Page 162 of Violent Possession

I feel the danger of falling into a double trap, but I can’t help but follow the thread. If Seraphim is lying, it’s a performance so convincing it deserves an award; if he’s telling the truth, then everything I hated about Vasily disintegrates into the air, replaced by something worse: pity.

“The man who threatens you with death sits down with you to confess his past sins?”

“I am an excellent listener.” He gives me a crooked, cynical smile. He pauses. “Vasily never betrayed you in Istanbul. He just made a mistake. But the older brother he both idolized and feared accused him of treason. A shame. It happens. Since then, I get the impression that he only lives to prove that he’s not the failure you painted him to be.”

The memory of Istanbul overlays everything: the smell of gasoline at the port, the cry of birds over the Sea of Marmara, the blood running down the dock’s stone. I was there. I saw the operation fall apart, I saw the bodies of my men lined up like trash in black bags.

It’s devastating how it echoes. The space between me and my brother—always an abyss—suddenly widens. I try to deny it, to rationalize, to deflect. I can’t.

I refuse to accept without dissecting the messenger. He offers me my brother’s weakness in one hand while hiding the nature of his own involvement in the other. He paints himself as a mere confidant, but trust is not born at gunpoint.

Despite my suspicion of his methods, the story has the disgusting ring of truth. What I believed to be an act of betrayal could, in fact, be an act of weakness. And weakness, I realize, is infinitely more dangerous.

I press on. I need to know if Vasily didn’t simply lie to Seraphim. “What is your relationship with my brother, Seraphim?”

Seraphim lets out a puff of smoke, and I see him look genuinely perplexed.

“It’s…something,” he says finally. “It depends on the day, the dose of vodka, the size of the wound. Your brother is a contradictory man. One day, he treats me with a contempt that borders on hatred, accuses me of conspiracies, reminds me that I am a disposable mercenary.” He pauses, lost in memory. “The next, he shows up at my door in the middle of the night, drunk and soaked in rain, needing someone to listen while he laments about the father who never loved him enough.”

The image is so pathetic and soVasilythat I can visualize it. The idiot, in an expensive, soaking wet suit, smelling of cigarettes and vinegar, begging for someone to just listen. I always thought it was an act.

Now, I’m not so sure.

“He has threatened me with death more times than I can count,” Seraphim continues. “And yet, here I am. He doesn’t follow through on his threats.” He looks at me. Behind the analytical gleam in his eyes, I see a strange respect. “He’s not a strategist, Malakov. He’s a lonely and desperate man with too much power in his hands. And there is nothing more dangerous in the world than that.”

I can’t disagree.

All I see is the outline of Vasily, translucent, floating between me and Seraphim. The power of his diagnosis is that now, every memory of my entire life reorganizes around this narrative—Vasily the traitor becomes Vasily the orphan, Vasily the beggar for affection, Vasily the idiot who just wanted to be seen, even if it was through the dark reflection of my contempt.

I want to resist, but I can’t. I am the product of the same violence, the same abandonment, the same unbearable desire to be acknowledged by someone who will never acknowledge anything.

Seraphim sees the impact. He doesn’t even smile. He just waits, with the patience of saints or immortals.

I lean back in my chair and face Seraphim. His sincerity, or the performance of sincerity, was impeccable.

It no longer matters. His analysis is correct, and that is enough.

“Full amnesty,” I say finally. “Safe passage for you and yours. And the consequences of your future actions will be reserved for you alone. Those are your conditions.”

Seraphim nods, once. “They are.”

“You will have them,” I affirm. “With one addition. As long as this agreement lasts, you will not accept any work, from anyone, that goes against the interests of my family. You become a ghost to us, and we become ghosts to you.”

Seraphim considers my condition. It’s a fair move. He nods again. “Accepted.” He pauses, and I know the counter-proposal is coming. “But I also have an addition.”

He leans forward. All the lightness disappears from his face.

“Protect him,” he says, low. “Myrddin. Keep him alive. Judging by the news running through the city…” He gives a humorless smile. “...you haven’t been doing a very good job.”

The fight at the bar. Of course, he knows. His network sees everything.

“I deal with my family,” I say.

“Deal better,” Seraphim retorts, not backing down. “That is my condition. Keep him safe. If he dies, foranyreason, ouragreement dies with him. And all the secrets and information I have on your family… will become public domain. Understood?”

I look at him, the weight of his condition settling on me. He is asking for the life of the one man who matters to both of us.

It’s the one price I cannot refuse.