Sasha, Not Aleks

three - Сестра Alina

SASHA

My youngest cousin, Alina, was born on Wednesday morning at 10. Perfectly on time for what they expected and perfectly healthy.

I was never really a newborn person, I find they look a little too close to potatoes to find cute, but Alina, with a little dusting of brown hair and lungs to wake up the dead, surpasses that.

I was let into the hospital room at the same time as Uncle Ilya and Aunt Sophie.

To this day, I'm still not sure why Ilya and Nikita trust me. My father is more than capable of sending me in to find out their secrets or steal their money or do something very much along the lines of what my Dad likes to do, but Ilya and Nikita took me right under their wings from the moment I stepped into St. Petersburg for the first time at 18 hopefully until forever.

It was a weird experience, but I knew that if I wanted to get out, I would have to lean on the other side of my father's family, and getting that help would require one hell of a leap of faith.

So I did what I had to, I walked up to the front door of their house in the rain the moment I turned 18 and they took me right back despite the fact that my father is very much capable of using me to spy on them.

And now I'm sitting here, holding his newborn out so that his middle son can see her.

"Be gentle, here," I let Misha crawl up onto the chair next to mine and kneel, leaning on my shoulder and looking down at her. "Hold out your hand," I tell him, bringing his fingers forward so that the baby can find them with her own little fingers.

"She's holding my fingers," Misha mumbles, leaning his cheek against my shoulder.

"She's been grabby," I look up at Nikita who just smiles and shakes his head. "She'll be a fair shot on your hockey team, you think?"

Misha's eyes go wide, "she's going to play hockey?"

"Maybe," I shift my under arm, nestling her closer to my chest so I can keep her balanced. "You know, when you were this tiny-"

"I was this small?"

"Mhmm," I smile, "I remember it like yesterday. When you were this tiny, you were a really big fan of making obscene gestures at me."

That gets a genuine laugh out of Inessa, who's mostly dozed off in the hospital bed. I look up at her and Nikita, giving them a wink.

"What are obscene gestures?" Misha is still staring with huge eyes down at his sister, fingers caught up in her little hands.

"Do you know what sign language is?" I ask, quietly.

"Yeah," he mumbles, very much only paying attention to me on the side of his sister.

"It's sign language for swearing."

That gets Misha's attention, his full attention, "I swore at you?"

"All the time."

Misha looks completely stricken, "I'm sorry Sasha," his voice is all small and scared, "I didn't mean to."

"I know that," I laugh, "you didn't know what you were doing. Trust me, I know you didn't mean it."

He seems to think that's an alright explanation and goes back to staring at his sister.

***

The moment Nikita and Inessa are home from the hospital, Uncle Nikita and Uncle Ilya corner me again, sitting me down with their version of a good gameplan, a good way of getting me out if nothing goes public and a good way of keeping me out of jail if it does.

"He's my brother," Nikita says, handing me a beer, "I know him and I know he wouldn't change in the ten years I haven't seen him. He won't back down on this. He's going to make you go through with this and then the second you're done you're going to have to disappear. He'll bribe you and pull you back in again and with that, you'll be stuck forever with this group. I'm sorry it's gotten to this point, Sasha, but I'm afraid this is what you're left with."

I pop the top off with the opener he hands me and settle back into the patio furniture, "I know."

"So figure out how you're going to say goodbye to Zoya and Andrei because you know your father has them so roped in they'll pick the mob over you."

"I know."

"Kind of a shame," Ilya sighs, taking a sip of his own beer.

Nikita nods, "it's their choice but it is a shame."

"Now, Sasha," Ilya looks over at me, a quiet seriousness to his voice, "you have to make a decision. You have to choose to be stronger than your father. You're 24, you can handle it."

"You have to decide if you're going to be Sasha like the one that showed up to my door at eighteen or Sasha like the one you are with my son," Nikita says. "Because the Sasha you are with Misha isn't going to last one moment under your father's verdict. I understand you've been let out of it because you're the runt of that family and nobody saw you to be useful spare being a cook, but your father is ruthless."

I nod, "I understand."

"Which brings about another problem," Ilya branches off what his brother said, "you have to be smart in there, smart enough not to get caught with this and smart enough to get out, but you can't be too smart. Your father can't know that you're smarter than he is because he will force you, concrete shoes or not, to stay with him to be his little mastermind. You're smart as a whip, Sasha, you can't let him know."

Nikita is watching me closely from the other side of the patio, exhaustion behind his eyes because of his new daughter but not failing in their focus. "What do you want to do when you're free?"

I swallow. I've always feared them asking this question, they expect me to want to do something like they have done, finance, investing, business, something lucrative and expensive. I hate that shit.

"I want to be a cook, keep being a cook. I like it." I wince the second it's out of my mouth.

My uncles share a quick glance but Ilya is the one to speak, "but you're smart enough to-"

"It doesn't matter," I cut him off, "I want to cook things. I like cooking things. It makes me happy. I can do anything with it. I want to have a little restaurant and that's it."

"It's not a very..." Ilya breathes out, "substantial wage."

"It's fine, that's good, I want that," I shake my head, "look at you guys, my Dad went nuts chasing money, you guys are constantly being threatened and having your lives at stake. I just want to live a quiet little life and not mess with that. I'm alright with a living wage. I don't need expensive things. What's a yacht if I hate it?"

My Uncles, though I know they don't really get that, seem to be putting on the act that they do.

"So you're going to be a chef?" Nikita asks. "That's it?"

I nod.

"Where?"

"What do you mean?" I look up at the pair of them.

"In Russia or in the United States? You already run the front for your Dad, the little place you've talked about often, but I doubt he's going to let you have that when you're done." Ilya asks before returning his lips to the edge of his bottle.

"Um," I clear my throat, "I don't know. I figure I'll stay here until it blows over, maybe a year or so, work a little bit and then see how I'm doing after that point. I like the US, I'm more familiar with the US, I sound more American than I do Russian and I have more of a base there, but I don't... I don't know. After this? I don't know."

"You're not a go with the flow person, Aleksandr," Nikita sighs, "you'll have this figured out completely by the end of these two weeks. You'll know what you're doing before getting on the plane back to the United States."

I will, I know that. I have to. I'll have a nervous breakdown if I don't.