Sixmonthslater.
The collar sat against my throat like a secret—rose gold thin enough to pass for jewelry to anyone who didn't know better, but I knew the weight of what it meant. My fingers found it again as I stood behind the podium, watching Brooklyn pour through the doors of Phoenix House like the building itself was calling them home.
Six months ago, this place had been another dead warehouse, windows boarded, walls tagged with territorial markers nobody bothered to dispute anymore. Now warm yellow paint covered the brick—the color I'd picked after staring at seventeen samples—and windows that actually latched let in October sunshine that made the whole space glow.
The crowd kept growing. Social workers I recognized from my time in the system, their faces older but still carrying that particular exhaustion of people who fought losing battles for a living. City officials in suits, suddenly interested in aged-out foster youth now that the Volkov name was attached. Journalists with cameras and recorders, documenting this unlikely marriage between organized crime and charity work. They thought they were here for a story about redemption. They had no idea how right and wrong they were.
Clara—who herself was involved with fundraising—sat in the front row, her powder-blue dress making her look like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine, but her smile was all warmth and understanding. She knew what this meant to me—not just the shelter but the speaking, the visibility, the admission that I'd been one of these kids.
At the back of the room, Dmitry leaned against the wall in his black suit, trying to blend in despite being six-foot-three of barely contained menace. His eyes never left me, dark and protective, tracking every person who got too close to the podium. Ivan stood near the exit with his tablet, probably running background checks on every attendee in real-time. Alexei had positioned himself by the windows, watching the street with the kind of focus that meant he'd identified at least three security vulnerabilities since walking in.
My family. Protecting me even here, even at something as innocent as a shelter opening.
"Thank you all for coming," I started, hating how my voice caught on the microphone's feedback. The prepared speech sat on the podium—three pages Clara had helped me write, full of statistics and gratitude and political correctness. I pushed it aside. These kids didn't need politics. They needed truth.
"When I was eighteen, I aged out of foster care with a garbage bag of clothes and nowhere to go." My voice steadied as I found my rhythm, found the anger that still lived under everything else. "Twelve foster homes in ten years. Some were just neglectful. Some were worse. When the system spit me out, I had no money, no family, no skills except survival. So I survived."
A ripple went through the crowd. The social workers looked uncomfortable—they knew these stories but didn't like them told so publicly. The city officials shifted in their seats. But the three girls in the front row leaned forward, recognition sparking in their eyes.
"I slept in a storage unit when I could break in. Under bridges when I couldn't. I stole food, picked pockets, did whatever it took to eat." My fingers found the collar again, drawing strength from its weight. "The system that was supposed to protect me had already taught me I was disposable. The streets just confirmed it."
Someone coughed. A camera clicked. The room felt too hot despite the October chill outside.
"For four years, I was invisible. Just another homeless kid aging out badly, becoming a statistic nobody wanted to track." I found Dmitry's eyes across the room, saw him shift slightly—that tiny movement that meant he was fighting the urge to come to me, to stop me from reliving this. "Then I tried to steal from the wrong people. Or maybe the right people."
A nervous laugh from somewhere in the crowd. They thought it was a joke. They didn't know about the USB, the warehouse, the blood that had bought my freedom.
"Phoenix House exists because everyone deserves a chance. To be seen as more than their worst moment. To have somewhere safe to figure out who they are when they're not just surviving." I gestured to the space around us—the kitchen visible through glass doors, the common area with its secondhand couches that were still nicer than anything I'd had, the stairs leading to actual bedrooms with doors that locked from the inside.
"We have space for thirty kids at a time. Hot meals, real beds, counseling for those who want it. Job training, GED programs, help finding permanent housing." I paused, let the next wordscarry weight. "And security. Real security. Because healing requires safety, and these kids have never been safe."
Applause started slowly, then built. Clara stood first, and soon the whole room was on their feet. Even the uncomfortable social workers, even the calculating city officials who were probably already figuring out how to use this for political capital.
"Thank you," I managed, then stepped away from the podium before I could cry in front of everyone.
Clara caught me in a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and understanding. "Perfect," she whispered against my ear. "You told them exactly what they needed to hear."
The next hour blurred into tours and explanations. I showed donors the commercial kitchen, explained how kids could learn food service skills while helping prepare meals. The library corner where I'd already stocked shelves with books I'd stolen years ago and finally paid for last month. The computer lab Ivan had equipped with military-grade encryption because even charity came with Volkov-level security.
"This seems . . . extensive," one donor commented, eyeing the reinforced doors, the windows with subtle bars designed to look decorative.
I guided them to the back wall of the library, pressed the hidden latch I'd insisted on. The bookshelf swung open, revealing the panic room behind it—reinforced concrete, emergency supplies, a separate ventilation system.
"These kids are running from real monsters," I said simply. "Pimps, dealers, abusive foster families who don't like losing their monthly checks. They need to know that when we say they're safe here, we mean it."
The donor—a banker's wife dripping diamonds—swallowed hard. "I see."
But she doubled her donation before leaving, so maybe she did see. Maybe for just a moment, she understood what itmeant to need a panic room in a homeless shelter, to know that sometimes safety required more than good intentions.
As the crowd finally thinned, Dmitry appeared at my elbow, his hand settling on my lower back with familiar possession.
"Proud of you," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. "My brave girl."
I leaned into him, exhausted but satisfied. Life was good.
Theapartmentdidn'tfeellike a safe house or a prison anymore—it felt like a home, and the difference hit me every time I walked through the door. Throw pillows in deep emerald and sapphire covered the leather couch where we'd first kissed, soft enough to nap on when I curled up reading. Plants cascaded from macramé hangers I'd taught myself to make from YouTube videos—pothos and spider plants that were apparently impossible to kill, though I'd managed to murder a succulent within a week before Dmitry gently suggested we stick to the hardy stuff.
The walls that had been bare six months ago now held photographs in mismatched frames from every thrift store in Brooklyn. Us at Smorgasburg, Bear's face covered in artisanal ice cream while Dmitry pretended to be stern about it. The three of us at the Strand, me holding up a first edition Gatsby I'd never be able to afford while Dmitry and Bear waited with amused patience. A blurry selfie from inside a blanket fort, all three of our faces squished together, Bear's tongue taking up half the frame.
