Her mouth parts, rage vibrating through every line of her body, in the set of her jaw, and the fire in her eyes. “You can't keep me locked up forever. Sooner or later, you'll have to decide if I'm your enemy or just some woman you dragged out of her life for nothing.”
The honesty in her tone cuts deeper than I expected, slicing through layers of suspicion I've built over years of betrayals and carefully constructed walls.
“Stay here,” I command, securing the door from the outside.
Her voice follows me down the hall burning with fire and defiance that refuses to be extinguished. “Coward!”
The word echoes as I pocket the key and descend the stairs, resounding in my mind with more persistence than it should. Vega trots after me, his nails clicking against the hardwood, his presence a quiet tether to the woman locked behind a door above us.
The cabin’s lower level looks like a mountain retreat, but in truth, it’s been engineered for survival. Heavy timber beams arch overhead, their rustic appearance concealing steel reinforcements that most mountain homes never require. Stone walls hide wiring and surveillance systems installed by men who understood that beauty and security could coexist if designed properly. The hearth dominates one wall, flames already burning low against fresh logs that crackle and pop in the stillness.
Anya stands in the center of the room, framed by lamplight that catches in her long, dark hair and makes it gleam with the sheen of polished mahogany. My baby sister. Twenty-eight years old and beautiful in the way our mother was beautiful. Elegant, refined, with sharp green eyes that miss nothing, and a spine of steel hidden beneath silk and grace.
“Brat,” she greets, her lips brushing my cheeks in the old way our parents taught us before America tried to erase those customs. She steps back to study me, knowing every tell and micro-expression that betrays what I refuse to acknowledge aloud. “You look tired.”
“Business doesn't sleep,” I answer, the response automatic with same words I've offered her a hundred times before.
Her smile fades, replaced by concern that sits uncomfortably on her face. “Neither do you.”
We move to the chairs positioned near the hearth, settling into seats that face each other across a low table carved from a single piece of wood. Flames snap against the logs, throwing heat that fills the room but doesn't reach the space between us. The distance isn't physical but something deeper, built from the life I lead that she orbits without fully entering.
She studies me with the same patience our mother once wielded, waiting for me to fill the silence with whatever truth I'm willing to share. Dasha Barinov understood that men like our father, and men like me, needed space to arrive at honesty on our own terms. Anya learned the lesson well, though I see traces of impatience in the tightness around her mouth.
“Otets asks for you,” she offers at last, breaking the quiet with words that have more meaning than their simplicity suggests.
Isaak Barinov, my father. Once a giant in every room he entered, commanding respect and fear equally, and building an empire that stretched from Moscow to Seattle with merciless exactness and strategic brilliance. Now he's thinner, weaker, and half-paralyzed from a stroke that struck him down four years ago but didn’t blunt the sharpness of his eyes or the steel in his voice.
I remember the day the world cracked beneath my feet with perfect clarity. The flashing ambulance lights cutting through the Seattle rain, water streaming down the windows of the estate while chaos erupted in the foyer below. The slack on the left side of his face as the medics rushed him out on a stretcher, his hazel eyes, the ones I inherited, burning with fury at his body's betrayal. Our men standing frozen because no one feared death the way they feared a kingdom without a king.
In that moment, power slid into my hands not by choice but by necessity. The mantle of leadership settled across my shoulderswith crushing permanence while my father fought for his life in a hospital room surrounded by machines that beeped and hissed. Misha stood beside me in the hallway, his pale blue eyes filled with questions neither of us had answers for, and told me what I already knew. The organization needed apakhan. The enemies circling our territory needed to see strength, not vulnerability. Leadership could not wait for my father to recover.
I stepped into the role the way a soldier steps onto a battlefield, knowing retreat meant death and hesitation invited destruction. The transition was brutal and swift. Men who questioned my authority learned quickly that I carried my father's ruthlessness without the years of experience to temper it. I made examples when necessary, forged alliances through calculated displays of power, and eliminated threats before they fully materialized.
My father recovered slowly, regaining speech but not full mobility. The wheelchair became his throne, positioned in his study overlooking Elliott Bay, where he could still advise and guide, even if he could no longer enforce. But the burden of daily operations, making decisions that determined life and death, and navigating the treacherous waters of organized crime remained mine to carry.
Nikolay, my brother and Anya’s twin, rose to meet challenges in ways I had never anticipated. He took on enforcement responsibilities, handled logistics that required travel I couldn't spare time for, and proved his loyalty even when ambition burned behind his green eyes. Anya became the face of legitimacy we needed, attending charity functions and cultural events that reminded Seattle's elite the Barinovs were more than shadows and whispers.
But the distance between us grew. The secrets I kept multiplied. The choices I made in dark rooms with dangerous men created walls even family couldn't scale.
“Otets is with Nikolay,” Anya continues softly, her voice pulling me back to the present and the firelight dancing across her face. “But he wants you back in Seattle. He insists Colorado is a distraction.”
“I cannot leave until I know why Bellamy's name has returned,” I counter, my tone firm enough to close the discussion before it fully opens.
Her eyes deepen with understanding and curiosity mixed with concern. “And the girl upstairs? Is she a distraction, too?”
“She's a piece on the board,” I reply coldly, the words coming easily though they taste wrong on my tongue. “Until I know whose move she represents.”
Anya tilts her head, studying me with the same sharp analysis our mother used when she suspected we were hiding something. “You've locked her away, Luka. Do you expect her to trust you after that?”
“Trust isn't what I need from her.”
“Then what is it you need?”
I don't answer. Not to her. Not to myself. The question lingers unanswered and uncomfortable, because I genuinely don't know what I need from Sage Bellamy beyond information she may not possess.
Above us, faint footsteps stir across the floor. Sage is locked behind steel and wood, but restless and uncontained despite the physical barriers. Her presence seeps through the ceiling with arelentless pull, a shadow that follows me even when I cannot see her.
Anya's gaze follows mine upward, tracking the sound before returning to my face with renewed interest. “Who is she really, Luka? Not her name, café, or medical bills. Who is she toyou?”
