would talk about it.”
Ilya's heart does something he doesn't recognise. Hollander had planned this, to some degree at least. He digs through the drawers in his desk and produces several pieces of paper. Ilya doesn't take a close look, afraid he might sign his life away if Hollander asked him, but the page is titled and sectioned with paragraphs, bullet points, and numbers. The pages also appear to be colour coordinated.
Hollander is staring at him, expectantly. “Does that change anything?”
It does, to a degree. Ilya presses his lips together. This isn't just a whim. Hollander hadn't just looked in the shop window and chosen the first puppy that had looked at him. He had made conscious decisions on Ilya. He knows that if he looks at those documents, they'll be carefully crafted, meticulously curated. He's only been acquainted with Hollander for two days (at a push) and Ilya knows that he's ready to negotiate, to give and take.
There's something magnetic about Shane Hollander. It's not immediately apparent. On the surface, Shane Hollander is nothing. He is boring and unassuming and meek. But occasionally he shines. Just briefly, like a shooting star, enough to make Ilya do a second take. He's meticulous and boring and Ilya wants to dissect him and see how he works.
So it breaks his heart to shake his head. “I can't. I am sorry.”
Hollander nods, putting the documents back in his desk. “Hey, it was out of the blue. I don't expect anything, we can forget this never happened,” Ilya blinks, and Hollander is holding out a cream business card out to him. “but the offer is always open. Just give me a call.”
“I won't.” Ilya says, childishly.
Hollander smiles slightly, still holding the card. “Take it anyway, then. If we're going to do business together we'll be in contact anyway. Let's just…be efficient.”
Efficient, huh? Efficiency is the last thing Ilya is thinking of as he pockets Hollander's business card. He stands, putting his coat on and getting to the door before he does something stupid - like kiss Hollander's freckles.
His hand is on the doorknob when Hollander says, “Do you enjoy leading your gang?”
It's a question Ilya ignores. “I am the Rozanov heir.” He replies.
Ilya ignores the girl at reception and steps into the night. He checks his phone. Their meeting was only twenty minutes, but Ilya feels like something has changed, something he can never come back from. He doesn't want to think about it, so he doesn't.
The walk home is arduous and cold, but Ilya can't feel a thing.
As soon as the elevator door shuts, Hayden Pike appears with a scowl on his face. Shane can already imagine what he's going to say.
“Well, his reputation precedes him. He is a dick.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “He wasn't a dick, Hayd, he was pretty nice considering what I was proposing.”
“He threatened to kill you!” Hayden shouts, flapping his arms.
Shane flushes. He won't tell Hayden about the thought of Rozanov's hands around his neck, holding him down. He definitely won't tell him about how his trousers tightened just ever so slightly at the thought.
“Technically,” Shane says, instead. “I guess.”
“Oh, you guess!” Hayden sighs, rubbing his temples. “Well, sorry bud, doesn't look like you're getting your dog after all.”
Rozanov's cologne still lingers in the room. Shane isn't stupid, autistic definitely, but not dumb. He saw Rozanov wavering. It's only a matter of time.
“I'm not so sure.” He says, to Hayden's surprise.
Something about Ilya Rozanov makes Shane want to get on his knees. The man has raw magnetism and exudes sex. Shane spent the better part of the meeting trying not to stare at Rozanov's cleavage. But his decline wasn't because he didn't want to, it's because he felt he couldn't. Shane wants to wrap him up and keep him safe, he covets the small amount of vulnerability Rozanov allowed him to see - intentionally or not.
Not that Shane is into him, of course. He likes power, he likes being in control.
Shane Hollander is a patient man, and Ilya Rozanov is someone worth waiting for.
At the compound, Ilya lies awake in his room, staring at the ceiling. He's taken over one of the guest bedrooms. He doesn't think they'll have any friends over now. The room is opulent and makes Ilya deeply uncomfortable. Years of a rock hard mattress means that the soft ones his father liked makes his back hurt. The duvet is silk, which he hates. The colour is maroon, which he hates. And the bed is huge, which he hates the most.
Alexei took to this new lifestyle like a fish to water, relishing in the glory and money that came with it. Just with none of the responsibility of course. Ilya stretches one arm out. It doesn't even come close to the edge of the mattress.
His room is shrouded in darkness, except for a faint orange glow leaking through his window from the lights outside. His mind is racing, yet totally empty, like a machine machine with nothing in it. The clock on his bedside table reads 2am. Ilya sits up, his necklace warm against his bare chest, he runs a hand down his face.
He's so tired. A weariness has seeped into his bones that no amount of sleep can dispel.
Ilya lays back down facing the window. The clock reads 2:05. He tries to look at the clear sky, but the orange glow, even though it's barely enough to illuminate a quarter of the room, is bright enough to hide the stars from him.
Every time he closes his eyes Hollander appears. He is sitting behind his desk, his undivided attention on Ilya. He begins to lean over. The proximity makes Ilya surge backwards. Ilya opens his eyes, his whole body jolts. It takes him a second to get his bearings. He glances over at his clock, squinting at the bright light. 3:20am. So he'd fallen asleep after all.
He closes his eyes again, and Hollander returns. This time he's sitting next to Ilya on a couch, the one in Hollander's office. He's so close that Ilya can feel the heat radiating off him in waves. It's a lullaby, a warm blanket. Gently, in case Hollander moves away, Ilya leans into the warmth. Hollander has his eyes closed too and doesn't move, letting Ilya lean on him as much as he likes.
When Ilya next opens his eyes the sun is painting the room yellow. The aching in his bones is still there, but it's a better sleep than he's had in a while.
Ilya crashes back down to Earth when he finds Alexei in the kitchen eating breakfast. Ilya steels himself and avoids looking at his brother as he makes his way to the coffee machine. Alexei is struggling, his head is in his hands, his hair is greasy and he smells like shit.
“Where were you last night?” Alexei asks. Ilya's hands freeze in position.
He's an adult, and Alexei is the last person who should be keeping tabs on Ilya's behaviour, but his voice is soft and dangerous. He didn’t even think Alexei would know he was missing. Didn't think it would matter.
“I was seeing a friend.” Ilya replies.
Alexei doesn't lift his head. “Who? Svetlana?” He spits out her name like it’s bile.
“Someone you don’t know.”
Alexei scoffs. “I know everyone. Who was it?”
Ignoring his question, Ilya’s eyes hover over the sugar that Alexei dumps into his coffee. He passes, sipping on the bitter liquid, it burns his throat.
“How can you know everyone? You’re never at meetings anymore. The world is changing Alexei, you have to keep up with it. If you don't, this place will go to shit and you’ll be responsible.”
His brother is still hunched over the table. He reminds Ilya of the Thinker, except that Alexei looks like he’s in agony.
“You sound like him.”
Ilya swallows too quickly, he feels the coffee burn all the way to his stomach where it sits like a stone.
“What do you mean?”
Alexei looks up at him, eyes hooded and painted with dark circles. He doesn’t need to say anything. Ilya knows. Somehow, Alexei not saying what he means is worse. Like it doesn’t need to be said, like it’s just how Ilya is.
He slams back the rest of his drink. It’s still too hot.
“Whatever.” His cup clatters into their sink for the maids to sort when they arrive. “I won’t pry into your life if you don’t pry into mine. Deal? Deal.”
Alexei watches him head towards the door.
“Hey. I’ll take the meeting later.”
Ilya stops dead. “Why?”
“I just feel like it. Are you going to tell me I can’t - after that lecture?”
Ilya knows it’s a bad idea. He knows, instinctively, that Alexei is going to fuck up. Because all Alexei does is fuck things up. Marriages, kids, work, his private life. Everything that Alexei touches withers and dies.
Against his better judgement, Ilya says, “Do what you want. Remember we’re trying to renegotiate the seafront. We need the funds.”
Alexei pointedly avoids looking at Ilya.
The last time Ilya’s father hits him, Ilya can’t even find it in his heart to be angry.
He died two days later. The nurses called it terminal lucidity, it’s common in late stage dementia apparently, and when it happened Ilya knew they had very little time left together.
Although, Ilya wasn’t actually there when the lucidity first overcame his father. He was working, having temporarily taken over his father’s office. Alexei slammed open the door and for a brief second Ilya thought, maybe even hoped, that his father had died.
“He’s…” Alexei stumbled over his words. He looked panicked, like a frantic animal, “He’s awake. He’s conscious- he remembers!”
Ilya shot out his chair and followed his brother to their father’s bedroom. Their patent shoes slapped off the tiled flooring, every beat making Ilya’s heart leap. He had long outgrown religion but Ilya believed that God had granted him one last chance. A moment of redemption for him and his mother.
Grigori’s bedroom was no longer how Ilya remembered. His luxurious bed had been replaced with one that looks out of place - grey with rails and a remote that helped him sit up. There was a bedpan hidden under it.
Polina was at his bedside clutching his hand. Her hand against his father’s was a stark reminder of their significant age gap. She looked like she had seen a ghost, tears streaking down her face. The nurse was gently holding her shoulder and talking quietly to Grigori - whose eyes were fixed on his sons.
Ilya’s heart plummeted through his chest. The man in front of them was not the man he had gotten used to. A ghost sat on the bed.
The nurse excused them to Grigori, and said to Ilya, Alexei, and Polina: “ This is terminal lucidity. It is temporary, and means he will die soon. You should speak to him individually, make the most of your time together.”
Polina hiccuped, more tears running down her face. Alexei’s expression was stony, different emotions flickered and died in front of Ilya’s eyes.
Polina’s touch on his hand startled him.
“You should see him first.” She said, trying to smile.
Ilya tried to smile back. Alexei caught his eye as they left the room, giving him a silent warning.
He turned to his father. Grigori was sitting up in bed, his grey blanket tucked into his sides. His eyes were bright, his movements sharp, like Ilya remembered.
“Father,” he said, returning to the bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I shouldn’t be cooped up in this bed. I have work to do.”
Despite himself, Ilya smiled. He stood like he did at his father’s meetings, the movement was as instinctive as breathing.
“I’ve been working in your stead. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Grigori frowned, deep lines carved in his face. “Why are you doing it? What’s Alexei doing?”
I don’t fucking know. “He’s looking after you, father. He’s…very worried.”
His father spat. “Why is he worried about me? I’m perfectly fine. Bring my desk. I want to work.”
“I can’t do that. You need to rest. Polina will bring some tea-“
“I don’t want that!” His father roared, slamming his hands on the bed like a child. “Don’t you know what’s at stake here? I could lose everything.”
Ilya plastered that placating smile onto his face. “I understand, father, but you’re not well. Let’s talk about something else, hm?”
Ilya’s gaze darkened. “Like mama.”
Grigori refused to look at him. “What about her?”
“We’re coming up to her anniversary.” Ilya said. He wasn’t sure if that would be enough to get his father to talk.
Grigori’s body tightened. The words were on Ilya’s lips. So many things he needed to say. Why? Who would want to kill my mama?
“I’ve never been more ashamed of anyone more than you.”
Ilya’s heart panged, his blood ran cold. “What?”
When he looked up, Grigori’s eyes were filled with a hatred so intense it scared Ilya.
“When I saw that you hadn’t even called an ambulance for her. Your own mother. After everything she did for you.”
The floor crumbled under Ilya’s feet. Rubble crushed him. The air knocked from his lungs. Suspended in air, he could only feel the thump of his heart and the panic rising in his chest.
“No-“
“I taught you better than that. You took the love of my life from me.” Grigori shook his head, “for that I’ll never forgive you.”
“No,” Ilya breathed out, pleadingly, “Father she had a gunshot wound to the back of her head, she hadn’t swallowed enough pills-“
“You lie!” Grigori’s voice echoed through the room. Instinctively, Ilya lowered his head. “You attempt to sully your mother’s name even further. You insult me by lying to my face. Your mother was a sick woman, you could have saved her and you didn’t.”
Ilya couldn’t see. His hands were frozen. He didn’t know where he was. He blinked and saw her, on the couch, blood seeping from the back of her head, pills in her hand and in her mouth and-
Grigori swatted him across the face, barely able to reach, not strong enough to hurt him. It’s barely even a poke. Yet Ilya crumbles.
“Get out of my sight. You’ll get thirty lashes today and no dinner.” Grigori flexed his hand. “Make that forty.”
Ilya nodded. “Yes father.”
“Get out.”
Ilya does. He burns painfully, suddenly twelve years old again. It was his fault. He doesn’t even remember how it happened. Coming home from school. A dark house. His mother lying on the couch. Is she sleeping? At this time? How silly. Then foam. White and pink and falling from her open mouth. Scattered pills. A single, weeping hole in her head.
Alexei’s mouth flaps something Ilya can’t hear. Ilya flees to his room and vomits straight on the floor. He doesn’t see his father again until he’s cold and rigid and unable to hurt Ilya ever again.
Anything he knows about the execution of Irina Rozanova is buried with him, right next to her.
The thump of the bass pounds Ilya’s ears into pulp. He loves clubs, love how weightless and boneless they make him feel. The beat silences any thoughts about work, leaving the husk to dance with pretty people and drink until it can’t think.
Red lights illuminate the crowd, bathing everyone in blood. It’s his usual haunt, fifteen minutes drive out of the city, where he and Sveta are less likely to be recognised. Despite Ilya loving it, he always feels like an outsider. Sveta is on the floor with a woman, the pair so close that they merge into one when the light hits them a certain way. Ilya is fine with watching, sipping on his vodka idly.
It’s lower class, for Ilya anyway, the squirming bodies on the dance floor are a different species to the Rozanovs. Ilya watches them carefully. They’re probably worried about money, jobs, partners. Ilya wonders if they feel like he does. Probably. Happiness is fleeting and personal, sadness is universal.
His father pulled him out of public school the day his mother died. Any friendships he had were burned with his schoolbooks, the mark the pyre left in their courtyard is still visible.
Ilya slams his vodka and asks the bartender to put the next ten drinks anyone orders on his tab.
He pulls Sveta from her date and into his arms. The poor girl looks crestfallen, Sveta blows her a kiss.
“That was rude, Ilyushka.” She says, hooking her hands behind his neck.
He grips her waist. It’s his favourite part about her, aside from her mouth. “I don’t like sharing.” He says directly into her ear. His teeth play with her earlobe as a shiver wracks her body. Sveta’s hands crawl down his body to cup his ass.
“You’re never this possessive - ah! Mm, did something happen?”
Ilya works his way down her jawline, pressing his lips to her pulse. Sveta is everything to him. Calling her a friend is too trivial, and lover is too basic. No words are enough to describe what she means to Ilya. How can you convey years of loving and devotion and respect into one word?
The downside is that she knows him better than he knows himself. Ilya peppers a trail of kisses up to her mouth. She pushes him away before he can kiss her properly. Sveta’s eyes are black pools under the red light.
“Ilya, what happened?”
The second the words leave her lips, Ilya’s phone vibrates in his back pocket, directly under Sveta’s hand.
No one ever phones him, unless it’s bad. Sveta knows this.
“Are you going to pick up or what?” She asks, her head cocked to the side.
Ilya reaches in and turns it off. “No, I want to dance, let’s fucking go.”
Sveta’s grin is feral, predatory, and makes Ilya’s knees go weak. She pulls him close enough that he can smell her perfume through the stench of sweat and sex. Her lips are soft against his, pushing and pulling like the moon and the sea.
He doesn’t notice her hand sneaking into his pocket and taking his phone.
She twirls around in his grip, pushing her back against his chest firmly. Ilya looks up and sees the phone. God he loves her. He traces a line up her neck with his tongue, sucking hickeys into the spots that make her gasp. He’s about two seconds away from asking her to come home with him when his phone screen lights up again.
Sveta turns back around. Her face is flushed, her chest heaves, a single bead of sweat travels down her neck and vanishes between her breasts.
“It’s your boyfriend,” she says, panting, “you should answer.”
Cliff Marleau is the closest thing Ilya has to a friend (besides Sveta) and the furthest thing from a boyfriend. He’d joined the Rozanov’s to help pay off his university debt. Then, when he qualified as a nurse and paid off his loans, he had left. Marleau is a lighthouse on a dark night. A very annoying lighthouse.
Ilya doesn’t immediately panic. Occasionally he’ll phone asking Ilya to join him at a bar or club, and good news Marleau, he’s beat you to it!
Ilya sends a quick text and pushes his way through the crowd into the night air. He phones Marleau back while lighting a cigarette. Marleau answers on the first ring.
“Marley, what is up?” He adds the “is” because he knows it annoys Marleau.
“Roz, you got a minute?”
Ilya grins, more drunk than he’d thought. “All I have is time. What can I do for you?”
He hears Marleau sigh on the other end. “I was hoping you were sober for this, but…Roz, your brother just gave away the entire fucking seafront operation. He fucking ratted them out.”
Sobriety hits Ilya like a sledgehammer. “What?”
“They went down to get a delivery and the fucking pigs were there. Ten of ‘em are locked up.”
Ilya can’t fucking breathe. “How do you know it was-“
Marleau’s laugh is abrasive. “Because he showed up to the meeting pissed and high and it slipped out,” he lowers his voice, “lay low, Roz. Or get something sorted I don’t fucking know. Whatever, you’re running out of goodwill quickly. It’ll be a miracle if Alexei lasts two weeks at this rate.”
Ilya doesn’t answer. He can’t move the boulder from his throat. Marleau is silent. Then, “Hey, Roz, I’m sorry are you-“
Ilya vomits so violently that his whole body spasms. The kind of purge that feels like an exorcism. Ilya feels his stomach heave, lurching upwards in his chest as he expels everything he’s consumed in the last few hours.
Distantly, beyond the ringing in his ears, he hears Svetlana shouting and the click of her heels as she runs towards him. He’s collapsed forward, his forehead resting on his forearm and his forearm bracing against the wall.
After he wipes the saliva clinging to his mouth, he fully expects to see his lungs, stomach, every organ he possesses splattered on the floor. His stomach aches from the strain, his head hurts from sudden dehydration and the Marleau’s news.
His phone is still clutched in his hand. He’d hung up accidentally. Marleau calls him thrice in succession. He vaguely hears Svetlana talking at him. The cadence and familiarity of Russian has always calmed him - except now.
All he can think about is his family. His dead bastard father and his brother who’s just sold out one of their allies. Not only has he fucked their relationship, he’s killed their reliability. Suddenly their future isn’t so certain.
Svetlana’s hand is warm against his back. The touch jolts him upright. Her face is blurry, panic blinding him.
Then, Ilya runs.
He runs as fast as his legs can while carrying the weight of the world and the despair in his chest. Distantly he hears Svetlana shouting again. Her voice grows fainter every time he blinks, quietly being enveloped by the blanket of car noises and city chatter.
Every blink, the scenery changes. Every blink, Ilya feels his lungs fighting against his ribs, his stomach protesting, his eyes burning. He runs like he can escape the life that has been thrust upon him.
He slows when he starts tasting blood, pissed that his body can’t hold out a little longer. Ilya hunches over, bracing his hands on his thighs and gulps in air. It’s fresher than he thought. He looks around. He’s managed to run into a park, a grassy square looming in the darkness.
Fuck. Now he’s lost, too. He checks his phone. The notifications list reads Marleau Sveta Marleau Sveta Sveta Marleau over and over. Sveta calls him again, Ilya silences it immediately. He just wants a second to breathe. Breathe and not think about Alexei or puking or his work.
The air is sweet with a freshness that opens his lungs. There must be flowers hiding in the darkness. Ilya pulls himself over to a poorly illuminated bench and clutches his curls, pulling until his scalp aches too. One more affliction can’t hurt.
It takes an agonising second to calm himself down. When he does, Ilya feels boneless and breathless and stupid. He always does when he freaks out like this. That’s the only thing to call it, a freak out. Anything else (like meltdown or panic attack) makes him feel worse.
Ilya opens his phone and scrolls mindlessly, from the homepage to his apps to his empty camera roll to his contacts.
He scrolls down the names, passing by in a blur, he’s unable to remember what any of them look like.
Something flashes, and he finds himself at the bottom of the list with VETROVA, SVETA <3 staring him in the face. He scrolls back up, looking for the thing that caught his eye. Just when Ilya thinks he imagined it, he finds himself staring at it.
HOLLANDER, SHANE.
He’d forgotten he’d put Shane’s number into his phone. Just in case, he said. To be efficient. The name stares back at him, teasingly.
It’s 3am. He won’t answer.
Ilya phones him anyway.
Hollander picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?” His voice is thick with sleep.
“I’m accepting your job offer.” Ilya blurts, his mouth moving faster than his brain.
There’s rusting on the other end. Ilya does not imagine Hollander in bed (he’s either got totally white bedsheets or matching patterned ones, Ilya can’t decide), eyes sleepy and hair tousled.
“Rozanov? It’s late, what the hell are you-?”
“I am accepting job offer,” Ilya snaps, “yes or no?”
“Yes.” Hollander says instantly, suddenly wide awake. “Okay.”
A strange sense of relief washes over Ilya. “Okay. I start tonight-“
“No, wait, no.” Hollander cuts him off. Ilya imagines him sitting up in bed. Does he have a lot of pillows? No, he doesn’t seem like that kind of person. “Start tomorrow. I have some documents I want you to look over. We should amend them if need be and solidify boundaries and expectations.”
“God, you’re so boring, Hollander.” Ilya says, fake-yawning loudly. “But fine. Tomorrow.”
“Come to my office at nine.”
“Mm, not seven?”
“It’s late, Rozanov. Or early. I don’t know. You’re not going to sleep?”
Ilya frowns. He really doesn’t want to sleep. But he probably should. Now that he’s calmed down, things still look terrible, but he needs to make sure his body doesn’t fail.
“Fine. Eight. Last compromise. Take or leave.”
“I see why you’re so successful at this.” Hollander says quietly. Ilya’s stomach clenches. “Fine, eight. I’ll have the documents ready.”
Ilya nods, although Ilya can’t see him. They sit in silence for a few minutes. It’s nice having someone there, even over the phone. Someone who doesn’t know him, or think they know him.
Ilya wonders if Hollander is waiting for him to hang up first.
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
Hollander’s voice is soft, like he’s started falling asleep again. “Bye, Rozanov.”
If he says something afterwards, Ilya doesn’t hear it, ending the call before he does something stupid. His phone lights up - he’s unsure why his heart sinks when he sees Sveta’s name. She’s resorted to texting him now.
He sends her his location and asks her to pick him up in the valet. She says she will. She’s ten minutes away. Ilya knows he’ll get the gentlest and most loving interrogation of his life. He doesn’t want to think about that. He leans back.
Hollander, Sveta, and Alexei circle in his mind, the rotation continues until the valet pulls him, blinding Ilya with the headlights.