I read the reports my intelligence sergeant sent over and study every detail with keen interest.
The reason my unit is the most successful isn’t because I have the best men—though I do consider them incomparable. It’s also not due to strength or weaponry.
Every success we’ve had thus far is solely based on strategy. Numbers, offense, and danger level mean nothing if I devise the right plan to keep us one step ahead.
It’s one of the reasons my father didn’t want me to leave the States. My family depended so much on my plans from the time I was a kid. Everything my father did was low-key instructed or inspired by my tactics.
Needless to say, he’s been feeling bitter since I left for the army a couple of years ago and took away his goose that lays the golden eggs.
Viktor likes to give me reports about the state of affairs back home, despite my explicit instructions not to. His excuse is that I need to be in the loop because knowledge is power, and, apparently, according to Viktor’s spies, my dickhead of a brother is subtly confiscating that power after having crowned himself the head of the family once my father retires.
Of course, the process is taking place with the help of my mother. Or, more accurately, Yulia. Yes, she is the woman who gave birth to me, just like my father was the one who donated the sperm, but neither of them should’ve been anyone’s parents.
But I digress. Only slightly.
My focus homes back in on the intelligence report in front of me and I reread it one more time.
Tomorrow’s mission has to be perfect. I’ll accept no failure or losses.
In fact, my plan is so bulletproof that my men and I should be able to complete it in half the time given to us.
All we have to do is land near the insurgents’ nest by the mountains. Divide into two teams to clear them out from both sides. My snipers will take care of the loose ends and then, it’s all history.
No matter what angle I look at it, the mission is so easy, it’s insulting. But I don’t underestimate the possibility of something going wrong.
A knock sounds on the door before it opens, and Viktor appears like a wall at the threshold. I’ve known him all my life, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a grim, stoic, and an absolute dull sight to look at.
“They’re ready,” he announces.
“Have you divided their roles?”
He nods.
“Very well.” I push off my chair and burn the intelligence report. I already learned it by heart, so there’s no need for a physical copy.
Viktor and I stride down the hall in silence. I can tell he has things to say—he always does and has played the role of a thorn in my side for decades—but he, thankfully, chooses to keep his thoughts to himself tonight.
Which is all the better since I’m a million percent sure whatever he has to say will be about returning home, taking back the power, and putting my brother and mother in their places.
What Viktor doesn’t know, however, is that everything needs to happen in its own time.
My men are having dinner after a long training day. I gave them so much shit to do, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re too tired to eat or sit properly. But then again, I can’t have any mistakes tomorrow.
They had to learn the path we’ll take by heart. If someone makes a mistake, he’ll risk not only his life, but also the life of his teammates.
I’m ready to give them some leeway tonight—
I come to a halt at the entrance.
Instead of the gloomy, somewhat careful atmosphere I’ve come to expect before every mission, the hall bubbles with the exact opposite.
Utensils have been thrown around, drinks have been spilled everywhere, and some sort of an eating competition is going on in the corner. Laughter, cursing, and idle teasing fill the space to the brim.
But most of all, the mood is laid-back.
Maksim and Rulan are singing in their god-awful voices that I wouldn’t wish on an enemy. Then in the midst of the human rights violation, a softer voice slips through.
My eyes narrow on the slim, frail soldier between my men, and it’s none other than Lipovsky.
Of course.
Why am I not surprised that he’s in the middle of all of this?
The others clap, shout, or bang their cups on the table in rhythm with the singing. Yuri yells for Maksim and Rulan to shut the fuck up because they’re overshadowing Lipovsky’s more pleasant voice, to which they sing louder.
My attention remains on Lipovsky.
Bringing him to the unit wasn’t a well-studied decision. Yes, he showed improvement, and I could see the potential in him, but he’s too much work that’s not worth it.
No matter how much he strengthens his muscles, he’s still the weakest physically. He’s also the one with the most glares and subtle avoiding techniques.
He’s been part of my unit for a month, and he’s tactfully managed to avoid alone time with me for just as long.
It’s subtle things, such as always remaining in a group and joining Maksim’s foolish antics and Yuri’s physical routine.
Ever since the day he helped Team B win the football game for the first time in months, they’ve all switched to his side. He has effortlessly blended into the group and gotten used to the unit. Not only as a soldier, but also as an actual member of a community.
Although we have a paramedic, he personally cleans the wound of whoever gets injured and even has a small medical kit on standby. The fuckers actually prefer him over the medic because he’s apparently more gentle.
The fuck they care about gentleness when they’re soldiers?
Needless to say, he’s a bad fucking influence. I could’ve avoided this annoying shift in my men if I’d simply left him to rot in his previous unit.
“Is it too late to ship him back to the infantry?” Viktor whispers my thoughts.
Or what he thinks are my thoughts.
Taking Lipovsky in was a moment of chaos that I would repeat again in a heartbeat. Yes, he’s an infuriating little fucker, but he’s disciplined and plays well with the team. He’s also an excellent sniper, who’s only missing some field action.
He’s neither antagonistic nor individualistic. Bonus point, he actually cares about his colleagues’ well-being.
The moment Yuri became friends with him, I learned just how influential Lipovsky could be. Maksim knows everyone and is friends with the whole army.
Yuri, on the other hand, has never felt at ease, except in Maksim’s company and, now, with the newcomer. After a certain incident a few years ago, he had to have reparative surgery and drew further into himself. Until Maksim took it upon himself to get him out of his funk. Unknowingly, Lipovsky has been helping with that, too.
And Yuri is an influential strategist in my arsenal. So whenever he’s in a good mood, I can count on getting the best results from him.
“He’s useful,” I tell Viktor.
He looks at me as if I’m the fruit of Satan and an unruly hooker, not bothering to hide the map of disgust covering his face. “He’s a fucking weakling who spends twice as much time to do the same activities the others do.”
“It’s one point five now. Not twice.”
“Still more than needed.”
“You weren’t born a mountain, Viktor. Improvement takes time.”
He narrows his eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re defending the slimy fucker.”
“Like fuck I am. But someone has to play devil’s advocate.”
The truth remains, as much as I dislike the change to plots and strategies, I prefer the unit when he’s around, which is a weird confession that took me some time to come to terms with.
I step forward, and Viktor follows suit. Upon seeing us, all the noise dies down as the soldiers straighten and salute.
Viktor gives them the ‘at ease’ motion, and they comply at once. My gaze strays to Lipovsky, who’s still between Maksim and Rulan, face red and so soft, it should be a crime for him to be in the military.
You’re getting distracted again.
I let my eyes wander to the rest of my men. “As you all know, we’re departing tomorrow for the mission. Viktor already divided the roles, and we practiced the path we’ll take enough times that you should be able to recognize it in your sleep. Starting tonight, I want you to forget everything, including your names, and only remember the plan. As usual, I’m going to need you all to come back in one piece. If you die, I will kill you.”
Some snicker, others nod while hiding laughter, but one stern look from Viktor is enough to throw them back into the serious mood.
He’s an asshole. No doubt about it. A useful asshole, but an asshole all the same.
“We’ll go through the plan again tomorrow morning,” I continue. “You’re dismissed.”
They salute again, and I turn to leave. Viktor stays behind, probably to nag them like an old hag for daring to have fun.
When I’m in the hall, I notice I’m not alone. I can also figure out who it is without looking back. Only one in my unit has light footfalls without trying to conceal them.
“What do you want, Lipovsky?” I ask as I turn around.
He comes to an abrupt halt and swallows thickly. His shirt is crumpled at the top, revealing the hair-thin veins peeking from beneath his fair skin.
Lipovsky, obviously caught off guard, shifts on his feet, studies his surroundings, and breathes heavily before he finally looks at me.
“I don’t have all day,” I say when he remains statuesque without saying anything.
“You…Viktor gave me the role of backup.”
“So?”
“Why can’t I be on the front lines?”
“Because you’re too volatile and I can’t trust you in a precise and sensitive spot.”
“I score among the top five in sniping.”
“That means nothing when you lack on-field experience.”
His eyes shine with that infuriating challenge that both made me notice and want to squash him beneath my shoes that first time. “How would I get that experience if you don’t give it to me…sir?”
The little fuck has the audacity to act all proper and according to protocol. It’d be so easy to destroy him and break his spirit enough that he’d willingly leave.
But that’s neither necessary nor fun.
I step forward. “I might give you a chance if you answer a question.”
He straightens and, curiously, his colorful eyes become a bright green. “Yes, sir.”
“Why have you been avoiding me?”
His shoulders hunch so fast, it would be comical under any other circumstance. “I…have not.”
“Night, soldier.”
“No, wait.” He jumps in front of me so that his chest nearly slams against mine.
I stare down at him, and I can smell the soft tones of his skin. The little fucking tease.
“Are you blocking my way, Lipovsky?”
He jumps back, his chest heaving. “No, sir. I just…can I be honest?”
“When have you ever not?”
His eyes meet mine for one second, two, before he shifts them downward and murmurs, “You make me uncomfortable, that’s why.”
Well, well, would you look at that?
It takes everything in me not to grab him by the throat and throw him against the nearest wall.
But then again, all the scenarios I’m picturing in my head are frowned upon, especially with someone who’s supposed to be under my care.
So I step past him.
“I answered you. Are you going to give me a chance?”
“No.”
“But you said—”
“I might consider it. I did that and decided against it.” I disappear down the hall and catch a glimpse of the insolent soldier glaring at my back.
Good. Because I’m going to make him even more uncomfortable going forward.
To the point where he’ll hate his own skin and regret ever crossing my path.
On the day of the mission, everyone is on high alert.
However, it’s not the suffocating type where it feels like a mistake is waiting to happen.
My team is focused and have the level of training to keep their heads in the game.
The sooner this is done, the faster we’ll get to leave.
I’m about to head out of my office when someone barges through the door. Before I contemplate smashing their head in and using the corpse as my new mattress, the man in question comes into view.
His round belly precedes him in presence and has more character than the man himself. At least that belly has been consistent, which can’t be said about him.
An air of confident smugness coats each and every one of his beady features. His darker eyes shine with pure evil. His nose is straight, high, and makes him look as arrogant as a god.
That’s about the only physical feature I inherited from the man. I mostly take after my mother—something he and I share a mutual disregard for.
Viktor appears at the threshold behind him, wearing a rare apologetic expression.
He of all people knows that Roman Morozov and I shouldn’t share the same continent, universe, or time—period. In fact, seeing him on the day of my mission is no different than dreaming about ravens, crows, and serpents eating from my skull.
And I’m not even superstitious.
There’s no need to ask how he got here. My father has the type of power that enables him to stuff some politicians in his pockets and some military leaders in his service.
The only thing he’s pissed about is that he doesn’t have enough power to have me discharged yet.
I glance at Viktor and he nods, then steps outside.
Not wanting to look at my old man’s putrid face, and not having the option to pray for his disappearance, I busy myself with checking my weapons.
I dismantle my rifle slowly, taking my time in doing the task. “To what do I owe this unpleasant visit?”
“You were always an insolent little fucker,” he heaves, probably due to the effort he exerted to carry his belly here.
“Kind of learned from the best.”
I don’t look at him, but I can feel the heat of his glare hitting the back of my neck. He surely doesn’t waste time in letting his true colors show through.
Having obviously lost the battle of remaining in a standing position, he all but marches over and throws his weight on my chair. Right opposite to where I’m perching on the desk.
His face is too big for his neck, his hands are too fat, his veins are about to pop, and he’s sweating profusely, not even saved by Russia’s winter.
“I haven’t seen you in a year and this is the welcome I get?” He stresses his words in that holier-than-thou tone. The one he uses whenever he decides to ‘punish’ me.
Teach me the way.
Make me learn how to become his suitable ‘heir.’
“You haven’t seen me in a year, but I’m curious how you still expect some form of a welcoming ceremony.” I lift my head. “Have you earned some royal title I’m not aware of?”
“You fucking—” He lifts his hand off the desk. It’s a habit at this point that the old fuck has had trouble getting rid of.
I stare right at that hand, daring him to hit me.
Just touch me, Roman. I fucking dare you.
He lowers it back down, knowing full well I’d shoot him between the eyes.
I told him as much the last time he hit me—when I was fifteen. I said if he does it again, I’ll kill him, butcher his corpse, and bury it where the sun doesn’t shine.
He’s been taking it seriously. That and I’m way stronger than him. I can take ten of him combined.
Roman Morozov was once the strongest man I knew. Now, he’s nothing but a shadow of his former self. A clown of a fat old man whose body is riddled with enough diseases to put an entire hospital to shame.
He smooths his ugly gray tie that looks like it was stolen from a nineties B movie. “You haven’t been replying to my calls or letters. Why?”
“I told you why.” I click the magazine in place. “In fact, I told you the reason four years ago when I left.”
“I will not be accepting that nonsense. As my eldest son, it’s your duty to inherit the empire and lead the Morozov family.”
“That’s such an honor,” I say with the most sarcasm I can muster. “But I’m going to have to pass. Let Konstantin do it.”
“Konstantin is a reckless motherfucker that I wouldn’t trust with the safety of a goldfish, let alone my family.”
“You made him; you deal with him. Not my problem, not my talk to have.”
“Kirill.” He bangs both hands on the desk and rises to his full height. The motion is supposed to be some form of intimidation, but it looks more like a dying man’s last plea for help.
“Yes?”
“The situation has changed in the Bratva since you left. My position is no longer secure and there are even hints that I might be replaced by some new blood.”
“Thanks for the info. I’ll call when I find any fucks to give.”
A dark shadow falls over his features, mingled with a putrid sense of desperation.
A long time ago, when I painted his world black and he did the same to mine, I would’ve given my left ball to see him like this.
Hopeless, desperate, and on the verge of spilling his beloved pride at my feet, just so I would benefit him and his empire with my services.
Now, it brings nothing but the knowledge that he’s pathetic.
“What should I do so you’ll quit this fucking madness and come back home?”
“The time for you to do anything has long passed. And you, dear Papa, have no say in my life anymore.”
“Or maybe that’s what you think.”
I stare him in the eye, refusing to let him get into my head. He’s done it enough for a lifetime. Even if his threat is valid, I won’t let him have the power anymore.
“Are you done? Because if you are…” I point a thumb behind me. “The door is right there.”
“One last chance. Are you going to come back willingly?”
“Sure. Hit me up for your funeral.”
His face turns a deep shade of red, but my expression doesn’t change and neither does my demeanor.
My father leans forward and snarls. “You’ll regret this. I might have tolerated this stupidity, but my patience has limits, Kirill. You’re not suited for leading men on the battlefield, fighting other people’s wars and getting nothing but fuck all as a reward. You’re my heir and were always meant to lead and grow the Morozov Empire. Fight it all you want, but you’ll always be my son. You will always be like me.”
My upper lip lifts in a snarl and I realize I almost let him into my head again. A blasphemy that shouldn’t happen in this lifetime.
“See you at home, son.” He pats my shoulder, then squeezes it before he’s out the door.
I grab the nearest object but stop myself before I haul it against the wall.
He will not get to me.
I already won my freedom and nothing will be able to take it away.
Nothing.
“Is everything okay?” Viktor asks after my father leaves.
I fling the rifle over my shoulder. “It will be. Let’s get this over with.”
