Ch 57: The Living Must Go On
One week had passed since Anna's funeral. The days were growing longer.
Elena sat by the window in Kazimir's study, a book open in her lap. She had not turned a page in twenty minutes. Outside, clouds drifted past—slow, unhurried—and she watched them.
Kazimir sat at his desk, pen moving across paper.
Then a knock came.
"Come in," Kazimir said.
Nikolai stepped inside. He looked thinner, with shadows under his eyes, but his posture was still straight.
"Don." His gaze flicked to Elena, then back to Kazimir. "I need to speak with you. Both of you."
Kazimir set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "Go ahead."
Nikolai stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was neutral, but his jaw was tight.
"I'm stepping down. As your right hand."
Kazimir's expression did not change. "Explain."
Nikolai paused. "Alessandro needs me for his recovery. I can't do that and run your operations. I tried. But I can't focus. I'm failing at both."
Kazimir was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "I understand."
Nikolai's composure cracked slightly. "Thank you."
"Who do you recommend to take your place?"
"Timothy. He's been with me for years. The men trust him. He’s ready."
Kazimir nodded. "I'll speak with him today."
The room fell silent. The business was settled, but no one moved.
Elena sighed and set down her book.
'Sit down,' she mouthed, gesturing to the chair beside her. 'Please.'
Nikolai looked at her and his expression softened. He crossed the room and sat down.
“I'm taking a walk,” Kazimir said. He crossed to the door, glanced at Elena, then stepped out.
The room was quiet.
Elena waited for Nikolai to settle before she asked: 'How is he?'
"Alessandro?" Nikolai said, his voice rough. "He's alive. The artery they repaired is fragile. He can't exert himself—no lifting, no sudden movements."
'Is he awake now?'
"Yeah. Been for three days. But he's frustrated. He tried to get out of bed yesterday and nearly passed out."
‘He's strong,' she mouthed.
"No, he's stubborn. There's a difference."
'Maybe. But stubborn people survive.'
Nikolai was quiet. Then: "He asked about you yesterday. Wanted to know if you were alright."
Elena blinked. 'Me?'
"You saved his life. The paramedics said the pressure you applied kept him from bleeding out."
'I couldn't let him die.'
"I know. Neither could I."
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She studied his face—the exhaustion, the worry, something else she could not quite name. A vulnerability the old Nikolai would never have shown.
'What happens now? Between you, I mean.'
Nikolai turned toward the window. "I don't know. I treated him like a traitor. I believed the worst of him. And then he—" His voice broke, just slightly. He stopped compose himself.
Elena waited.
"I don't know how to face him." Nikolai said at last. "I don't know what to say. Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out."
He looked down at his hands.
"But I can't let him face this alone. Not in his state."
'And if he doesn't want help?'
Nikolai's jaw tightened. "That's not his choice. I'll be there regardless. I can't lose him."
Elena studied him for a moment before nodding. She touched his arm. 'He's lucky to have you.'
Nikolai squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Elena."
He rose from the chair. At the door, he paused, nodded once to the empty room where Kazimir had stood, and walked out.
Elena glanced at the door, replaying the version of Nikolai who had just walked out. Not the sharp, swaggering man she had first met, but someone quieter, stripped of his old bravado.
He's softer now, she realized. The man who had once been so sure of her guilt was now unsure of everything, including himself. He had admitted, aloud, that he didn't know what would happen between him and Alessandro. The old Nikolai would never have shown that kind of vulnerability.
Regret does that, she thought. Or the fear of losing him.
· · ─ · ✶ · ─ · ·
Alessandro's recovery room was on the second floor, in a quiet corridor away from the main traffic of the house. A guard sat in a chair outside the door. He nodded to Elena as she approached.
She pressed a finger to her lips and peered through the slightly ajar door.
Alessandro was propped against pillows, his chest wrapped in white bandages, his face pale against the white linen. He held a book in his lap, but his eyes were closed.
And beside him, in a chair pulled close to the bed, sat Nikolai. His hand rested on the edge of the mattress, inches from Alessandro's bandaged arm. Then, despite himself, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Alessandro's forehead. Alessandro did not wake. But his face seemed to relax, just slightly.
Elena watched for a moment longer then walked down the corridor.
They need food. Neither of them is eating enough.
· · ─ · ✶ · ─ · ·
The kitchen was warm and bright, filled with the smell of baked pastries.
When Elena entered, she saw Ophelia standing at the long wooden table. The stern woman crossed her flour-dusted arms over her chest, glaring at a kitchen boy who had reached for a loaf of bread.
Behind Ophelia, Greta sat on a stool near the hearth, shelling peas into a ceramic bowl. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, but she was humming a tune. Then she saw Elena and smiled.
"Sister! You're just in time. Ophelia's making honey cakes."
Ophelia snorted. "I'm making them for after dinner. Not for snacking now." But her eyes crinkled as she said it. "Mrs. Volkov. Do you want anything to eat?"
Elena shook her head. 'I need a tray. For Alessandro and Nikolai.'
The sharp lines on Ophelia’s face gentled. "Ah. That Conti. How is he?"
'Weak. But alive.'
Ophelia nodded. "Alive is a good place to start."
She turned and began moving around the kitchen—pulling a tray from the cupboard, arranging cups and a pot of tea, adding a plate of small meat pies. Her movements were efficient but unhurried.
"Take these. That Conti needs his strength."
Greta set down her bowl and hopped off her stool. "I can help carry it, Sister. It's heavy."
Elena shook her head. 'Stay. Help Ophelia.'
Greta looked like she wanted to argue.
Ophelia shot her a look. "She said stay, so stay. Those peas won't shell themselves."
The girl sighed dramatically and returned to her stool just as Timothy walked in.
He looked exhausted. His shirt was rumpled, his eyes ringed with dark circles. He moved to the counter and leaned against it, not quite sitting or standing.
Greta's hand stilled on the peas. "You look terrible, Timmy!”
Timothy groaned. "Thanks, Greta. That's just what a man wants to hear."
"Someone has to tell you the truth," she said, reaching for the coffee pot on the counter. She poured him a mug. "Here. You need it."
Timothy blinked at her. Then he took the mug and drank. His shoulders dropped. A long breath escaped him.
"You're an angel."
The girl grinned. "I know."
Timothy sank onto the stool beside her. Greta went back to shelling peas, but her smile became warmer.
Elena watched them. Something in her chest loosened. She smiled—the first since Anna died.
She picked up the tray and headed for the door.
Behind her, Greta's voice continue, light and teasing: "So are you going to tell me why you look like a ghost, or do I have to guess?"
Timothy's response was too low to hear, but Greta laughed—a bright, surprised sound that echoed off the stone walls.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/25/26