I ransacked the refrigerator. Found cream—the heavy kind our cook used for sauces. Poured some into a pot, warmed it on the stove. Not too hot. I tested it on my wrist like I'd seen mothers do with baby bottles, though where that knowledge came from, I had no idea.
The kittens watched me with those too-large eyes. Suspicious. Starving.
I poured the body-temperature cream into my cupped palm. The grey one understood immediately, stumbled forward on legs that barely worked. Its tongue was tiny, pink, rough like sandpaper as it lapped at the cream. The orange one held out for maybe thirty seconds before hunger won. They drank from my hand, and I stood there in the industrial kitchen, still wearing a blood-stained shirt, refilling my palm until their bellies went round.
"Malysh," I said to the grey one. Baby. Because that's what it was—something soft and helpless that shouldn't exist in my world. "And you—" I looked at the orange tabby, who had cream on its whiskers but still managed to look fierce. "Zmeya." Little snake. Because even tiny and starving, it had tried to fight me.
I found a cardboard box from the storage room—sturdy, clean. Grabbed kitchen towels, the soft ones. Made them a nest in the corner of my room, near the radiator where it was warm. They explored for maybe a minute before exhaustion won. Malysh curled into a grey ball. Zmeya wrapped around him, protective even in sleep.
I sat on the floor, back against my bed, and watched them breathe. In and out. Tiny ribs expanding and contracting. Alive when they should have been dead. Safe when they should have been freezing in an alley.
These tiny, broken things that had hissed and fought even when they were dying—I understood them. They were survivors. They were fierce even when they had no right to be. And now they were mine.
"You're safe," I told them in Russian, even though they were asleep. "No one hurts you now. No one touches you. Ever."
It was a promise I would keep. This, at least, I could control. I could be their monster—the one that stood between them and everything else.
Zmeya's paw twitched in his sleep, probably dreaming of fighting something ten times his size. Malysh purred, a sound barely louder than breathing.
The monster in my chest went quiet. Not satisfied. Not peaceful. Just . . . quiet.
I stayed there on the floor until the sky started to lighten outside my window. Watching them sleep. Standing guard. Being something other than just destruction, even if only for a few hours.
Thethirdfloorofthe compound had been Mikhail's domain for forty years—the seat of power where decisionsgot made and men got buried. Now it belonged to Nikolai, though the office still smelled like our grandfather's pipe tobacco, probably always would. The room commanded a view of the Verrazano Bridge, steel and sky framed by bulletproof glass. Mikhail used to call it his throne room. These days, it felt more like a war room.
Nikolai sat behind the massive oak desk that had belonged to three generations of Besharov pakhans. He was reading through reports, that little crease between his eyebrows that meant he was calculating moves ahead. The chess board in the corner of the space indicated as much. Maks sprawled in one of the leather chairs like he owned the place, laptop balanced on his knee, fingers flying across the keyboard without looking up. And Sophie—
Sophie was curled on the leather sofa, feet tucked under her, seven months pregnant and glowing like she'd swallowed sunlight. She had a tablet in her lap, reading glasses perched on her nose—the ones she claimed she didn't need but wore anyway. She was doing intelligence work, because even pregnant, Sophie couldn't sit still. Had to be useful. Had to contribute.
She looked up when I entered, and her whole face transformed. "Uncle Kostya!"
The name hit me in the chest like it always did.
She set aside the tablet, struggled to her feet. Before I could stop her, she was waddling over, arms already reaching for a hug.
I froze. Complete system shutdown. She was so small, even with the pregnancy belly. So clean and bright and good. My hands—I'd washed them, but I could still feel Alexandr's blood under my nails. Could still feel the give of cartilage under my knuckles.
"Relax, you big teddy bear," Sophie said, gentle because she understood. She always understood too much. Her arms came around me as far as they could reach, her head against my chest. She smelled like vanilla and that pregnancy glow everyone talked about—something warm and alive and precious.
I stood there like a statue, arms at my sides, terrified that if I hugged her back, I'd contaminate her. Transfer the violence that lived in my skin to her and the baby. But she just held on, patient, until my arms came up on their own. Careful. Barely touching. Like she was made of spun glass.
"There we go," she said, pulling back with a smile. "Was that so hard?"
Yes. It was impossible. But I didn't say that. Instead, I just grunted.
Nikolai gestured to a chair. "So? Report."
I sat, grateful for the distance, for the return to business. This I could do. This made sense.
"Alexandr talked," I said. "After sufficient encouragement."
Maks looked up from his laptop. "Define sufficient."
"He'll live."
Sophie settled back on the sofa, and I tried not to watch how Nikolai's eyes tracked her movement, making sure she was comfortable. The way his whole body angled toward her even when he was looking at me. Seven months ago, he'd been all sharp edges and control. Now he was still those things, but softer somehow. Sophie had changed him. Changed all of us, probably, though I wasn't ready to think about what that meant.
"Anton Belyaev is extending his influence, even from exile. He’s partnering with someone at Brighton Medical Center," I continued. "Dr. Brand. Running an organ trafficking ring."
