Chapter 1: Arrival in Kyiv
The plane touched down in Kyiv with a jolt that felt like the universe correcting itself. Viktor’s knuckles were white on the armrests. All he had were a few faded photographs and a name: Sergei Boyko. A father. A brother. A history.
The apartment block was a grim, Soviet-era monolith, all cracked concrete and rusty balconies. The elevator smelled of cabbage and wet dog. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he stood before the scarred wooden door, his small suitcase at his feet. Before he could knock, the door swung inward.
The man who filled the doorway wasn’t just tall; he was monumental. He had to duck his head slightly under the frame. A dense forest of grey-streaked black hair covered every visible inch of his arms, crawling up his thick neck and merging with a thick, bushy mustache. His eyes, deep-set and a surprisingly warm brown, crinkled at the corners.
“Viktor,” the man said, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. It wasn’t a question.
“Sergei?” Viktor’s own voice sounded painfully thin, English-accented, a child’s voice.
Sergei’s massive face broke into a wide smile. He stepped forward and enveloped Viktor in a bear hug. The smell was immediate and overwhelming: engine grease, sharp cigarette smoke, sour sweat, and underneath it all, something deeply, musky animal. It was the scent of a man who worked with his hands. Viktor’s slender frame disappeared into the hug, his face pressed into the rough, hairy chest.
“My boy,” Sergei murmured into his hair, his voice thick with an emotion Viktor couldn’t name.
Inside, the apartment was a testament to solitary male life. Functional, worn, clean in a perfunctory way. A shrine of framed icons occupied one corner, a television from another decade hummed in another. And then, from the narrow hallway, another figure emerged.
Viktor had seen a photo, but nothing prepared him for the physical reality of Dimitri.
He was shorter than his father but broader, a condensed powerhouse of muscle packed onto a frame that strained against a simple black t-shirt. His biceps were the size of Viktor’s thighs, veiny and defined. A wild, untamed black beard covered the lower half of his face, and a thatch of coarse dark hair spilled from the collar of his shirt. His eyes, the same blue as Viktor’s but harder, more certain, scanned him from head to toe.
“So, you are the little London brother,” Dimitri said. His voice was smoother than Sergei’s, but it had a gravelly undercurrent. He didn’t smile, but his gaze was intensely curious.
“This is Dimitri,” Sergei said, clapping a meaty hand on his older son’s mountainous shoulder. “Your brother.”
“Hi,” Viktor managed, feeling impossibly small and fragile. A confusing heat prickled under his skin. He looked away, focusing on the pattern of the linoleum floor.