"So what have you uncovered?" I ask, genuinely curious how far these amateur sleuthshave gotten.
Sophia steps forward, pointing to a photograph taped to the wall. "We don’t know who this man is, but he was clearly important to Donna Margarita."
I blink. They’ve found Viktor Voronin. Oh, these girls have no idea what they’ve stumbled into.
"That," I say, tapping the image, "is Viktor Voronin. The bloodiest Russian Pakhan in modern history. Donna Margarita’s father."
The room ripples with ohhhhhs and wide eyes.
"Wow, Donna Margarita was Russian?" Cat blurts.
Scarlet beams at me like a proud teacher. "See? I knew you’d be an asset." She points to another image, and my blood turns to ice. "Do you know him, too?"
My hand moves before my brain catches up. I take the picture off the wall.
A boy. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Blonde hair. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes like arctic water.
A foreboding feeling creeps up my spine, settling into my sternum like a heavy stone pressing down, into my stomach.
"It’s Nico, right?" Gigi says, uncertain. "I’ve been telling the others?—"
"No way," Sophia cuts in. "That’s not Nico. Nico isn’tblond."
Cat adds, "And look at it. This is like an… antique photo, right?"
I don’t answer them. I can’t. My pulse starts to thud in my ears. The photo is black and white. Old. The edges are soft with age, the contrast too sharp, shadows carved deep into the boy’s face. He can’t be more than sixteen. Blond hair cut short and severe, a jacket that looks borrowed or issued, collar stiff against his throat. There’s no smile. No softness. Just a cold, assessing stare that isn’t looking at the camera so much as through it.
My breath leaves me in a slow, silent exhale.
"Where did you get this?" My voice comes out too steady. I hate it.
"Camilla found it going through her grandma’s, Donna Margarita's, things," Cat explains, shifting like even she can feel the tension rolling off me. "Who is it?"
"Wait—Camilla’s back?" Gigi blurts. "Where was she?"
"It’s a long story," Cat says quickly. "She’s keeping her head down, but she wanted to talk to me, so…"
Their voices blur into background noise. All I can see are the eyes in the photograph. Too pale. Too sharp. Already watching. Already judging.
Slowly, I turn the picture over. The back is yellowed, and the ink faded, but a date is still legible, written in spindly, old-fashioned handwriting, the kind people used before pens were disposable. 1942. My stomach drops.
Beneath it, a set of initials: V.V.—Viktor Volkov.
And below it, added later, with a ballpoint pen: A.V.—Alexei Volkov.
The rock in my chest slips lower, settling painfully in my gut as understanding blooms all at once, ugly and undeniable. This is why the picture was kept. Why it was hidden instead of framed. Why someone marked it like a warning instead of giving it a name.
This wasn’t a memory. It was proof. And suddenly, horrifyingly, I know exactly what I’m looking at.
This isn’t Nico.
But it is where Nico came from.
Fuck me, I should have seen it sooner.
Ah fuck. Fuckedy Fuck!
A loud laugh escapes me—too loud, too sharp—because the alternative is screaming. "That, ladies," I manage, "is a very rare picture of Viktor Voronin."
