A Winter Morning in the Morozov Estate

Author POV

Twenty-three years ago - Morozov

Family Dacha, outskirts of Moscow

Snow blanketed the grounds like fresh icing sugar.

The dacha-smaller than the main Moscow mansion but no less grand-sat nestled among pines heavy with frost.

Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney. Inside, the smell of fresh bread, cinnamon, and woodsmoke filled every corner.

Valentina Morozova, still radiant even in a simple wool sweater and flour-dusted apron, chased her ten-year-old son across the wide kitchen.

"Tyler! Bas karo, ruk jao!"

(Tyler! Stop it, come here!)

Tyler-small, dark-haired, already showing the sharp features that would one day make grown men flinch-darted around the oak table, laughing wildly, a half-eaten jam bun clutched in his fist like a trophy.

"No, Mumma! Plzzz! Ek aur bite!"

(No, Mumma! Please! One more bite!)



(10 year old tyler)

Valentina laughed (bright, breathless), lunging to catch him.

"Arre, yeh kya ek bite hai? Poora bun kha rahe ho! Breakfast table pe baitho, properly khao!"

(What do you mean one bite? You're eating the whole bun! Sit at the breakfast table and eat properly!)

Tyler ducked under her arm, slid across the polished floor in his socks, and hid behind one of the tall chairs.

"Catch me first!"

Valentina planted her hands on her hips, pretending to be stern.

"Tyler Siddhartha Morozov. One. Two-"

Before she reached three, strong arms wrapped around Tyler from behind and lifted him clean off the floor.

Siddhartha Morozov-thirty, tall, dark-eyed, already carrying the quiet menace that would one day rule half of Russia's underworld-grinned down at his squirming son.

"What's this, my little tiger?" he rumbled, voice warm with amusement. "Why aren't you listening to your mother?"

Tyler kicked his legs, giggling helplessly.

"Papa! Save me! Mumma wants to starve me!"

Siddhartha laughed (deep, rich), spinning Tyler once before setting him on the table edge.

"Starve you? With all this food?"

He gestured to the spread: fresh pirozhki, blini with honey, warm milk in a silver pot, bowls of jam and cream.

Tyler pouted dramatically.

"She said only one bun!"

Valentina crossed her arms, eyes twinkling.

"One bun after you finish your eggs and milk. Not before. Rules are rules, beta."

Tyler looked up at his father with exaggerated betrayal.

"Papa, tell her I'm growing! I need energy! For... for fighting dragons!"

Siddhartha raised a brow, playing along.

"Dragons, huh? And where are these dragons?"

Tyler pointed toward the window dramatically.

"Outside! In the forest! I saw one last night from my room!"

Valentina gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to her chest.

"A dragon? In our forest? Then you must eat all your breakfast, little knight.

Dragons don't fear skinny boys."

Tyler's eyes widened.

"Really?"

Siddhartha nodded solemnly.

"Really. A strong knight needs strength. Eggs. Milk. Two buns-only if you finish everything else first."

Tyler considered this very seriously, then nodded.

"Okay. Deal."

Siddhartha lifted him down and set him on the chair like a king taking his throne.

Valentina slid a plate in front of him (eggs, fresh bread, a generous dollop of jam).

"See? Teamwork," she said, winking at her husband.

Siddhartha caught her waist, pulled her close, kissed her temple.

"Always teamwork," he murmured, just for her.

Valentina smiled up at him (soft, private, full of years of shared secrets).

Tyler, already stuffing his face, spoke with his mouth full.

"Mumma, Papa, when I grow up, I'm going to be stronger than Papa. I'll protect both of you from dragons. And bad guys. And... and boring lessons."

Siddhartha laughed, ruffling his son's hair.

"You'll be stronger than me, little tiger. But you'll also listen to your mother. That's the real strength."

Valentina leaned down, kissed Tyler's sticky cheek.

"And you'll always eat breakfast properly. That's an order from your queen."

Tyler grinned (jam on his chin, eyes bright).

"Yes, Mumma. Yes, Papa."

Outside, snow continued to fall.

Inside, a small, perfect family laughed over breakfast.

No shadows yet.

No blood on the snow.

No whispered secrets waiting to surface.

Just a mother, a father, and a boy who still believed dragons were the only monsters in the world.

But even in the happiest mornings, something is always waiting in the dark.

And it never stays buried forever.

.

.

.

Family Dacha, late afternoon

The snow had stopped falling by mid-afternoon, leaving the world outside the dacha wrapped in perfect, unbroken white.

Inside, the house smelled like heaven: simmering borscht, fresh dill, garlic frying in butter, and the sweet dough Valentina was rolling out for pirozhki.

She stood at the wide kitchen island, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, dark hair tied back in a loose knot, humming an old Russian lullaby under her breath.

Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove.

A small radio on the windowsill played soft balalaika music-nothing loud, just enough to fill the quiet spaces.

Valentina glanced at the clock.

Siddhartha would be home soon.

She smiled to herself as she crimped the edges of another dumpling.

Across the estate, in the small private office attached to the main house, Siddhartha Morozov sat behind a heavy oak desk.

The room was warm-fireplace crackling, walls lined with books and old maps.

A single lamp cast a golden circle over the papers in front of him.

He was reviewing shipment manifests: dates, routes, quantities of "agricultural equipment" being moved from St. Petersburg to a warehouse outside Novosibirsk.

Numbers, signatures, coded notations only a handful of people in the world could read.

Siddhartha's pen moved steadily across the page, underlining a delivery window.

His phone buzzed once-short message from one of his lieutenants.

He read it, nodded to himself, typed a quick reply, then set the phone aside.

Everything was on schedule.

He leaned back in the chair, stretched his arms above his head, and let out a long breath.

For a moment, the weight of the world outside the dacha lifted.

Here, in this room, he was just a man who wanted to be home for dinner.

He stood, adjusted his sweater, and walked to the window.

Through the glass he could see the garden path already swept clean, smoke rising from the main chimney, and-there-his son running across the snow in his red coat, waving a wooden sword at an invisible dragon.

Siddhartha's mouth curved into a rare, unguarded smile.

He turned off the desk lamp, locked the drawer containing the manifests, and headed for the kitchen.

Valentina looked up the moment he stepped through the doorway.

"You're early," she said, smiling. "I thought you'd be buried in papers until dinner."

Siddhartha crossed the room, slid his arms around her from behind, and kissed the side of her neck.

"Couldn't stay away from the smell of your cooking any longer," he murmured against her skin.

She laughed softly, leaning back into him.

"Liar. You just wanted to steal a pirozhki before Tyler sees them."

He grinned against her shoulder.

"Guilty."

She turned in his arms, brushed flour off his cheek with her thumb.

"You have some here," she said tenderly.

He caught her hand, kissed her palm.

"And you have some here," he said, tapping the tip of her nose where a speck of flour had landed.

She wrinkled her nose at him.

"Romantic."

"Always," he replied, kissing her properly this time-slow, warm, the kind of kiss that said more than words ever could.

From outside came Tyler's triumphant yell:

"I got the dragon! Mumma! Papa! Come see.

Valentina laughed against Siddhartha's lips.

"Duty calls."

Siddhartha stole one more kiss before letting her go.

"I'll get him cleaned up. You finish the food. I want to eat with my family tonight-no phone, no papers, just us."

She looked up at him, eyes soft.

"I'd like that."

He kissed her forehead once more, then headed outside to rescue his son from imaginary dragons.

Valentina watched him go, smiling to herself as she turned back to the stove.

Outside, Siddhartha scooped Tyler up onto his shoulders.

"Did you slay it, little tiger?"

Tyler brandished his wooden sword.

"Dead! Right in the heart!"

Siddhartha laughed, deep and warm.

"Good. Now let's go wash those hands before your mother sees you covered in snow and jam."

Inside, Valentina stirred the borscht, hummed the lullaby again, and thought how lucky she was-to have this house, this man, this boy.

A perfect winter afternoon.

A perfect little family.

No shadows.

No warnings.

Just warmth, laughter, and the quiet promise of many more days like this.

But even the happiest mornings carry secrets.

.

.

.

The First Day After Winter Break

Author POV

Elite Private Academy, Moscow

The school courtyard was a battlefield of snowballs and shouted Russian curses by the time the morning bell rang.

Fifth-graders in navy blazers and red scarves spilled out of classrooms like ants from a kicked nest.

The January cold bit hard, but no one cared-winter break had ended, and the hierarchy of the playground had to be re-established.

Tyler Morozov, ten years old and already taller than most of his classmates, walked alone across the snow-dusted quad.

His dark coat was unbuttoned (because buttons were for weaklings), scarf loose around his neck, hands in his pockets.

He didn't look for friends.

Friends found him-if they were brave enough.

He was halfway to the gymnasium when he heard it.

"Petrova! Where's your rich daddy today? Oh wait-he doesn't have one!"

Laughter-sharp, mean, belonging to three boys in the same grade.

They had cornered a smaller kid against the brick wall near the equipment shed.

The boy-blond hair, blue eyes, thin shoulders-was clutching a worn sketchbook to his chest like a shield.



( 9 year old Nicola)

One of the bullies (a stocky kid named Dima) snatched the book.

"Drawing again? What is this-fairies? You're such a girl, Petrova."

The blond boy (Nicola) didn't cry.

He didn't beg.

He just stared at Dima with quiet, burning eyes and said, very softly:

"Give it back."

Dima laughed louder, opened the sketchbook, and tore out a page.

Tyler stopped walking.

Something cold and bright flared in his chest-not anger exactly, but recognition.

He knew bullies.

He knew what it felt like to be the smallest thing in the room and still refuse to break.

He turned.

Three steps.

That's all it took.

Dima didn't even see him coming.

Tyler's fist connected with Dima's cheek-clean, hard, no hesitation.

The bigger boy staggered, dropped the sketchbook into the snow.

The other two spun around.

"Morozov?!" one of them yelped. "What the hell-"

Tyler didn't answer with words.

He grabbed the second boy by the collar, yanked him forward, and drove a knee into his stomach.

The kid folded like paper.

The third tried to run.

Tyler caught him by the scarf, pulled him back, and punched him once-square in the nose.

Blood bloomed instantly.

The entire quad went silent.

Teachers were already running from the building, shouting.

Tyler didn't move.

He just looked down at the three boys groaning in the snow, then at the sketchbook lying open in the slush.

Nicola was still standing against the wall, staring at him like he'd seen a ghost.

Tyler bent, picked up the torn page and the book, brushed the snow off both, and walked over.

He held them out.

"Here," he said simply.

Nicola took them with shaking hands.

He looked up-eyes wide, wary, but not afraid.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

Tyler shrugged.

"They were being assholes."

Nicola blinked.

Then, very slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

"I'm Nicola," he said.

"Tyler."

They stared at each other for a long second-two boys who had never spoken before, who now shared blood in the snow.

A teacher reached them, breathless and furious.

"Morozov! Petrova! Principal's office-now!"

Tyler didn't flinch.

Nicola looked at him again.

Tyler gave the tiniest nod-like a promise.

They walked side by side toward the main building, shoulders almost touching.

Behind them, the three bullies were still on the ground.

In front of them, something new had just been born.

Not friendship-not yet.

But the beginning of one.

The kind that starts with fists and ends with loyalty thicker than blood.

And in the Morozov world, that was worth more than anything.