37
MIKO
The Novikov estate has been scrubbed clean since the explosion.
The floors shine with new polish, the kitchen and hallway cleared of dust and debris, and yet the air still smells of smoke and blood to me.
They gather in the grand ballroom—twelve men seated in a crescent arc of old leather chairs arranged like thrones before the dais.
They’re the Russian patriarchs, the last remnants of the old Bratva world order.
Not one of them is younger than me, but then, that’s been true of every Novikov that has led their families for decades.
Each one of these men has been hardened by war, betrayal, and decades of surviving empire collapses.
Most of them I’ve only heard of in whispers and war stories.
Even Don Augusta knew better than to take them on as a unit. They carry the weight of entire bloodlines in their gazes, and all of them are looking at me now.
I stand tall, my hands clasped behind my back, Anika at my side in a black dress that drapes like smoke off her shoulders.
Her presence lights a fire inside me, lending me confidence that this is the right choice.
We’re in this together.
We are both tired—carrying bruises and scars that don’t show—but we’re here. We are ready.
The door opens slowly, and Svetlana rolls through, her wheelchair pushed by Chastity, who looks as though she’s quaking with fright.
Her knuckles are white as she grips the chair’s handles with unnecessary force, like she’s clinging to it for support so she doesn’t collapse over being in the presence of the hardened criminals in the room.
They’re flanked by two guards who offer Svetlana quiet respect.
Her hair is swept back in a silver bun, her eyes alert and bright.
For all her age, she holds herself like a queen who has seen empires built and broken.
A silence falls as she reaches the center of the room.
Her eyes land on me. Then she nods.
I step forward, my voice steady. “You’ve all come searching for the truth behind the rumors. About the heir Viktor Novikov lost.”
A murmur ripples through the circle of men.
“I am that child,” I say, letting the words hang heavy in the air.
A few brows lift. One patriarch scoffs. Another leans forward, hands clasped. The silence thickens like a test.
Svetlana raises a hand, demanding attention. “He speaks the truth.”
That gets them.
One of the older men, Pakhan Malenkov, leans forward. “You’d stake your name on this, Svetlana?”
“I would stake my blood,” she replies. “I held him in my arms before he could walk. I remember his toothless baby smile. And I remember the last night I saw him, before Don Augusta ripped him from my grandson’s arms. I saw the resemblance the moment he walked back into my life.”
They don’t question her further. Even in her age and frailty, Svetlana commands respect. She’s the last of the oldPakhanwives. A relic—but a holy one.
