Retribution
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Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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December 30, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
Night had fallen in the city, and in my heart, but that didn't matter. The room I was in smelled faintly of dust and old paper—a bureaucrat's tomb. A single bare bulb swung overhead, its light cutting sharp angles across the walls.
The boy—Pavel Andreyvich Solkovsky—sat tied to the chair, rope biting into his wrists, a gag in his mouth. I had promised I wouldn't touch him. Yet. Promises are important to keep—until they aren't. The only thing between us was a table. And there was an empty chair next to the one I sat in.
I wasn't sad. I wasn't mourning. What I felt was pure, undiluted rage, coiled tight in my chest like a steel spring. I could shoot him now, end it quickly—but that would be like throwing away a fine wine without savoring it. No, this had to be slow. He had to taste his death.
A knock at the door.
"Enter." My voice was flat, controlled. A pane of glass over a volcano.
Dzerzhinsky came in first—expression carved from stone—followed by Yagoda, whose eyes flicked briefly to the bound boy, then away. Stalin trailed them, leaning against the doorway with his hands in his pockets, watching as if this was just another meeting about grain quotas.
"Dzerzhinsky," I said without looking at the boy, "did you get what I asked for?"
"I did." Felix approached the table, set down a brown envelope. His fingers lingered a second too long on the paper before letting go, as though to remind me this wasn't his style.
I opened it, scanned the contents. Pavel Andreyvich Solkovsky. Nineteen. Parents: Natassia and Andrey. Sister: Irina. Brother: Alexei. Friends. A lover. A whole life, neatly typed and now mine to dismantle.
I handed the envelope to Yagoda. "Did you gather them?"
"They're outside," he said, his voice neutral, but his gaze darted to Stalin for a fraction of a second—looking for some kind of approval or permission. Stalin gave none.
"Bring his lover in first."
I finally looked at the boy. His eyes had gone wide, pupils like pinpricks. His chest rose and fell faster now. Good. Fear was seasoning—it made the meat tender.
The door opened again. A woman stepped in—young, pretty, the kind of pretty that doesn't last long in this city. Probably Joe's age when Kato died. Maybe younger.
Without a word, I drew my pistol and shot her in the head.
The crack snapped through the air. She folded to the floor like a ragdoll, her blood creeping toward the leg of the table.
Yagoda flinched—just a twitch—but quickly smoothed his face. Stalin didn't move, didn't blink; his gaze stayed fixed on me, as if measuring the efficiency of what he'd just seen. Dzerzhinsky's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes flicking to the body, then back to me—judging, not shocked.
"Ungag him," I said.
Yagoda stepped forward and yanked the cloth from the boy's mouth.
"You—" Pavel's voice cracked. "You bastard!!!"
"Careful," I said softly. "You're on thin ice already, and I've got your whole family to work with."
He spat on the floor. "You think this will make a difference?"
I smiled, thin and sharp. "No, Pavel. This is just me venting my anger. Look at your lover, you killed her the second you pulled the trigger and my wife died." I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table. "And vengeance… is best enjoyed slowly."
I turned to Yagoda. "Bring in his mother."
The boy thrashed in his chair, shouting curses. Stalin's lip twitched—the faintest suggestion of approval. Dzerzhinsky's eyes narrowed, arms crossed, already weighing how much of this was revenge and how much could be justified as state security. Yagoda simply nodded and stepped out, but I saw the stiffness in his shoulders; he wanted this over quickly.
Then I started with a song, Singing in the snow because my wife liked it when I sang the English part at the beginning. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight."
Unfortunately this was interrupted when Natassia Solkovskaya entered, flanked by two guards. She was mid-forties, still holding herself with the composure of a woman who believed manners could protect her from reality. Her eyes darted from me to her son, then to the body on the floor.
"Sit her down next to me," I said.
No ropes—yet. I wanted her to have the illusion of safety for just a moment.
I leaned forward again, fixing Pavel with my gaze. "There are two ways this ends for you, boy. And for the rest of your charming little family. Option one—you tell me everything. Who your associates are. What group you work with. Where they live. You talk, and I give you all a gift: a quick death. One bullet. You, your mother, your father, your siblings—fast. Clean. You'll all look like you fell asleep."
Natassia's lips trembled. She said nothing.
"Option two…" I let the silence stretch. "You don't talk. And then, Pavel, we do it my way. I will have them all tortured. One by one. Right here. While you watch. I will make you watch until you're crying blood. And then—when they are nothing but screams and broken bones—I will burn them alive in front of you. One by one. All of them. And when the last one is ash… then your torture starts."
The boy's breathing quickened. His mother turned to him, voice breaking: "Tell him."
"Mama—"
"Tell him for god's sake!"
"Oh, don't bring the lord into this," I said lightly, almost amused. "He left the room when your son decided to murder my wife."
Stalin's eyes stayed on me, cool and appraising, like a man watching an experiment he expected to work. Yagoda avoided looking at the boy, staring instead at a crack in the plaster. Dzerzhinsky's mouth was a hard line; I could feel him filing this away for a later conversation about discipline and the Revolution.
I steepled my fingers. "So, Pavel… which ending do you want? Quick and easy or slow and painful. And please, please choose the slow option. I want to see you suffer like I am right now."
Pavel's chest heaved, the ropes creaking with every strained breath. His mother's hand was trembling on the table. The silence stretched until it was nearly unbearable.
Finally, his voice cracked. "It was the Left SRs."
I cocked my head. "The Left Socialist-Revolutionaries?"
"Yes," he spat. "You're a tyrant. All of you. You and your brother and every damn Bolshevik. We knew this was coming. You were just the first. There are others. Lists. Names. You're all—"
I raised my hand slightly, and he went quiet—not because he wanted to, but because he saw the smile spreading across my face.
"Oh, Pavel," I said, almost tender. "Spare me with the whole, you're all so and so bit, it's boring."
Stalin shifted slightly in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but I could see the gears turning—Left SRs, organized assassination plots, lists. He wasn't thinking about the morality; he was calculating the counterstroke.
Dzerzhinsky's gaze snapped to Pavel, the first flicker of genuine interest I'd seen in his eyes all night. "Names," he said flatly. "Now."
Pavel laughed—a raw, ugly sound. "I don't know them all. But I know enough. And when they come for you, no one will stop them. Not even you," he added, looking straight at me.
I leaned in until our noses were almost touching. "Pavel… I'm not going to stop them. I'm going to find them. I'm going to bring them here. And then—" I gestured lazily toward the cooling corpse of his lover, "—I'm going to do this, and worse, until they wish they'd died before they were born."
Yagoda finally spoke, voice low. "If he's telling the truth, this is more than a personal matter."
I chuckled. "Oh, it's still personal, Genrikh. It just has the bonus of being professionally useful."
Pavel tried to meet my eyes without flinching. He almost made it. "You can't kill an idea," he said.
I patted his cheek. "No. But I can kill everyone who has it and their families, down to the fucking babies. Now, names, locations. Or I'll stab one of your mother's eyes out. You have 30 seconds, one."
Pavel's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. His eyes flicked to his mother, then back to me. The defiance started to crumble—rage giving way to something else.
"They're here," he muttered.
I leaned back, folding my arms. "Names, Pavel."
He hesitated, and then it poured out in a rush. "Grigori Stepanovich Shilov. Ivan Dorofeyevich Markov. Yevgeniya Pleshko. All in Petrograd. Safehouses on Bolshaya Morskaya Street, one near the Haymarket. They got their orders from Moscow—from Yakov Blumkin's people. He's running it with Spiridonova's blessing."
Dzerzhinsky's head tilted almost imperceptibly at the mention of Blumkin. Yagoda's eyes narrowed, his mind already mapping the raids. Stalin, still leaning in the doorway, let out a quiet hum. "And Moscow?" he said slowly.
Pavel nodded. "You're all targets. Petrograd first, then Moscow. You were the first."
I let the words hang there. My pulse didn't quicken—if anything, I felt calmer now. The outlines of my evening's work were sharpening into something much bigger, something with more legs.
"Felix," I said without looking at him, "I guess you know what needs to be done?"
Dzerzhinsky stepped forward, his voice clipped. "They'll be taken alive. Interrogated properly."
"Of course," I said, smiling faintly. "Alive. At first."
Yagoda spoke up, almost cautiously. "And in Moscow?"
Stalin finally moved from the doorway, stepping closer. His voice was quiet but carried weight. "In Moscow, we send a message. This ends before it starts."
I turned back to Pavel, resting my hands on the table. "Thank you, Pavel. You've just upgraded yourself from 'slow and brutal death' to 'quick and painless.' That's progress. Not much, but progress."
He glared at me, but I could see the fear now—thin cracks running through the defiance. "Bring the rest of the family in."
The door opened again, and the rest of the Solkovsky family was marched in under guard. Father, sister, brother. All pale, silent, eyes darting to the body on the floor, then to Pavel, then to me.
"Line them up," I said.
The guards arranged them against the far wall. Natassia's eyes were glassy but fixed on her son. The father stood stiffly, as if refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing him shake. The sister was trembling so hard she could barely stand, and the brother kept trying to catch glimpses of the gagged Pavel.
I walked slowly down the line, hands behind my back, boots clicking on the floor. "You're all going to die," I said plainly, as if I were informing them of a change in train schedules. "The only question is whether you do it with a priest or with cigarettes."
They stared at me in stunned silence.
I turned to Pavel. "And you, boy? Priest or cigarettes? It's a courtesy you never spared my wife when you shot her in the back."
He swallowed hard, eyes wet. "Priest," he muttered.
I looked back at the rest of them. "Well? Speak up."
"Priest," Natassia said quickly, voice breaking. The others nodded.
"Very pious family," I said with a mock warmth, clapping my hands together softly. "Felix, make the arrangements."
Dzerzhinsky's face was unreadable, but I caught the faintest tightening of his jaw as he turned to one of his men and murmured an order. Stalin watched from the side, expression impassive—this wasn't about mercy to him, only procedure. Yagoda didn't meet anyone's eyes; he seemed intent on the far wall.
I strolled back to the table, leaning on it casually. "You'll all have your prayers. And then, once your souls are tidied up… well, we'll move on to the part Pavel's earned all for himself."
Pavel tried to hold my gaze but couldn't. The moment his eyes dropped, I smiled.
"Good. Then it's settled."
Stalin, Dzerzhinsky and Yagoda left the room. It was only me and the guards along with the family I was going to murder. I didn't speak to them, no need to speak to corpses. But I sang, over and over again. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes hold me tightly in your sweet arms."
Over and over again, Mikiko Noda'a singing in the snow. Only now I didn't have my wife with me. Only this anger, only this emptiness in my soul. So what if I killed them, it wouldn't bring her back. Hell, Aleksandra was a gentle woman, she probably wouldn't have minded letting them go if she survived.
But she didn't, and I was angry.
So I kept singing. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes, hold me tightly in your sweet arms." Over and over, that same intro. All while remembering my wife's face when I sang it. A few tears streaming. The guards looked unsettled, the family even more so. I just wanted to hold Aleksandra, tell her how much I loved her and make love until the sun came up.
Around 15 minutes later, the door opened again and in shuffled Father Sergey Eldarevich Patruchev, still in his cassock, snow clinging to the hem. His eyes darted from the family lined up against the wall to me, and I could see it—the flicker of recognition, followed by disapproval so strong it almost radiated heat.
I composed myself and I grinned. "Father Sergey, thank you for coming on short notice. You've got some last rites to handle."
His lips tightened. "You know I don't approve of this, Mikheil."
"Of course you don't," I said lightly. "But you'll do it anyway, because if you don't, I'll find someone less squeamish and they'll botch it. Besides…" I gave him a mock-confiding smile, "I'll just confess next week anyway. You know how this works."
He closed his eyes briefly, then stepped forward, murmuring the prayers. I stood beside him the whole time, arms folded, watching each family member bow their head in turn. Pavel kept his gaze fixed on the floor, jaw clenched.
When Sergey was done, I patted him on the shoulder. "Excellent work, Father. Truly dignified."
Then I began.
One shot. The father dropped like a sack of flour.
Another shot. The sister crumpled to her knees before falling forward.
A third shot. The brother's head snapped back, and he slid down the wall.
Natassia was last before Pavel. She didn't plead, didn't scream. Just crossed herself and waited. The shot was clean.
Now it was just Pavel.
I walked over slowly, savoring the sound of my boots on the wooden floor. "Your turn. What was it again? Priest or cigarettes?"
His voice was hoarse. "Priest."
I gestured toward Sergey. "Go on, Father. One more soul for the road."
Sergey hesitated, then stepped forward, speaking the words with the same gravity as before. I watched Pavel's lips move faintly along with him—whether in prayer or just trembling, I couldn't tell.
When it was over, I looked at Sergey. "Thank you, Father. That will be all. You can go."
He lingered for a moment, meeting my eyes. There was no fear there—just the heavy weight of judgment. I smiled at him.
Then I raised the pistol and put a single round through Pavel's gut. His body jerked, then he screamed.
"You should be grateful, better to bleed out on the floor than being burnt alive after a torture session. Think about what you've done as you bleed out. Guards. Make him look at his family's corpses as he bleeds. Once he's dead, bayonet him to make sure he's dead then burn his and the families bodies. Throw them in the Neva."
The guards only nodded as I walked out.
The rage was there, it was only blunted. But it wouldn't go away.
December 30, 1917
Winter Palace – Throne Room
Petrograd, Russia
I walked in and could almost hear my boots echo on the polished floor, though the Committee was already seated around a long, scarred table hauled in for the meeting. I didn't slow my stride. I didn't smile. I probably still smelled of gunpowder and charred meat. Good. Let them smell it. Let them remember what I'd done an hour ago.
I didn't say a word at first. I slid into my chair — directly across from Lenin, just off-center from the massive throne itself — and let the discussion wash over me: food shipments from the Volga, shortages of coal, worker morale in the Vyborg district. The usual revolutionary small talk.
That pressure in my chest was still there. Sashiko. Aleksandra. My wife. My anchor. The warmth in my life. Lying on the cold stone of a church floor with blood blooming through her coat. A part of me was already dead, and the part still alive was sharpening its bayonets.
Then I noticed them watching me — half the table had gone quiet, eyes flicking in my direction.
"Do I have so—" I stopped, sniffed once, and wiped at the corner of my eye. My fingers came away damp. "Sorry about that." My voice caught briefly. I took a slow, deep breath, made a show of steadying my hands, then wiped the tears again. "Carry on. Don't worry about me." My voice was as flat and monotone as I could manage.
No one looked reassured.
Stalin was seated further down, one arm resting lazily on the table, his eyes on me for just a beat too long. It wasn't pity — it was calculation. Is he in control enough to be useful? Or is he about to take the whole building down with him?
Dzerzhinsky sat ramrod straight, pen scratching against a pad, not looking up. But his shoulders were tenser than usual. I knew exactly what was behind that blank face — disapproval. Not of the killing. Never the killing. But the fact I'd done it hot, not cold. Felix preferred his terror like a surgeon preferred his scalpel — clean, exact, impersonal. Mine was a butcher's cleaver.
I let the silence stretch, then said, "The Left SRs need to be crushed. Completely. Pavel Solkovsky gave us names, addresses. Petrograd first — I'll work with Dzerzhinsky to clean it up, hard and fast. No speeches. No warnings. Then I take five thousand of my Guard Corps to Moscow. We hit their leadership before they have a chance to scatter. After that, Ukraine — I start escorting the Czechoslovaks to Murmansk."
Kamenev shifted uncomfortably. "Five thousand? That's a large deployment—"
"Better large than dead," I cut in.
I leaned forward, eyes sweeping the table. "And for that escort, I want Lenin's full authorization — in writing — to do whatever is necessary. If Red Guards or Soviets interfere, we put them in the ground. The Czechoslovaks are disciplined, armed, and dangerous. Piss them off, and they'll start killing our men in retaliation. We treat them carefully, or we don't bother."
A few murmurs passed around the table.
"And since we're talking about security for the revolution," I went on, "The Revolutionary Guard Corps is a guard corps. An attack on me is an attack on all of you. From now on, every member of this Committee and their families are to be guarded at all times — minimum of five guards. Not the factory type. Mine. And you all wear what my men wear: helmets and bulletproof armor. You might think it's excessive — until you hear the fireworks outside your church."
The silence that followed was thick.
Lenin finally spoke, leaning forward, fingers steepled. "You've acted decisively today, Mikheil. The Left SRs must be repressed, yes. Moscow especially. But personal grief is not the same as Party necessity. We must ensure your… methods… serve the Revolution, not private vengeance."
I smiled faintly. "Comrade, my private vengeance and the Revolution's needs just happen to be holding hands and skipping in the same direction right now. You can call it whatever you like."
Trotsky's eyes narrowed. "We can't have Petrograd turned into a theatre for your vendettas. Yes, crush the Left SRs — but under the Party's authority, not as some Georgian morality play where you're both judge and executioner."
I met his gaze and held it until he looked away. "Don't worry, Trotsky," I said softly. "I'll make sure the curtain call says approved by the Central Committee."
Bukharin, ever the optimist, tried a different tack. "We have to be careful not to alienate the workers with… heavy-handed repression. We can't afford to look like the Okhrana."
I leaned back, smirking. "Nikolai, if the workers see us wearing helmets, maybe they'll think we plan to stick around long enough to help them. Or at least to make sure the Left SRs don't get to them first."
Sverdlov tapped his pen. "The Petrograd purge should proceed immediately. The Moscow operation… we should authorize troop movements but finalize plans after Petrograd is secure."
Lenin nodded. "Agreed. Petrograd purge — approved. Mikheil and Dzerzhinsky will coordinate. Moscow — preliminary approval. Czechoslovak escort with full discretion — approved. Committee security: minimum three guards, five for those under direct threat, armor optional."
"Optional armor is still armor for the smart ones," I said.
The vote went quickly:
Petrograd purge: unanimous.
Moscow strike after Petrograd: approved, Stalin and Sverdlov to monitor.
Czechoslovak escort with full discretion: passed, Trotsky abstaining.
Committee security: passed, Kamenev muttering about "militarizing the leadership."
I sat back, folded my arms, and let my eyes wander around the throne room The Tsar had sat here once, surrounded by courtiers and gold. Now it sat empty, dusty, and irrelevant. Like my heart.
---------
December 30, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
The meeting was over, but it didn't feel like a victory. No one walked out talking strategy or boasting about decisions. It was just footsteps echoing down the marble halls, each man wrapped in his own thoughts.
Dinner was a quiet affair. The long table in Smolny's dining room felt more like a funeral reception than a meal. Stalin sat at my right, silent, his eyes occasionally flicking toward me but never lingering. Across from him, my younger brother Aleksander methodically cut his food into tiny pieces he didn't eat. My mother, Keke, cradled baby Besarion in her arms, rocking him gently. Iosif and Kato sat stiffly beside each other, their eyes fixed on their plates, chewing without appetite.
I didn't speak. None of us did. The clink of cutlery was the only sound until Keke softly hummed a lullaby to calm the baby.
When the plates were cleared, I stood without a word and made my way down the dim hallway to my quarters — the same ones I had shared with Aleksandra.
The air in the room was colder than I expected. I closed the door, and the latch seemed louder than it should've been. The bed was still made the way she liked it, the blanket folded back with that little crease at the corner. Her hairbrush sat on the vanity, a few strands of her dark hair still tangled in the bristles.
On the desk was our wedding photograph — the one with the two of us standing stiffly, unsmiling in that formal Georgian way, but with our hands clasped tight. I picked it up, my thumb tracing the outline of her face.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at it for a long time before I realized I was humming. No — singing. Mikiko Noda once again, singing in the snow.
"Oh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes, hold me tightly in your sweet arms."
The words came slow, unsteady. My voice cracked halfway through the verse, and I kept going anyway. By the time I reached the Japanese part of the song my throat had tightened, and the picture frame was wet in my hands.
It was ridiculous, really — a song about snow, here in Petrograd, where it never stopped falling.
My vision blurred. I pressed the picture to my chest, bent forward, and the sound came out of me — low, raw, almost a growl at first, then breaking into something closer to a sob.
I stayed there for what felt like hours, singing in fragments, stopping when my voice gave out, starting again until the words dissolved into silence.
When I finally set the picture back on the desk, my hands were shaking.
I wasn't done with the Left SRs. Not by a long shot.
But for the first time all day, I felt the weight of what they'd actually taken from me.
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
Night had fallen in the city, and in my heart, but that didn't matter. The room I was in smelled faintly of dust and old paper—a bureaucrat's tomb. A single bare bulb swung overhead, its light cutting sharp angles across the walls.
The boy—Pavel Andreyvich Solkovsky—sat tied to the chair, rope biting into his wrists, a gag in his mouth. I had promised I wouldn't touch him. Yet. Promises are important to keep—until they aren't. The only thing between us was a table. And there was an empty chair next to the one I sat in.
I wasn't sad. I wasn't mourning. What I felt was pure, undiluted rage, coiled tight in my chest like a steel spring. I could shoot him now, end it quickly—but that would be like throwing away a fine wine without savoring it. No, this had to be slow. He had to taste his death.
A knock at the door.
"Enter." My voice was flat, controlled. A pane of glass over a volcano.
Dzerzhinsky came in first—expression carved from stone—followed by Yagoda, whose eyes flicked briefly to the bound boy, then away. Stalin trailed them, leaning against the doorway with his hands in his pockets, watching as if this was just another meeting about grain quotas.
"Dzerzhinsky," I said without looking at the boy, "did you get what I asked for?"
"I did." Felix approached the table, set down a brown envelope. His fingers lingered a second too long on the paper before letting go, as though to remind me this wasn't his style.
I opened it, scanned the contents. Pavel Andreyvich Solkovsky. Nineteen. Parents: Natassia and Andrey. Sister: Irina. Brother: Alexei. Friends. A lover. A whole life, neatly typed and now mine to dismantle.
I handed the envelope to Yagoda. "Did you gather them?"
"They're outside," he said, his voice neutral, but his gaze darted to Stalin for a fraction of a second—looking for some kind of approval or permission. Stalin gave none.
"Bring his lover in first."
I finally looked at the boy. His eyes had gone wide, pupils like pinpricks. His chest rose and fell faster now. Good. Fear was seasoning—it made the meat tender.
The door opened again. A woman stepped in—young, pretty, the kind of pretty that doesn't last long in this city. Probably Joe's age when Kato died. Maybe younger.
Without a word, I drew my pistol and shot her in the head.
The crack snapped through the air. She folded to the floor like a ragdoll, her blood creeping toward the leg of the table.
Yagoda flinched—just a twitch—but quickly smoothed his face. Stalin didn't move, didn't blink; his gaze stayed fixed on me, as if measuring the efficiency of what he'd just seen. Dzerzhinsky's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes flicking to the body, then back to me—judging, not shocked.
"Ungag him," I said.
Yagoda stepped forward and yanked the cloth from the boy's mouth.
"You—" Pavel's voice cracked. "You bastard!!!"
"Careful," I said softly. "You're on thin ice already, and I've got your whole family to work with."
He spat on the floor. "You think this will make a difference?"
I smiled, thin and sharp. "No, Pavel. This is just me venting my anger. Look at your lover, you killed her the second you pulled the trigger and my wife died." I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table. "And vengeance… is best enjoyed slowly."
I turned to Yagoda. "Bring in his mother."
The boy thrashed in his chair, shouting curses. Stalin's lip twitched—the faintest suggestion of approval. Dzerzhinsky's eyes narrowed, arms crossed, already weighing how much of this was revenge and how much could be justified as state security. Yagoda simply nodded and stepped out, but I saw the stiffness in his shoulders; he wanted this over quickly.
Then I started with a song, Singing in the snow because my wife liked it when I sang the English part at the beginning. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight."
Unfortunately this was interrupted when Natassia Solkovskaya entered, flanked by two guards. She was mid-forties, still holding herself with the composure of a woman who believed manners could protect her from reality. Her eyes darted from me to her son, then to the body on the floor.
"Sit her down next to me," I said.
No ropes—yet. I wanted her to have the illusion of safety for just a moment.
I leaned forward again, fixing Pavel with my gaze. "There are two ways this ends for you, boy. And for the rest of your charming little family. Option one—you tell me everything. Who your associates are. What group you work with. Where they live. You talk, and I give you all a gift: a quick death. One bullet. You, your mother, your father, your siblings—fast. Clean. You'll all look like you fell asleep."
Natassia's lips trembled. She said nothing.
"Option two…" I let the silence stretch. "You don't talk. And then, Pavel, we do it my way. I will have them all tortured. One by one. Right here. While you watch. I will make you watch until you're crying blood. And then—when they are nothing but screams and broken bones—I will burn them alive in front of you. One by one. All of them. And when the last one is ash… then your torture starts."
The boy's breathing quickened. His mother turned to him, voice breaking: "Tell him."
"Mama—"
"Tell him for god's sake!"
"Oh, don't bring the lord into this," I said lightly, almost amused. "He left the room when your son decided to murder my wife."
Stalin's eyes stayed on me, cool and appraising, like a man watching an experiment he expected to work. Yagoda avoided looking at the boy, staring instead at a crack in the plaster. Dzerzhinsky's mouth was a hard line; I could feel him filing this away for a later conversation about discipline and the Revolution.
I steepled my fingers. "So, Pavel… which ending do you want? Quick and easy or slow and painful. And please, please choose the slow option. I want to see you suffer like I am right now."
Pavel's chest heaved, the ropes creaking with every strained breath. His mother's hand was trembling on the table. The silence stretched until it was nearly unbearable.
Finally, his voice cracked. "It was the Left SRs."
I cocked my head. "The Left Socialist-Revolutionaries?"
"Yes," he spat. "You're a tyrant. All of you. You and your brother and every damn Bolshevik. We knew this was coming. You were just the first. There are others. Lists. Names. You're all—"
I raised my hand slightly, and he went quiet—not because he wanted to, but because he saw the smile spreading across my face.
"Oh, Pavel," I said, almost tender. "Spare me with the whole, you're all so and so bit, it's boring."
Stalin shifted slightly in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but I could see the gears turning—Left SRs, organized assassination plots, lists. He wasn't thinking about the morality; he was calculating the counterstroke.
Dzerzhinsky's gaze snapped to Pavel, the first flicker of genuine interest I'd seen in his eyes all night. "Names," he said flatly. "Now."
Pavel laughed—a raw, ugly sound. "I don't know them all. But I know enough. And when they come for you, no one will stop them. Not even you," he added, looking straight at me.
I leaned in until our noses were almost touching. "Pavel… I'm not going to stop them. I'm going to find them. I'm going to bring them here. And then—" I gestured lazily toward the cooling corpse of his lover, "—I'm going to do this, and worse, until they wish they'd died before they were born."
Yagoda finally spoke, voice low. "If he's telling the truth, this is more than a personal matter."
I chuckled. "Oh, it's still personal, Genrikh. It just has the bonus of being professionally useful."
Pavel tried to meet my eyes without flinching. He almost made it. "You can't kill an idea," he said.
I patted his cheek. "No. But I can kill everyone who has it and their families, down to the fucking babies. Now, names, locations. Or I'll stab one of your mother's eyes out. You have 30 seconds, one."
Pavel's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. His eyes flicked to his mother, then back to me. The defiance started to crumble—rage giving way to something else.
"They're here," he muttered.
I leaned back, folding my arms. "Names, Pavel."
He hesitated, and then it poured out in a rush. "Grigori Stepanovich Shilov. Ivan Dorofeyevich Markov. Yevgeniya Pleshko. All in Petrograd. Safehouses on Bolshaya Morskaya Street, one near the Haymarket. They got their orders from Moscow—from Yakov Blumkin's people. He's running it with Spiridonova's blessing."
Dzerzhinsky's head tilted almost imperceptibly at the mention of Blumkin. Yagoda's eyes narrowed, his mind already mapping the raids. Stalin, still leaning in the doorway, let out a quiet hum. "And Moscow?" he said slowly.
Pavel nodded. "You're all targets. Petrograd first, then Moscow. You were the first."
I let the words hang there. My pulse didn't quicken—if anything, I felt calmer now. The outlines of my evening's work were sharpening into something much bigger, something with more legs.
"Felix," I said without looking at him, "I guess you know what needs to be done?"
Dzerzhinsky stepped forward, his voice clipped. "They'll be taken alive. Interrogated properly."
"Of course," I said, smiling faintly. "Alive. At first."
Yagoda spoke up, almost cautiously. "And in Moscow?"
Stalin finally moved from the doorway, stepping closer. His voice was quiet but carried weight. "In Moscow, we send a message. This ends before it starts."
I turned back to Pavel, resting my hands on the table. "Thank you, Pavel. You've just upgraded yourself from 'slow and brutal death' to 'quick and painless.' That's progress. Not much, but progress."
He glared at me, but I could see the fear now—thin cracks running through the defiance. "Bring the rest of the family in."
The door opened again, and the rest of the Solkovsky family was marched in under guard. Father, sister, brother. All pale, silent, eyes darting to the body on the floor, then to Pavel, then to me.
"Line them up," I said.
The guards arranged them against the far wall. Natassia's eyes were glassy but fixed on her son. The father stood stiffly, as if refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing him shake. The sister was trembling so hard she could barely stand, and the brother kept trying to catch glimpses of the gagged Pavel.
I walked slowly down the line, hands behind my back, boots clicking on the floor. "You're all going to die," I said plainly, as if I were informing them of a change in train schedules. "The only question is whether you do it with a priest or with cigarettes."
They stared at me in stunned silence.
I turned to Pavel. "And you, boy? Priest or cigarettes? It's a courtesy you never spared my wife when you shot her in the back."
He swallowed hard, eyes wet. "Priest," he muttered.
I looked back at the rest of them. "Well? Speak up."
"Priest," Natassia said quickly, voice breaking. The others nodded.
"Very pious family," I said with a mock warmth, clapping my hands together softly. "Felix, make the arrangements."
Dzerzhinsky's face was unreadable, but I caught the faintest tightening of his jaw as he turned to one of his men and murmured an order. Stalin watched from the side, expression impassive—this wasn't about mercy to him, only procedure. Yagoda didn't meet anyone's eyes; he seemed intent on the far wall.
I strolled back to the table, leaning on it casually. "You'll all have your prayers. And then, once your souls are tidied up… well, we'll move on to the part Pavel's earned all for himself."
Pavel tried to hold my gaze but couldn't. The moment his eyes dropped, I smiled.
"Good. Then it's settled."
Stalin, Dzerzhinsky and Yagoda left the room. It was only me and the guards along with the family I was going to murder. I didn't speak to them, no need to speak to corpses. But I sang, over and over again. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes hold me tightly in your sweet arms."
Over and over again, Mikiko Noda'a singing in the snow. Only now I didn't have my wife with me. Only this anger, only this emptiness in my soul. So what if I killed them, it wouldn't bring her back. Hell, Aleksandra was a gentle woman, she probably wouldn't have minded letting them go if she survived.
But she didn't, and I was angry.
So I kept singing. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes, hold me tightly in your sweet arms." Over and over, that same intro. All while remembering my wife's face when I sang it. A few tears streaming. The guards looked unsettled, the family even more so. I just wanted to hold Aleksandra, tell her how much I loved her and make love until the sun came up.
Around 15 minutes later, the door opened again and in shuffled Father Sergey Eldarevich Patruchev, still in his cassock, snow clinging to the hem. His eyes darted from the family lined up against the wall to me, and I could see it—the flicker of recognition, followed by disapproval so strong it almost radiated heat.
I composed myself and I grinned. "Father Sergey, thank you for coming on short notice. You've got some last rites to handle."
His lips tightened. "You know I don't approve of this, Mikheil."
"Of course you don't," I said lightly. "But you'll do it anyway, because if you don't, I'll find someone less squeamish and they'll botch it. Besides…" I gave him a mock-confiding smile, "I'll just confess next week anyway. You know how this works."
He closed his eyes briefly, then stepped forward, murmuring the prayers. I stood beside him the whole time, arms folded, watching each family member bow their head in turn. Pavel kept his gaze fixed on the floor, jaw clenched.
When Sergey was done, I patted him on the shoulder. "Excellent work, Father. Truly dignified."
Then I began.
One shot. The father dropped like a sack of flour.
Another shot. The sister crumpled to her knees before falling forward.
A third shot. The brother's head snapped back, and he slid down the wall.
Natassia was last before Pavel. She didn't plead, didn't scream. Just crossed herself and waited. The shot was clean.
Now it was just Pavel.
I walked over slowly, savoring the sound of my boots on the wooden floor. "Your turn. What was it again? Priest or cigarettes?"
His voice was hoarse. "Priest."
I gestured toward Sergey. "Go on, Father. One more soul for the road."
Sergey hesitated, then stepped forward, speaking the words with the same gravity as before. I watched Pavel's lips move faintly along with him—whether in prayer or just trembling, I couldn't tell.
When it was over, I looked at Sergey. "Thank you, Father. That will be all. You can go."
He lingered for a moment, meeting my eyes. There was no fear there—just the heavy weight of judgment. I smiled at him.
Then I raised the pistol and put a single round through Pavel's gut. His body jerked, then he screamed.
"You should be grateful, better to bleed out on the floor than being burnt alive after a torture session. Think about what you've done as you bleed out. Guards. Make him look at his family's corpses as he bleeds. Once he's dead, bayonet him to make sure he's dead then burn his and the families bodies. Throw them in the Neva."
The guards only nodded as I walked out.
The rage was there, it was only blunted. But it wouldn't go away.
December 30, 1917
Winter Palace – Throne Room
Petrograd, Russia
I walked in and could almost hear my boots echo on the polished floor, though the Committee was already seated around a long, scarred table hauled in for the meeting. I didn't slow my stride. I didn't smile. I probably still smelled of gunpowder and charred meat. Good. Let them smell it. Let them remember what I'd done an hour ago.
I didn't say a word at first. I slid into my chair — directly across from Lenin, just off-center from the massive throne itself — and let the discussion wash over me: food shipments from the Volga, shortages of coal, worker morale in the Vyborg district. The usual revolutionary small talk.
That pressure in my chest was still there. Sashiko. Aleksandra. My wife. My anchor. The warmth in my life. Lying on the cold stone of a church floor with blood blooming through her coat. A part of me was already dead, and the part still alive was sharpening its bayonets.
Then I noticed them watching me — half the table had gone quiet, eyes flicking in my direction.
"Do I have so—" I stopped, sniffed once, and wiped at the corner of my eye. My fingers came away damp. "Sorry about that." My voice caught briefly. I took a slow, deep breath, made a show of steadying my hands, then wiped the tears again. "Carry on. Don't worry about me." My voice was as flat and monotone as I could manage.
No one looked reassured.
Stalin was seated further down, one arm resting lazily on the table, his eyes on me for just a beat too long. It wasn't pity — it was calculation. Is he in control enough to be useful? Or is he about to take the whole building down with him?
Dzerzhinsky sat ramrod straight, pen scratching against a pad, not looking up. But his shoulders were tenser than usual. I knew exactly what was behind that blank face — disapproval. Not of the killing. Never the killing. But the fact I'd done it hot, not cold. Felix preferred his terror like a surgeon preferred his scalpel — clean, exact, impersonal. Mine was a butcher's cleaver.
I let the silence stretch, then said, "The Left SRs need to be crushed. Completely. Pavel Solkovsky gave us names, addresses. Petrograd first — I'll work with Dzerzhinsky to clean it up, hard and fast. No speeches. No warnings. Then I take five thousand of my Guard Corps to Moscow. We hit their leadership before they have a chance to scatter. After that, Ukraine — I start escorting the Czechoslovaks to Murmansk."
Kamenev shifted uncomfortably. "Five thousand? That's a large deployment—"
"Better large than dead," I cut in.
I leaned forward, eyes sweeping the table. "And for that escort, I want Lenin's full authorization — in writing — to do whatever is necessary. If Red Guards or Soviets interfere, we put them in the ground. The Czechoslovaks are disciplined, armed, and dangerous. Piss them off, and they'll start killing our men in retaliation. We treat them carefully, or we don't bother."
A few murmurs passed around the table.
"And since we're talking about security for the revolution," I went on, "The Revolutionary Guard Corps is a guard corps. An attack on me is an attack on all of you. From now on, every member of this Committee and their families are to be guarded at all times — minimum of five guards. Not the factory type. Mine. And you all wear what my men wear: helmets and bulletproof armor. You might think it's excessive — until you hear the fireworks outside your church."
The silence that followed was thick.
Lenin finally spoke, leaning forward, fingers steepled. "You've acted decisively today, Mikheil. The Left SRs must be repressed, yes. Moscow especially. But personal grief is not the same as Party necessity. We must ensure your… methods… serve the Revolution, not private vengeance."
I smiled faintly. "Comrade, my private vengeance and the Revolution's needs just happen to be holding hands and skipping in the same direction right now. You can call it whatever you like."
Trotsky's eyes narrowed. "We can't have Petrograd turned into a theatre for your vendettas. Yes, crush the Left SRs — but under the Party's authority, not as some Georgian morality play where you're both judge and executioner."
I met his gaze and held it until he looked away. "Don't worry, Trotsky," I said softly. "I'll make sure the curtain call says approved by the Central Committee."
Bukharin, ever the optimist, tried a different tack. "We have to be careful not to alienate the workers with… heavy-handed repression. We can't afford to look like the Okhrana."
I leaned back, smirking. "Nikolai, if the workers see us wearing helmets, maybe they'll think we plan to stick around long enough to help them. Or at least to make sure the Left SRs don't get to them first."
Sverdlov tapped his pen. "The Petrograd purge should proceed immediately. The Moscow operation… we should authorize troop movements but finalize plans after Petrograd is secure."
Lenin nodded. "Agreed. Petrograd purge — approved. Mikheil and Dzerzhinsky will coordinate. Moscow — preliminary approval. Czechoslovak escort with full discretion — approved. Committee security: minimum three guards, five for those under direct threat, armor optional."
"Optional armor is still armor for the smart ones," I said.
The vote went quickly:
Petrograd purge: unanimous.
Moscow strike after Petrograd: approved, Stalin and Sverdlov to monitor.
Czechoslovak escort with full discretion: passed, Trotsky abstaining.
Committee security: passed, Kamenev muttering about "militarizing the leadership."
I sat back, folded my arms, and let my eyes wander around the throne room The Tsar had sat here once, surrounded by courtiers and gold. Now it sat empty, dusty, and irrelevant. Like my heart.
---------
December 30, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
The meeting was over, but it didn't feel like a victory. No one walked out talking strategy or boasting about decisions. It was just footsteps echoing down the marble halls, each man wrapped in his own thoughts.
Dinner was a quiet affair. The long table in Smolny's dining room felt more like a funeral reception than a meal. Stalin sat at my right, silent, his eyes occasionally flicking toward me but never lingering. Across from him, my younger brother Aleksander methodically cut his food into tiny pieces he didn't eat. My mother, Keke, cradled baby Besarion in her arms, rocking him gently. Iosif and Kato sat stiffly beside each other, their eyes fixed on their plates, chewing without appetite.
I didn't speak. None of us did. The clink of cutlery was the only sound until Keke softly hummed a lullaby to calm the baby.
When the plates were cleared, I stood without a word and made my way down the dim hallway to my quarters — the same ones I had shared with Aleksandra.
The air in the room was colder than I expected. I closed the door, and the latch seemed louder than it should've been. The bed was still made the way she liked it, the blanket folded back with that little crease at the corner. Her hairbrush sat on the vanity, a few strands of her dark hair still tangled in the bristles.
On the desk was our wedding photograph — the one with the two of us standing stiffly, unsmiling in that formal Georgian way, but with our hands clasped tight. I picked it up, my thumb tracing the outline of her face.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at it for a long time before I realized I was humming. No — singing. Mikiko Noda once again, singing in the snow.
"Oh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes, hold me tightly in your sweet arms."
The words came slow, unsteady. My voice cracked halfway through the verse, and I kept going anyway. By the time I reached the Japanese part of the song my throat had tightened, and the picture frame was wet in my hands.
It was ridiculous, really — a song about snow, here in Petrograd, where it never stopped falling.
My vision blurred. I pressed the picture to my chest, bent forward, and the sound came out of me — low, raw, almost a growl at first, then breaking into something closer to a sob.
I stayed there for what felt like hours, singing in fragments, stopping when my voice gave out, starting again until the words dissolved into silence.
When I finally set the picture back on the desk, my hands were shaking.
I wasn't done with the Left SRs. Not by a long shot.
But for the first time all day, I felt the weight of what they'd actually taken from me.