"He had very specific ideas about strength and weakness. About what it meant to be a man in our world. Emotion wasweakness. Attachment was weakness. Caring about anything or anyone was a vulnerability that could be exploited." Ilya's jaw tightens. "He beat those lessons into me from the time I was old enough to understand them."
My chest aches at the image of a young Ilya being taught that love was dangerous, that caring was a flaw to be eliminated.
"But I had a sister," he continues, and something in his voice softens. "Katya. She was four years younger than me. And she was—" He pauses, searching for words. "She was everything good in a world that had no room for goodness. Soft and gentle and kind. She loved books and music and flowers. She used to pick wildflowers and leave them around the house, trying to make it beautiful despite how cold and grey it all always seemed to be."
I can hear the love in his voice, even now, even after all these years, a sound that seems wholly at odds with who he is and yet… I’ve heard it in his voice, the beginnings of it, with me. I feel sure of that, now. And I can hear the pain underneath it. I have a feeling I know where this story goes.
"She was the only person who made me feel human," he says quietly. "The only one who saw past the violence and the brutality. When I was with her, I could pretend that I wasn't my father's son. That I wasn't being groomed to take over an empire built on blood that would require me to spill a great deal more of it over the years."
He's staring at the wall now, but he looks as if he’s not seeing it. I think he's seeing Moscow, his childhood, a girl with wildflowers.
"When I was sixteen, a rival faction decided they wanted to send my father a message. They wanted to show him that he wasn't untouchable." His voice goes flat, emotionless, and I know what's coming before he says it. "They kidnapped Katya. She was twelve years old."
My hand moves to cover my mouth, horror rising in my throat with the sting of bile. I’d expected something terrible, but this is headed somewhere so much worse.
"They sent a message. They said they'd return her unharmed if my father agreed to certain terms: territory, money, concessions. Reasonable terms, by Bratva standards. Terms that would have cost him pride, but not power." Ilya's hands are clenched into fists now, his knuckles white. His jaw works for a moment before he speaks again. "He refused, saying negotiating was weakness. That giving in to their demands would make him look soft and invite more attacks. He said the only response was retaliation."
"I begged him." The words are raw, torn from somewhere deep inside him. His voice sounds hoarse, his accent thickening with a deep emotion. "For three days, I begged him to save her. To negotiate, to pay whatever they wanted, to do whatever it took to get her back. And for three days, he beat me for my tears until I was bloody, until the bone and muscle showed through where he lashed me. Called me weak. Called me a disgrace. Said I was proving that attachment was a liability."
Tears well up in my eyes as my throat tightens, and I stare at him. It’s hard to comprehend that horror like this exists in the world. It’s no wonder the darkness wiped away any light that might have been in him. It was torn out of him…beatenout of him.
"On the third day, they found her body." His voice breaks slightly on the word 'body,' and I see him struggle to regain control. "They dumped it in front of our house as a message. A warning. A demonstration of what happens when you refuse to negotiate."
"Ilya—" I reach for him, but he pulls away, standing and wrapping a sheet around his waist before walking to the window.He leans against it, one forearm against the glass, staring out at the city that belongs to him.
"My father showed no grief. No remorse. No acknowledgment that his daughter had just been murdered because of his pride. He said she had been a weakness. That her death had freed me from that weakness. That now I had nothing to lose, nothing that could be used against me. He said I should be grateful."
The cruelty of it takes my breath away. Not just the loss of his sister, but the way his father twisted it, tried to make it into a lesson about strength.
"That night, I made two promises to myself." Ilya turns to face me, and the look in his eyes is devastating. "The first was that I would never be powerless again. That I would build enough power, enough control, enough resources that no one could ever take something from me the way they took Katya. That I would be strong enough to protect what was mine."
The second promise was that I would never let anyone matter enough to break me. That I would never care about someone so much that losing them would destroy me again the way losing Katya destroyed me." He stops, swallowing hard. "The way losing Katya should have destroyed my father, if he'd been human enough to grieve."
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to staunch my tears. This isn’t about me; it’s about him, his loss, what made him who he is. And I need to see that, to witness this moment of vulnerability.
He’s giving me what I asked for—everything I asked for—and I need to be here for him.
"What happened to your father?" I ask quietly.
"He died two years later. I was eighteen." Ilya's expression is unreadable. "Some people whispered that I killed him. ThatI orchestrated his death to take over the Bratva. They're not wrong."
The admission should horrify me. But after everything he's just told me, I can only feel a grim satisfaction that the man who let his daughter die, who beat his son for grieving, got what he deserved.
"I took over at eighteen and became twice as ruthless as he ever was. I protected everything that was mine obsessively. I eliminated threats before they could materialize. I made sure everyone knew that taking anything from me would cost them everything." He moves back toward the bed, sitting on the edge. "I kept both promises for fifteen years. I was powerful and I was alone. I told myself that was strength. If I was going to be with anyone, it would be for strategic reasons, and nothing more."
I think of Svetlana, standing outside the office. "Until me," I say softly.
"Until you." He looks at me, swallowing hard. "I broke my second promise the moment I saw you in that gallery. I knew I couldn’t stay away. I knew as soon as I saw you on the sidewalk. You were meant to be mine. And when you wouldn’t see me again in Boston, I had to follow you to New York.”
His hand comes up to touch the choker at my throat, gently, despite the intensity in his eyes. "And the thought of losing you the way I lost Katya—the thought of someone taking you from me, hurting you, destroying you—it makes me feel insane. It makes me want to lock you away where nothing can touch you, where you'll be safe forever, where I'll never have to feel that powerlessness again."
Understanding crashes over me like a wave. This is why he watches me obsessively. Why he needs to control every aspect of my life. Why he can't bear the thought of me being in danger. It's not only possessiveness, it's terror. He’s afraid of losing someonehe cares about, of being that powerless sixteen-year-old boy again, begging for someone to save the person he loves.
"I understand," I say softly. "I understand why you are the way you are. Why you need control so desperately?—"
Relief flashes across his face. "Then you see?—"
"But I can't live like this." The words come out quickly, firmly, and I see him freeze. "I can't be kept like a pet, Ilya. No matter how luxurious the cage, no matter how good your intentions, I can't give up my career, my life, my autonomy. I'd rather die than be imprisoned forever."
