Page 5 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
The library smells like old paper and lemon polish, a combination I've come to find comforting over the past five years. I run my fingers along the spines of books as I walk down the aisle, checking for any that are out of place. It's a Saturday afternoon, which means the library is quieter than usual. Most people are out enjoying their weekend, living normal lives, doing normal things.
I can't remember what normal feels like anymore.
Nine years. That's how long it's been since I left Russia. Since my father went to testify and I found myself on a plane with nothing but a small suitcase, my mother's jewelry box, and a warning that changed my life forever.Don't trust anyone. Don't make friends. Don't let your guard down, not even for a moment. The Bratva doesn't forget, and they don't forgive.
I've followed his rules perfectly, every single day for nine years.
"Can you help me with this?" Daisy calls from the front desk.
I make my way to the circulation desk where Daisy is struggling with the computer system. She's in her early twenties, fresh out of college, with bright red hair and an enthusiasm for life that I sometimes envy. She talks about her boyfriend, her friends, and her plans for the future. All the things I can't have.
"What's wrong?" I ask, leaning over to look at the screen.
"It keeps freezing when I try to check out these books." She gestures at the stack in front of her, frustration clear on her freckled face.
I click through a few screens, finding the problem quickly. It's a simple fix, one I've done dozens of times before. The system is old and temperamental, but I know its quirks better than anyone.
"There. Should work now."
"You're a lifesaver." She grins at me. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
I offer her a small smile in return, the kind that's polite but doesn't invite further conversation. Daisy is nice. She's tried to be my friend, inviting me out for drinks after work and asking me to join her and her friends for movie nights. I always decline. I can't afford friends. Can't afford connections. The Bratva has a long reach and I can't take any chances.
Even a sweet girl with red hair and freckles who just wants someone to share happy hour with.
I return to my work, moving through the stacks with practiced efficiency. This job is perfect for me. Libraries are quiet places where people come to lose themselves in stories. They don't come here to socialize or make connections. And the Bratva? I'venever known many—or any—of them to frequent libraries. It's the last place they'd think to look for someone like me.
The morning passes slowly, each minute ticking by with the steady rhythm of a metronome. I catalog new arrivals, running my fingers over fresh covers and crisp pages. I help a few patrons find books, directing them to the right sections with the efficiency of someone who knows every corner of this building. And I repair a torn page in an old copy of Tolstoy, carefully applying tape to the delicate paper.
The irony isn't lost on me. I left Russia to escape my past, but I can't seem to escape Russian literature. Maybe it's because these books are the only connection I have left to the country I once called home, the only piece of my old life that doesn't feel dangerous to hold onto.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life would have been like if my father hadn't been who he was. If he hadn't worked for the Bratva. Would I still be in Moscow? Would I have finished university? Would I have fallen in love, gotten married, and had children?
Would I have been happy?
I push the thoughts away. There's no point in wondering about a life I'll never have. That girl died nine years ago. Now there's only this life, quiet, careful, utterly unremarkable.
When lunchtime arrives, I tell Daisy I'm heading out.
I go to the diner across the street at least twice a week. But I'm careful about it, varying my schedule so there's no pattern anyone could track. Monday one week, Thursday the next. Sometimes I go at noon, sometimes at one. Never the same routine twice in a row. Today just happens to be one of thosedays when I need to pretend, even if just for an hour, that I'm someone else.
The diner is small and worn, with cracked vinyl booths and a counter that's seen better days. The floor tiles are chipped in places and the fluorescent lights flicker occasionally, but it's clean and the food is decent, and most importantly, it's quiet. I slide into my usual booth in the back corner, the one that gives me a clear view of both the entrance and the street outside.
Old habits die hard. My father taught me to always know my exits, to always position myself where I can see who's coming. Even here, in this rundown diner in a small American town thousands of miles from Moscow, I can't break those habits.
A waitress I recognize but don't know the name of comes over with a menu. I've seen her dozens of times, but I've never asked her name, never engaged in small talk beyond please and thank you. She's middle-aged, tired-looking, with lines around her eyes that speak of a hard life. But she's kind in a distant sort of way, never pushing for conversation.
I order the same thing I always do—a turkey sandwich and coffee. She doesn't comment on my predictability, just writes it down and walks away. I wonder if she notices that I always order the same thing. I wonder if she thinks about me at all or if I'm just another faceless customer in an endless stream of them.
I sit watching people pass by the window. A mother with two small children, the kids laughing and pulling at her hands. An elderly couple holding hands, moving slowly but together. A businessman talking animatedly on his phone, gesturing with his free hand. Normal people living normal lives. I wonder what that feels like, to walk down the street without constantlylooking over my shoulder, to make plans for the future without wondering if I'll live to see them through.
My father warned me this would be my life. The Bratva would be watching, waiting for any sign of where I'd gone. He promised he'd reach out when it was safe, but nine years have passed and I've heard nothing.
Not a letter. Not a phone call. Not even a message passed through a third party.
Sometimes, I wonder if he's even still alive. Sometimes, I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling of my small apartment, and imagine all the terrible things that might have happened to him.
I push the thought away, forcing myself to focus on the present. I can't afford to think like that. I have to believe he's alive, that his testifying and both of us hiding out all these years haven't been for nothing.
