“Keene.” Roman’s expression sharpens.
“She’d have to acknowledge we’re useful. Even if she doesn’t want to.”
“She’s Interpol. She’s not going to be our ally. She hunts until she catches or until someone removes her from the board.”
“We might have to send Luka.”
The door opens, and Galina enters without knocking, the way she always does, rosary beads clicking against her palm as she takes in the scene—Roman in sleep pants making tea, me in his shirt at the counter, the easy intimacy.
She looks smaller today somehow, more fragile, though I know better than to say so. Seventy-eight years of surviving Soviet politics and Bratva bloodshed have made her harder than the marble floors she walks across, but three days locked in the east wing left marks that even she can’t hide completely. Dark circles under her eyes. A new slowness in her movements.
“Good morning. The captains are gathering early. Chernov says there’s news about Odessa.”
“Good news or bad?” Roman asks.
“News.” She settles onto the stool on my other side, accepting the cup of tea Roman slides toward her with the comfort of long practice. “The kind that requires both of you.”
I look at Roman. He looks at me.
Three months of building this, and we’ve learned to read each other without words.
“Twenty minutes.” Roman drains his tea. “We’ll be ready.”
Galina watches us.
“You’re good for each other,” she says finally. “The way you move now. The way you think. Like two wolves who’ve finally found their pack.”
Her rosary clicks softly.
“Irina would approve.”
Roman goes still beside me. “You think so?”
“Ya znayu.” Galina reaches across the counter to pat his cheek, the gesture so maternal it makes my throat tight. “She wanted you to find someone who could see the man beneath the monster. Someone strong enough to stand beside you.”
Her eyes shift to me.
“And you—she would have adored you. The spine. The way you love her son with everything you have.”
“I wish I’d known her.”
“You do know her.” Galina’s smile is sad and proud and peaceful all at once. “Every time Roman touches the case of her violin. Every time he chooses mercy. Every time he looks at you with that expression that makes him seem seventeen instead of thirty-two—that’s Irina. Living through the son she raised and the woman he chose.”
Roman’s damaged hand flexes on the counter, the fingers that will never hold a bow again curling against the marble like they’re still searching for strings.
“Spasibo,” he says quietly. “For everything. For sixty years of holding this family together.”
“And I’m not finished yet.” She rises from her stool with the creak of ancient joints. “Twenty minutes. Don’t be late.”
She leaves with the same lack of ceremony she entered with.
Roman and I sit in the silence she left behind.
“Shower,” he finally says. “And then we go build an empire worth being proud of.”
“Together?”
His smile is everything. “Together. Always, solnyshko.”
