I hold up the letter. "Then it means you fucked up again. The threat isn't a mystery. There is a clear action and consequence. If you don't want the consequence, don't mess up."

My twin shakes his head and looks down at the floor. "You say that like it is easy."

"It can be," I say. "You have to want it, Mikhail. You have to fight for it."

"You think I'm not fighting?" The chair he was sitting in is across the room and on its side before I can even jerk back in surprise. He leaned forward, his palms flat on my desk, and I met him head on, refusing to turn away. "You think I like being this way?"

"Yeah, I do." I stand up so we are the same height, my eyes looking straight into his. To anyone walking by, it would look like I was looking in a mirror. "Because if you didn't like it, you'd change it."

Mikhail's eyes go hard, and he leans forward until his nose is only an inch from mine.

"Fuck. You."

I sigh and sit back down, too tired to deal with him right now. It feels like I've been too tired for years. Mikhail wants my sympathy. He wants me to feel bad for him, but he doesn't want the truth. He doesn't want to hear how he is failing. Because honestly, I think he already knows.

Mikhail knows that he has a problem. He knows he needs to get off the drugs and get away from his lowlife friends and the women who cling to him because he pays for them to get high. He knows this life will kill him if he doesn't get away, but it is easier not to think about it and drown his worries in the bottom of a bottle or the end of a line.

"And fuck Dad, too," he adds, pushing off my desk and stumbling backwards. When I don't say anything, he moves to sit down, but remembers he threw his chair. He looks sheepish as he picks it up and sits it upright across from my desk. "Neither of you know what it's like to be me."

My brother is like a small child. Selfish and self-absorbed. He can't think beyond his own needs and wants. Even if he does get clean, he won't be the kind of boss our father is. People won't respect him. Still, I'd rather it be him than me.

"Maybe we don't," I say. "But we seem to be the only people who know what you could become."

Mikhail rolls his eyes, but I can see that my words are breaking through his wall. He is softening.

"You seem to think this is all you'll ever be," I say, waving a hand at his stained clothes and bloodshot eyes. "But Dad has always seen a leader in you."

He presses his lips together until they are white. Then, he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

He folds his hands together in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. "What do you see?"

I stand up and walk around the desk until I'm standing in front of him. I rest on the edge, legs crossed at the ankles. "I've always seen my brother. My twin. And I have every bit of faith that he is in there somewhere, and he'll return one day."

He stares at the wall for a long time, his eyes flicking up towards the ceiling, and I know he is fighting back tears. "The ultimatum won't do shit for me," he says finally.

"Losing your family isn't enough motivation?"

Before Mikhail walked in, I hadn't realized how tired I was. Now, exhaustion seeps into my bones. I feel like I could fall over at any second.

Mikhail points a shaking finger at me. "That's why you don't get it, Alek. I already feel like I've lost my family."

"How?" I don't mean to raise my voice, but I can't take his victim act anymore. How he can think he has been alone when I've been covering for him with Dad for years is absurd.

"Because I'm in this alone," he says, gesturing down to himself. "No one knows how it feels to need what I need. No one gets the pull. And because they don't get it, they don't get me."

I think his logic is bullshit, but this is the closest we've ever been to a real conversation about his issues. And I can see that Mikhail wants me to get it. He wants someone to understand. For the first time, he is reaching out for help.

"I'm not going to shoot up so I can understand you," I say firmly. "But I will always have your back. Always."

He nods. "That is all I need. I need you to help me. Support me."

I run a hand through my hair. It is greasy; I desperately need a shower. I check the watch at my wrist and realize, suddenly, I need to be on a plane to St. Petersburg in eight hours, and I haven't packed yet.

"You need rehab," I say, pushing myself to standing and walking back around my desk. I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and shrug it on.

He snorts. "Rehab doesn't do shit."

"Doing nothing doesn't do shit," I say. "Rehab at least shows you are trying. It shows that you care. Go and get clean. Then, we start from square one. Together."

He has been to rehab before. Never consistently. Never long enough to clean himself up properly, and I can tell he doesn't like the idea even now. But I don't care.

"Is that your condition?" he asks.

I nod. "My own ultimatum. Go to rehab and prove to me you're serious. Then, I'll stand by your side. If not, you are on your own."

He sighs, and I can already tell he is going to give in. We have the same face, which makes him incredibly easy to read. "Will you at least go with me to check in?"

I shove my wallet in my back pocket and shake my head. "I can't. I'm leaving first thing in the morning to oversee a weapons shipment. You have to take this first step on your own, big brother."

I walk to the door and flip the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. When Mikhail turns around, I can see his blue eyes shining in the light from the hallway. He looks at me for a second before looking down at the floor and shuffling past me.

"Are you going to go?" I ask when he reaches the end of the hallway.

He gives me a thumbs up over his shoulder, but he doesn't turn around. I shut the door to my office and follow him out, hoping he's telling the truth.

Chapter 2

ZOYA

MY MOTHER SITS SILENTLY in the seat next to me, her gaze fixed on the blurry scenery passing outside the window. She hasn't looked at me since we pulled out of the parking lot. She hasn't really looked at me since I delivered the news a month ago.

Getting pregnant was not part of the plan. Eventually, sure. But not now. Not when we'd only lost my father a few months before, when my mother was mired in a dark pit of grief. And certainly not when I would have to do it all on my own. No, the pregnancy had been an accident, but my mother didn't see it that way.

"The baby seemed big," I say, my voice expanding in the tight space of the car, filling every crevice. I'd spoken softly, but it still felt too loud.

My mother hums in agreement.

"I think the image was blown up, though," I say, tapping the black and white sonogram image sitting in the cup holder. "I'm not showing enough to have a baby that big inside of me."

"They magnify it." She turns to look forward, her face pulled back in an expressionless mask. Her lips, which only a few months ago were constantly turned upwards in a smile, sag towards her jaw. She looks older.

"Did you have sonograms with me?" I ask. "When you were pregnant, I mean? Did they have the machines back then?"

"I'm not that old," she says, her voice filled with a playfulness I haven't heard in too long.

"If you say so," I tease back, but when I elbow her arm across the console, her mouth tightens and she pulls her arms closer to her sides.

I swallow back my disappointment and turn down the long road that leads to the estate where we both work and live. The Levushkas hired my parents as caretakers to the sprawling estate when they were freshly married and my mother was pregnant with me. They were young and didn't have any skills, but the mafia family found a rare bit of pity for their situation.

My parents were forever grateful to the Levushkas and dutifully held their position for the last twenty years. And now that my father has recently passed, my mother is even more committed to her employer, Boris Levushka. Our employer, really. As soon as I was old enough to work, I started alongside my mother as a maid in Boris' home. Now that my father is gone, however, my mother has been taking on his duties, as well, leaving more of the cleaning to me.

"We are running late," she says, glancing towards the clock on the dash and then back out the window.

"We said we would be back at ten," I remind her.

"Yes," she says with a frustrated tip of her head. "And it is five after."

"Boris knows how doctor's appointments can go, mother. He won't-"

"Mr. Levushka," she says. "You should call him Mr. Levushka."

My brows pull together. "I've always called him Boris."

Growing up on the estate, I had free run of the grounds. My parents kept me inside our cottage when important guests were staying in the main house or when a deal was being worked out, but otherwise, I ran between our cottage and the estate's kitchens as though it was an extension of my own house. And Boris was always kind to me.

He is a broad man with a thick neck and arms, and his shiny bald head makes his smile look menacing, but he always had a smile for me as a child. I'd seen him raise his voice to other household staff, berating them for simple mistakes, but even once I began working for him, he had a special fondness for me that I attributed to the fact he had watched me grow up.

"That was before," my mother says.

"Before what?" Before I began working for him? That had been four years ago, so if he minded me calling him by his first name, certainly he would have said by now. Or did she mean...?

Finally, my mother acknowledged the sonogram picture sitting in the cup holder between us. She pointed to it with a stiff finger. "Before this."

Before the pregnancy. Yes, many things were different before the pregnancy. For one, my mother would look at me. She would smile and laugh. She would pull me into a hug at the end of the day and kiss me on the forehead. Now, I'm trapped in the after. When my own mother is so consumed by disappointment that she can't even say my name.

"Why did you come today?" I ask, finally voicing the question that had been burning inside of me since she told me she asked Boris-Mr. Levushka-for the morning off. "Why did you come with me if you can't even bring yourself to look at a picture of my baby?"

She stiffened at the words. My baby. "You shouldn't be alone."

"I'm alone all day," I argue. "I spend hours cleaning rooms in silence. Not to mention coming back to the cottage at the end of the day to find you are already in your room. You don't mind that I'm alone then."

She crosses her arms over her chest. She is thinner than she was a few months ago, and I want to ask if she is eating. She hasn't had dinner with me for the last week, but I'd assumed she was eating before I came home. Now, I'm not so sure. "The doctor is different."

"How?" I want her to look at me. Being silent and waiting for her anger to pass clearly hasn't worked, so perhaps I should try asking her all the questions I've kept pent inside. Maybe I should force her to voice the thoughts and feelings she has been silently stewing over for the last month. Maybe it will help.

"They could give you bad news," she says sharply, her tone in direct opposition to the concern shown by her words. "You shouldn't drive after news like that. Someone should be there for you."

The stone around my heart softens, and I reach across the console to lay my hand over hers. "That is different," I agree softly. Tears spring to my eyes at the thought that my mother still cares. She still worries for me, still wants to be there for me. However, they dry immediately when she wrenches her hand away and leans into the passenger side door.

"And it shouldn't be me," she snaps. "It should be your husband. Or boyfriend, at least. But you do not have one of those."

Her words slithered down my spine like ice water, sending a shiver through me. "No, I don't."

"It should be the father of your child," she said, pointing again to the sonogram in the cup holder. "He should be the one here to take care of you. Where is he?"

We'd had this discussion too many times to count in the last month, and it always ended the same way. Me, closed-lipped and burning with shame, my mother marching off to her room and slamming the door.

I turn onto the gravel driveway that stems from the main road and wraps around the back of our cottage. It is narrow and bumpy, used only by the very few people who ever make their way to our house.

When I don't say anything, my mother sighs and shakes her head. As soon as I park our beat-up car behind the house, she throws open the door and marches inside. I know where she is headed-her room. She will hide in there until I go up to the main house to work. Then, she will emerge and go about her day, doing her best to pretend I don't exist. To avoid me. I can't live this way anymore. Losing my father was hard enough, but now I've lost my mother, too.

I follow behind her, grabbing her arm just before she can grab the handle. She gasps when I grab her, but I'm too angry to care.

"Why are you acting this way?" I feel more like the parent in this moment. Like I'm disciplining a stubborn child. "You cannot just avoid me until the pregnancy is over. You do realize that, right? At the end of this, there will be a child. A baby who will need to be taken care of. Are you going to ignore me then, too? Are you going to continue pretending I do not exist until you join Father, wherever he is?"

"Do not speak to me like that," she hisses, stepping forward, her nose inches from mine. We are the same height and build, though her body is softer, thicker around the hips and thighs. And her eyes are a deep, dark brown. My blue eyes came from my father. "I am still your mother."

"You haven't been acting like it." My voice is loud enough that she takes a step backwards, but she isn't giving up. Not a bit. Her eyes narrow.

"I've been your mother for twenty years, Zoya." It is the first time she has said my name in a month, and I almost sigh at the relief. Even in her anger, it feels good to hear it. "I have raised you and cared for you in the way I thought was right. I've cleaned toilets and scrubbed floors and dishes to make sure you could have a good life."

"I do have a good life," I say, lifting my arms to gesture to our modest, but clean cottage. There is a flower bed in the backyard where my father and I planted herbs and a few vegetables. Flowers bloom from the ground in colorful bouquets on the other side of the door. My parents built something here in this cottage, and I am happy to continue it. I had a happy childhood, and that is all I can hope for my own child.

My mother shakes her head. "A better life. I wanted you to have a better life than me."