Newspapers. Dozens of them, yellowed with age and used as insulation against the cold. I start to close the box, but one paper shifts and falls open. The movement isn't random. It's deliberate, like the universe itself is forcing me to look.
The date is five years old. The paper crackles in the silence, loud as gunfire in the quiet cabin.
The headline reads,Federal Investigation Targets Russian Organized Crime Network. Below it, a grainy photograph shows a man leaving a restaurant. He's in profile, his face mostly obscured by shadow, but I recognize the set of his shoulders. The way he holds himself. The expensive cut of his suit.
The caption beneath makes my heart stop.Aleksandr Romanov, alleged Bratva boss, leaving local establishment.
I stare at my own image. Even grainy and mostly shadowed, I know it's me. Aleksandr Romanov.
The pain hits first.
It slams into my skull like a bullet, white-hot and blinding. I stagger, my hand shooting out to grip the doorframe as my knees buckle. The newspaper falls from my fingers, fluttering to the floor like a dying bird.
Then the memories crash.
Not gradually. Not gently. All at once, a fucking tidal wave that drowns me where I stand.
My office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach and city. The weight of my Glock at my hip. Danil at my right hand. Territory maps spread across mahogany. The taste of expensive vodka. The sound of men's voices going quiet when I enter a room. Blood on my knuckles. The cold satisfaction of watching rivals fall.
Aleksandr Romanov. Pakhan of the Romanov Bratva. Legitimate businesses as fronts. Underground operations that generate millions. Respect bought with fear. Loyalty enforced with violence.
I know exactly who I am now.
The headache intensifies, a vise crushing my temples. I press my palms against my eyes, but it doesn't stop the flood. Can't stop it. The memories keep coming, relentless and brutal.
The Orlov file. Stepan Orlov and his brother, skimming fifty thousand from my operations. Thinking they were clever. Thinking they could hide it.
They were wrong.
"Make an example," I'd said, my voice cold. Final. "Get rid of the daughter."
Danil had hesitated, just for a second. "She's twenty-three and has no involvement."
I remember her photograph. Thick and wavy dark hair. Pretty. Innocent.
I'd felt nothing.
"I don't care. She's family. She's the message. Find her and finish it."
I remember signing the order. Remember the scratch of pen on paper. Remember feeling nothing but cold efficiency as I condemned her to death for her father's sins.
The nausea hits hard. I double over, my stomach heaving, but nothing comes up. Just dry retching and the taste of bile and the crushing weight of what I've done.
I ordered her execution.
I looked at her photograph and signed her death warrant without blinking.
And she saved my life.
The irony is so sick it makes me want to laugh, but the sound that comes out is closer to a sob. My hands shake. My vision blurs. The headache pounds behind my eyes like a hammer against an anvil, each beat driving the memories deeper.
I know everything now. Every decision. Every kill. Every order given. The empire I built. The blood on my hands. The man I was.
A monster.
I hear movement behind me and turn, my body moving on instinct even though my mind is drowning.
Maya… no,Lena! Lena Orlova…stands in the doorway in her nightgown, the thin white fabric clinging to her curves. Her blonde hair is loose around her shoulders, still damp from her shower. Her dark blue eyes look at me with concern, and she takes a step toward me then stops.