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A heaviness settled in my chest as I watched them. There was a time when things were like this with my boys—a time darkenedby my choices, my mistakes. I closed my eyes to fend off the bleak thoughts, trying to dispel that red vision that had haunted me for four long years.

I sighed and began searching for my jacket when I froze—Roman, the youngest of our four siblings, was sneaking up behind our eldest. A mischievous smile spread across his face as he clutched a bucket of water. What amudak(idiot). It seemed our yearly football tournament was about to end with the “murder” of my little brother at the hands of my eldest.

That idiot always pulled a dirty trick during every match; just the other day, he nearly got a taste of Sasha’s baseball bat—our third brother. Fortunately for him, Roman ran fast.

“He’s gonna get himself killed,” said a monotone voice behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Sasha leaning against the wall, eyes on his phone, brows furrowed.

“Don’t overdo it—he’s just going to get wet, nothing dramatic,” I said, loosening the fuchsia cleats Roman had given me for my last birthday. Of course, I’d never wear them, but that idiot had rummaged through my suitcase meant for Italy and swapped my pair with those… things.

“Not any worse than the time he put horse manure in your sneakers,” I added, recalling our match two years ago at our estate in Russia. That day, he didn’t even pull out his baseball bat—instead, he brandished a semi-automatic, forcing us to repair the backyard fountain without our sister-in-law noticing.

I heard Sasha muttering behind me, tossing his towel to the ground. “The problem isn’t that he’s going to get wet—it’s what he’s going to get wet with,moy brat(my brother),” he said bitterly.

I froze and slowly raised my eyes toward Roman, now just a few steps from Grigori. “What the hell is in that damn bucket, Sasha ?” I asked darkly.

“I saw him circling the stables on his way back from my car—especially around the water troughs,” he replied, referring to the stables near the field we’d rented in Rome.

“Blyad’(damn)… you mean the troughs where the little ones played around… and did their business ?” Sasha merely nodded, wiping his forehead with his jersey before returning to his phone.

Damn…

“Greg !” I warned—but it was too late. Grigori looked up, his eyes full of confusion that vanished the moment Roman doused him with the bucket’s contents, grinning like a fool. A deathly silence fell over the field as my sons abandoned their activities, their eyes fixed on their uncles.

Grigori’s lips moved rapidly—no doubt unleashing a stream of curses—as he slowly turned and shot Roman the deadliest glare in our family’s history.

Roman still stood behind him, the bucket held high over Greg’s head.

“Roman,” Grigori growled.

“Moy brat,” Roman replied innocently.

“What the hell was in that bucket,moybrat ?” demanded Grigori, under the heavy stares of his sons who had also been splashed.

“Water,moy brat… and perhaps something more,” Roman dared to snicker.

“You bastard, I’m gonna kill you !” roared Grigori, leaping up like lightning.

Roman tossed the bucket over his shoulder and made the best getaway of the century, sprinting as the chase began across the field.

“Fifty bucks if he catches him,” mocked Ali, our associate, collapsing beside Mikhail and me.

My son made a sound of disapproval before pulling out a laptop—God knows from where—and showing us several graphs.

“The odds of Uncle Grigori catching Uncle Roman are slim, based on probabilities calculated from the past few months of similar pursuits,” Mikhail explained calmly.

I examined the graphs and nodded, while Ali gave me a baffled look.

“He’s right—Roman runs like an Arabian thoroughbred,” I confirmed.

I pulled out four vests from my sports bag—tossing one onto Mika’s head, another to Alex, sliding the third over Andrei, and slipping the last onto myself—just as my phone buzzed again. I grimaced at the flood of missed calls and messages, all from the same person.

Loud shouts drew my attention, and I muttered a curse as my brothers ran toward us. I yanked my twins’ hoods to clear the path, only to fall on my backside with the kids in my arms. Roman leapt over the bench, dodged Sasha—who barely glanced up—and bolted toward the exit. Grigori followed, though less gracefully, crashing into Sasha and soaking him before tearing after Roman.

Sasha threw aside his phone and nearly ripped off his jersey in disgust, hurling it after Roman while cursing him. And as if by divine justice, Roman tripped over Dimitri’s cleats and slammed flat onto the grass.

“Looks like your odds were off,evlat(kid),” teased Ali, bumping Mikhail’s shoulder.