“I probably should have asked your permission first.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Probably. But my sister has never needed my permission for anything. She makes her own choices.” The smile fades into something more serious. “Don’t make me regret accepting you into this family, Tony. Because if you hurt her, there won’t be anywhere on earth you can hide from me.”
“Understood.”
The next day, Sasha and I spend an afternoon looking at apartments.
The Moscow real estate market is overwhelming enough on its own, and Sasha has specific requirements. Close to Patriarch Ponds. Good security. Space for a home office where she can build her authentication consultancy. We tour six different units before finding the one that makes her stop in the doorway and catch her breath.
“Tony,” she whispers. “Look at this.”
The apartment is on the top floor of a renovated building from the early twentieth century. High ceilings, original moldings, and a wall of windows that faces south, flooding the main room with natural lighting. The kitchen is modern but warm, and the bedroom is large. Large enough for the massive bed I’ve been fantasizing about making love to her on every night.
“It’s perfect,” I agree.
“It’s more than perfect.” Sasha walks through the space, trailing her fingers along the walls. “I could see us living here.”
We sign the purchase offer that afternoon.
The weeks that follow are the happiest of my life.
We fill the apartment with furniture chosen together. Argue about couch colors and bedding patterns that end in laughter and lovemaking.
Sasha hangs artwork on the walls, pieces she’s authenticated over the years that speak to her on a personal level. I install a security system that would make the CIA jealous and try not to laugh when Sasha rolls her eyes at my paranoia.
Routines emerge naturally. Morning coffee on the small balcony overlooking the street below, evenings curled together on the couch watching terrible Russian reality television, and dinners with her brothers and their wives at least once a week, where I slowly learn to navigate the complex dynamics of the Kozlov family.
My work with Dmitri is challenging but fulfilling. Rebuilding the organization’s counterintelligence apparatus from the ground up gives me purpose. The skills I honed during my CIA years finally serve something I believe in. Protecting this family. Protecting Sasha.
One evening, about a month after we move in, a knock at the door interrupts our dinner.
I check the security monitor and raise an eyebrow at what I see. “It’s Boris.”
Sasha looks equally surprised. “Boris? Here?”
I open the door to find the grizzled head of security standing in the hallway with a bottle of vodka in one hand. He looks deeply uncomfortable.
“Boris,” I greet him. “This is unexpected.”
“Can I come in?”
I step aside and gesture for him to enter. Sasha rises from the table and offers him a seat, which he declines.
“I won’t stay long,” Boris grumbles. “I just came to say something, and I’d rather get it over with.”
Sasha and I exchange a glance but remain silent.
Boris clears his throat. “I didn’t trust you when you first showed up. Thought you were trouble. Thought you’d get Sasha killed or break her heart or both.”
“That’s fair,” I acknowledge.
Boris sets the vodka on the counter with a thunk. “I’ve known Sasha since she was born. I taught her to throw a punch and watched her grow into a woman who deserves better than the life this family offers.”
Sasha’s face softens. “Boris...”
“I’m not good at this,” he interrupts, “so I’m just going to say it. You make her happy. Happier than I’ve seen her in years. Maybe ever.” He fixes me with a stare that could cut glass. “That matters. It matters more than where you came from or what you did before.”
I nod and reply, “Thank you, Boris. That means a lot.”
