Chapter 41: The Cost of Protection

Days blurred into weeks inside the lock-down studio. The world outside the high, soundproof windows ceased to exist. My only reality was the drawing board, the technical schematics, and the growing, brutal clarity of the 'Sculpture.' I was using the rage, just as they commanded, twisting the chaos of my despair into a masterpiece of cold, controlled form.

My routine was simple: wake, work, eat a meal delivered by a silent attendant, and submit to the nightly inspection of my progress.

Dmitri and Ivan visited the studio most evenings, usually separately, sometimes together. Their visits were intense, focused, and always about the work. They rarely spoke about my mother or the outside world, yet their presence was a constant reminder of the chains.

One evening, I was struggling with the final structural calculation—how to make the illusion of a crushing weight feel physically unbearable, yet mathematically sound. Dmitri walked in quietly, carrying a small, heavy box.

He watched me for a minute, my head in my hands over the drawings.

"You're fighting the mathematics, Leo," Dmitri stated, setting the box down on the metal table. "It's the structure you need, not the emotion. The despair should be the fuel, not the engine block."

I looked up, my eyes tired. "The emotion is the engine, Dmitri. It’s the only thing making the lines move. If I didn't hate being here, this would be a simple, empty statue."

Dmitri tilted his head, a faint, complex expression crossing his face. "You confuse hate with purpose. But perhaps you are right. The purpose of this piece is to contain and express the weight of the Volkov name. If your suffering makes it heavier, so be it."

He paused, then pushed the box toward me. "This is for you. A token."

I looked at the box, heavy wood with a velvet lining. "I don't need gifts."

"It's not a gift," Dmitri countered, his voice firm. "It is compensation for the anxiety we cause. Open it."

I hesitated, then lifted the lid. Inside, resting on dark blue velvet, was a stunning, antique timepiece—a heavy, intricate pocket watch made of platinum. It was clearly priceless.

"It was Arthur's father's," Dmitri explained, his eyes fixed on the watch, not me. "A mechanism of perfect precision. It doesn't tell time, Leo. It tells certainty. It never loses a second. We value certainty above all things."

He looked up. "You are not a slave, Leo. You are a valued partner. And we compensate our partners well. But you must understand the cost of this certainty."

Before I could answer, the door opened and Ivan entered, his face tight and focused, holding his secure phone. He rarely interrupted Dmitri’s conversations unless it was critical business.

"Dmitri, the Herald just went live with the leaked files on Vance Gallery. The ones from the bankruptcy filing two years ago. They have the full breakdown of Leo's personal guarantee, the mismanaged loans, and the list of creditors who were never paid."

My stomach dropped out. I stumbled back from the table, hitting the workbench behind me. The panic was instantaneous, suffocating. That information was confidential, toxic, and utterly ruinous. It was the proof of my failure.

"The Herald? How?" I gasped, dizzy. "That was sealed! That was my deepest failure!"

Dmitri didn't even look at me. He was already moving, walking toward Ivan, his focus absolute. "Who is the source, Ivan?"

"It’s not just the bankruptcy; it's the personal debt. It paints Leo as a reckless, failed social climber who left a trail of financial wreckage," Ivan reported, his voice crisp. "The timing is too convenient. It's a retaliatory strike, likely from one of Liam's former associates who wants to embarrass us before the wedding. The article implies that Arthur is unknowingly bringing this financial and social liability into the family."

My mind spun into chaos. Mom! She would see this. She would see the final, devastating proof that her son was a failure, and that the financial security Arthur promised was already compromised by me.

"They'll destroy her," I whispered, the fear for her overcoming every other emotion. "The wedding, her reputation—it'll all be ruined before Friday. You promised me security!"

Dmitri turned to me, his eyes cold and unwavering. "And you have it, Leo. Your problem is, you confuse our protection with silence."

He returned his attention to Ivan. "Containment. Full spectrum. Call Arthur. Tell him the article is malicious slander from a competitor. Tell him to deny everything and prepare a counter-statement."

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, a ruthless clarity shining through. "Ivan, hit the Herald harder. Not legally. Financially. Freeze their advertising revenue from three key Volkov subsidiaries within the hour. Send a full security audit team to their holding company. Make them understand that running that article was more expensive than shutting down their printing press for a month."

"On it," Ivan said immediately, already dialing a number. "Digital suppression will be slower, but the original article will be buried under five thousand pieces of counter-content by morning. The search results will prioritize Arthur's statement."

"And the creditors?" Dmitri asked.

"Already paid in full two years ago, under an NDA," Ivan replied, glancing at his screen. "The records are fake, compiled from old public filings. The article is entirely false, but the damage is real."

Dmitri watched Ivan handle the crisis with effortless, brutal efficiency. Then he turned back to me, his expression intense, forcing me to grasp the reality of the situation.

"Do you see, Leo?" Dmitri’s voice was low, heavy with the terrifying weight of his power. "Your failure was not contained by your silence. Your failure was contained by our power. We don't just solve problems; we make the source of the problem disappear."

He gestured to the phone Ivan was using—a quiet war room in action. "Your freedom to live without us is the freedom to be financially ruined, publicly shamed, and to bring that shame down on your mother. Our control is the only reason that article will vanish by morning."

I swallowed hard, the bitterness of the realization overwhelming. I hated the mechanism, but I could not deny its necessity. The cold, hard truth was: my life had been too chaotic, too weak, and the twins' control was the only thing preventing my self-destruction from destroying Mom.

"I... I resent it," I said, the words strained, my voice thick with emotion. "I hate that I need it. I hate that I had to trade my autonomy for her security."

Dmitri nodded slowly, a dark satisfaction in his eyes. "That resentment is precisely the cost of protection, Leo. It's a heavy price. But ask yourself this: is that heavy price worse than the collapse of everything you love? The cage keeps the chaos out. The luxury keeps you focused. And the guilt keeps you working."

He picked up the platinum watch, its mechanism gleaming, and dropped it gently back into the velvet box. "Keep the watch, Leo. It is a reminder that in our world, certainty is the ultimate luxury. Start channeling that resentment into the 'Sculpture.' We need to see the weight of this exchange in the final form."

Dmitri then walked out, leaving Ivan still barking orders into his phone, effortlessly suppressing a major media scandal.

I stood there, staring at the black canvas of the city outside the window, feeling the profound, terrifying clarity of my new existence. I was trapped, but Mom was safe. And the cost of that protection was absolute. The resentment would be the fuel. I picked up the ch

arcoal stick. The work was waiting.