He grips my chin and gives me a kiss, “It is, this is a surprise, so stay here and?—”
“Nope, I’m coming.”
“You’re a pain in the ass even on the holidays?”
I motion to myself, “This is 365, 24-7, AK, you think you can hang?” I know he can,and swing.
“Okay, but you have to follow the rules, or it becomes your gift and not his.”
“What did you do?” I ask, throwing on my Christmas jammies.
He holds out his hand, “Come.”
I lace my fingers through his, and he all but pulls me along.
When the elevator doors open, a man steps inside, calm and confident, holding the leash of a massive black dog. Not aggressive. Not anxious. Just… aware.
“This is Liam Ross,” Aleks says.
Liam nods. “Merry Christmas.”
Behind us, Matteo and James appear;they knew.
Liam kneels slightly, giving the dog space. “This is a Black Russian Terrier. Fully trained. Protection, service, and companion work.”
He explains what that means. How the dog reads tone and posture. How he anchors to routine. How his size is an asset, not a liability, even in a city penthouse. How he enhances safety without creating fear.
The dog doesn’t wait for permission.
He walks straight past all of us and settles at my father’s feet.
Not crowding. Not pushing. Just sitting.
Dad looks down, surprised, then smiles slowly, instinctively reaching out.
“Well,” he says. “Hello there.”
The dog leans gently into his leg, claiming him.
“Niko,” Liam says. “That’s his name.”
My chest tightens, and I hold my hand to it. Aleks’s hand slides to my back.
Dad looks up at us, eyes bright, present, full. “Is he…”
“A gift to you, from all of us.” Aleks smiles.
“I think,” he says carefully, “this might be the best Christmas yet.”
The kitchen is quiet today, so we decided to give all the staff a four-day mini vacation. Aleks was home for that time, and we had no plans to leave.
Aleks is at the island in socks, sleeves pushed up, moving with that calm competence that makes everything feel handled. He plates breakfast like it matters, like this is a ritual and not just food.
I slide a platter of toast toward him. Thick-cut sourdough, still warm, butter already melting into the cracks.
“What made you think of a dog?” I ask, handing him the eggs next. Soft-scrambled, glossy, the way Dad likes them, even though he pretends he doesn’t care.
Aleks doesn’t look up right away. “The men from the Legacy group mentioned it.”
