Kostya moved to the table. Sat heavily in one of the chairs, his injured shoulder clearly bothering him despite his denials. "What kind of service?"
"Household management," I said. "Intelligence analysis. Research support. She has a photographic memory—that's useful. And she's educated. Dual enrollment at City College before she dropped out."
"Before her father's debts caught up with her," Maks added. "Two point two million at a fair market rate for someone with her skills . . ." He calculated silently. "Four years. Maybe three and a half if she's particularly useful."
Three and a half years. The timeline felt both too long and not long enough. Three and a half years of Sophie in my compound. Under my protection. Close enough to see every day.
Three and a half years to earn her trust. To understand why she'd buried her Little side. To maybe—if I was very careful, very patient—help her feel safe enough to be small again.
"Four years," I said. "We'll say four. Gives us room for adjustment."
Maks nodded, typing. "Four-year service contract. Household operations, intelligence support, research assistance. Room and board provided, medical care included. Standard terms."
"Nothing is standard about paying a million over the actual debt," Kostya said.
The words landed heavy. True. Everyone at that auction had known the debt was two point three million. I'd paid two point two, yes, but Anton Belyaev had been about to counter. I'd been prepared to go higher.
Much higher.
"That's ego money, brother," Kostya continued. His dark eyes held mine. "You wanted to win. Wanted to beat Anton Belyaev publicly. That's what you'll tell people."
I should argue. Should defend the decision as strategic. Should maintain the careful logic I'd built.
But Kostya was giving me an out. A explanation that would satisfy questions. That would make sense to the other families.
Ego. Pride. The new Pakhan proving himself against a rival.
It was simpler than the truth. Safer.
"Yes," I said. "That's the story."
Maks added something to his notes. Kostya just watched me with that expression that said he saw through the lie but wouldn't push.
"Logistics," I said, moving to safer ground. "She stays in the east wing guest room. The one I already put her in. It's secure, comfortable, has its own bathroom. She can lock it from the inside if that makes her feel safer."
"And during the day?" Maks asked.
"Full access to common areas. Library, kitchen, main sitting rooms. Anywhere on the ground floor." I thought about it. Calculated. "She reports to me directly. Morning briefings, evening check-ins. I'll assign specific tasks as needed."
"What kind of tasks?" Kostya's tone was careful. Not quite suspicious. But close.
"Research, initially. Intelligence analysis. She can help me go through intercepted communications, financial records, the kind of detailed work that requires perfect memory." I gestured to the monitors. "I have months of backlog. She'd be genuinely useful."
That part was true. I did have backlog. Did need someone with her specific skills.
That I also wanted her close, wanted to see her every day, wanted to watch her slowly learn to trust me—that was separate.
"It gives her purpose," Maks said slowly. "Makes the arrangement feel less like captivity. Smart."
The word captivity made something twist in my chest. Sophie had used it too. Had called herself my prisoner.
She wasn't wrong.
But I'd make it bearable. Would give her space and choice and enough freedom that maybe it wouldn't feel like a cage.
"Anything else?" I asked.
They looked at each other. Some silent brother communication I wasn't part of.
