Contact. The polite word for an affair that resulted in me.
"In bratva terms," Ivan added, his scholar's voice making brutal facts sound academic, "if Sophie is Konstantin Belyaev's biological daughter, she's legitimate Belyaev blood regardless of her mother's marital status at the time of her birth. Bloodline matters more than documentation in our world. It's why families track genetics so carefully. Why certain marriages are arranged to consolidate power."
My photographic memory was pulling files without mercy now. Every strange interaction, every comment that had neverquite made sense, suddenly developing context I'd never wanted it to have.
The lawyer who'd handled my father's estate, the one who'd seemed unsurprised when debts totaling millions appeared. "Your father was always paying for old sins," he'd said. I'd assumed he meant the gambling. But maybe the sins were older. Maybe they were my mother's. Maybe they were mine, just by existing.
The way the Settling had documentation on me before the auction. Not just my father's debts, but other information. Medical records that went back to my birth. Like someone had been tracking me, cataloging me, preparing for exactly this moment when I'd become valuable.
"If this is true—" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "If I'm actually Konstantin Belyaev's daughter, then Anton isn't just some pakhan who wants me for leverage. He's—"
I couldn't say it. The word stuck in my throat like broken glass.
"Your half-brother." Dmitry finished for me, his brutal honesty cutting through pretense. "Yeah. Makes the fact that he’s probably going to try to marry you a lot more fucked up."
The warehouse spun. Not from physical instability this time, but from the sheer horror of what I was processing. Anton Belyaev wanted to marry me.
"Bratva families have done worse for power." Ivan's clinical assessment made bile rise in my throat. "Marriages between half-siblings aren't unheard of in our history, particularly when bloodline consolidation matters more than—" He stopped, probably reading the expression on my face. "But it's not common. Not in modern operations."
Not common but not impossible. The implication sat between us like something toxic that would kill us all if we breathed too deeply.
"He can't possibly think—" I started, then stopped. Because of course Anton could think it. Could justify it through whatever brutal calculus these men used to make decisions. Could frame it as strategic necessity, as bloodline purity, as the kind of sacrifice powerful families made for continuation of power.
My hands were shaking again. I pressed them flat against my thighs, trying to ground myself, trying to find some anchor in a reality that kept restructuring itself into configurations more horrific than the last.
"Your mother—" Alexei's voice had gentled slightly, which somehow made it worse. "Katerina made choices that put you in this position. I don't know if she understood the full implications. Don't know if Konstantin acknowledged you before he died, if there's documentation somewhere making your claim official. But the fact that the Belyaevs are moving this aggressively suggests they know something we don't."
My mother. Who'd died apologizing. Who'd stroked my hair and whispered sorry in between morphine doses. Who'd loved my father—I believed that, had to believe that—but maybe not enough. Or maybe too much, in complicated ways that destroyed both of them.
Anger flared in my chest, hot and sudden. At my mother for making choices that determined my fate decades later. At my father for keeping secrets that might have protected me if he'd just explained. At Konstantin Belyaev for existing, for touching my mother, for creating me through an affair that was now being weaponized by his son.
At Anton for being the kind of monster who'd consider marrying his own half-sister if it consolidated his claim to power.
"This doesn't change anything." Nikolai's voice cut through my spiral, firm and grounding. His hand found my face, tilting my chin up until I was looking at him. "Your genetics don't changewho you are. Don't change what you mean to me. Don't change that I claimed you, that you're mine, that I'll protect you from whatever the fuck Anton Belyaev thinks he has a right to."
His grey eyes were fierce, almost violent in their intensity. "You could be Belyaev blood, Volkov blood, descended from Russian royalty or completely unconnected to any of this—it doesn't matter. You're Sophie. You're the woman I chose. And nothing about your biology changes that."
The words hit somewhere deep, in the place where Little Sophie was hiding, where the part of me that needed protecting and claiming and unconditional acceptance lived. My throat was too tight to respond, but I nodded against his palm.
"We need proof." Maks's voice, practical as always. "If Sophie's paternity is actually in question, there will be documentation somewhere. Birth certificates, medical records, maybe something in Dmitri's possessions after he died. Hospital records from when Sophie was born."
"I have his papers." The admission came out small. "Everything from his apartment. I couldn't—I didn't have the heart to go through it all after he died. It's in storage."
Storage unit in Queens, packed with the remains of my father's life. His books and clothes and the photographs I couldn't look at without breaking. Documentation of debts and gambling losses and the slow destruction of everything he'd tried to build.
And maybe—maybe—proof of what he'd known about my mother's affair. About my genetics. About the terrible legacy she'd left me.
"We'll get it." Nikolai stood, pulling me up with him. My knee protested the movement, but I locked it, refusing to show weakness in front of these men who were my family but also weren't. "Maks can have a team there within the hour. Pull anything relevant."
"And Mikhail?" Kostya's question from the doorway. "We've got eighteen hours left on Anton's deadline."
The reminder landed like a weight. Mikhail, kidnapped because of me. Because Nikolai had claimed me, protected me, made me valuable enough that taking me would hurt him.
Alexei stood too, the movement carrying authority that made everyone pay attention. "We'll help track him. Our operations overlap with Belyaev territory—we might have information your people don't. But—" His ice-blue eyes found mine again. "If we do this, if we help retrieve Mikhail and eliminate Anton, you're acknowledging the Volkov connection. You're family, whether or not we handled your father's exile correctly. That means obligations. Expectations. Protection, yes, but also loyalty."
Family. The word felt foreign, dangerous, heavy with implications I wasn't ready to process. But I'd stood here and told Alexei he'd chosen business over family. If I rejected this offer—this tentative rebuilding of connection—I'd be doing exactly what I'd accused him of.
"Okay." My voice came out stronger than before. "I'm in. We're family. I'll—I'll accept what that means."
