The door clicked shut, and it was just me and Nikolai in the office where our grandfather had built an empire. Where our father had ruled through paranoia after our mother left. Where generations of Besharov men had made decisions that shaped the underworld of New York.
"You love her," Nikolai said. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just fact, stated with the same certainty he'd use to say the sky was blue or blood was red.
I turned back to face him. No point in denying what he'd already seen. "Yes."
"How long have you known her? Days?"
"Mmhm," I said, then thought about it. "Feels like years."
He laughed, but not mockingly. There was understanding in it. "I knew Sophie for three days before I knew she was the one. Sometimes it happens like that. Lightning strike instead of slow burn."
I moved away from the door, sank into the chair across from his desk. The broken armrest creaked under my weight—evidence of my earlier loss of control.
"I've never," I started, then stopped. How did you tell your brother you'd never felt anything before? That thirty years of existence had been just violence and vodka and empty transactions until a broken doctor had stitched up your arm and everything had shifted?
"I know," Nikolai said quietly. "I've watched you for years, Kostya. Going through the motions. Fucking without feeling. Fighting because it was the only thing that made you feel alive. I worried."
"You worried?" That was new. Nikolai worried about strategy, about the family business, about maintaining power. Not about his enforcer brother's emotional state.
"Of course I worried." He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment he looked younger. Just my brother, not the Pakhan. "After Mom left, we all broke in different ways. I became obsessed with control. Maks became obsessed with information. And you . . . you became the monster everyone needed you to be. But monsters don't live long in our world. They burn out or get put down."
The truth of it sat heavy between us. I had been burning out. The violence had stopped satisfying years ago. The women had never satisfied. I'd been going through motions, existing rather than living, until Maya.
"But now," Nikolai continued, "you look alive. Actually alive, not just functional. She did that?"
"She did that," I confirmed. "She's . . . fuck, I don't have words for what she is."
"You don't need words. I can see it." He studied me with those grey eyes that missed nothing. "Sophie's been asking about her." A soft smile crossed his face, the kind reserved only for thoughts of his wife. "She wants to meet Maya properly. Not as the Pakhan's wife making a social call, but as . . ." He paused, choosing words carefully. "As someone who understands."
"Understands what?"
"The Little side. The need for structure, for Daddy Dom dynamics. Sophie doesn't have anyone who truly gets that part of her. The other bratva wives think she's weak for calling me Daddy. They don't understand it's not weakness—it's trust. Strength through surrender."
I thought about Maya saying "Daddy" as I'd held her after the spanking. The way she'd melted into me, finally able to let go of the control that was killing her slowly.
"There's a room," Nikolai said, pulling me from the memory. "East wing, third floor. Sophie calls it her nursery, though that's not quite right. It's more . . . a safe space. Where she can be little without judgment. Soft colors, comfortable furniture, toys and books and things that let her regress when she needs to."
"She wants to share that with Maya?"
"She wants Maya to know she's not alone. That this thing she needs, this part of herself—it's not shameful. It's not broken. It's just another way of being." He paused, eyes serious. "But more than that, I think Sophie needs a friend. Someone who won't judge her for needing to color in a coloring book after a hard day. Someone who understands why sometimes she needs me to make all the decisions so her brain can rest."
I thought about Maya curled in my bed, overwhelmed by choosing what to eat. The brilliant doctor who'd saved lives but couldn't save herself from her own anxious spiraling without structure.
"It would be good for Maya," I admitted. "She's been alone with this for a long time."
"It would be good for both of them," Nikolai said. "But Kostya, if Maya comes to that nursery, if she bonds with Sophie—she's not just yours anymore. She's family. Besharov. That means something."
I knew what it meant. It meant protection forever. It meant she'd never be abandoned, never be alone. But it also meant she'd be a target forever. Being a Besharov woman came with privilege and danger in equal measure.
"She's already permanent," I said.
Nikolai smiled. "Good. Then talk to her. Tomorrow, Sophie will be in the nursery from two to four. It's her scheduled little time. If Maya wants to come, she's welcome."
"I'll talk to her," I promised, standing. "And Nikolai? Thank you. For this. For not calling me weak for falling for her."
"Weak?" He laughed, sharp and genuine. "Kostya, falling in love with someone when you know the world wants to destroy them? That's not weakness. That's fucking brave."
I left his office carrying those words.
