"Konstantin is the middle brother. Loud, enormous, probably going to hug you before you can protest. His heart is bigger than his body, which is saying something." Maks's lips curved. "He and Maya found each other recently. She's a surgeon—was a surgeon. Now runs a clinc. Long story. She'll probably want to give you a medical exam within five minutes of meeting you."
"Is that a joke?"
"Only partially."
The gates appeared before I was ready.
Wrought iron, tall enough to be serious, topped with decorative spikes that probably weren't just decorative. Guards in dark suits checked something on Maks's phone, nodded, waved us through. The whole process took thirty seconds and felt like thirty years.
The compound stretched beyond—more grounds than I'd expected, gardens that looked professionally maintained, the kind of landscaping that spoke to money and permanence. But it was the house itself that caught my breath.
Not a fortress. Not a bunker. Not the cold, clinical space I'd imagined when I pictured where the Besharov bratva conducted their business.
A home.
“This place is new. Somewhere more homely now that Katya is here.”
Nikolai’s daughter. I wondered what it would be like to be born into a family like this. Then, to my shame, I wondered what it would feel like to marry into a family like this.
Three stories of brick and stone, windows glowing warm in the afternoon light, ivy climbing one corner in a way that suggested decades of growth. The architecture was old—1920s maybe, renovated but respectful of its bones. It looked like somewhere generations of family had lived and fought and loved.
Maks parked in a circular driveway. Cut the engine. Turned to look at me with those warm brown eyes that still made my stomach flip.
"Ready?"
I wasn't. Not even close.
But I nodded anyway.
The front door opened before we reached it, and the smell hit me first.
Garlic. Herbs—dill, maybe, and something earthier. Meat roasting, rich and savory, the particular aroma that came from hours of cooking rather than thirty minutes of reheating. Underneath it all, something sweeter—bread, fresh, the kind you made from scratch when you had time and love to spare.
The smell of a home where people actually cooked.
Where people actually lived.
My chest did something complicated. A twist that was part longing, part terror, part something I couldn't name. I'd grown up with takeout containers and microwave dinners, with a grandmother who loved me but couldn't cook, with the particular emptiness of spaces where meals were functions rather than rituals.
This was different.
This was what I'd been missing without knowing I was missing it.
Maks's hand found the small of my back. Steadying. Present. His lips brushed my ear as we stepped over the threshold.
"Breathe, Ptichka. I've got you."
I breathed.
And walked into the warmth.
NikolaiBesharovwasterrifyingin a way I couldn't immediately explain.
Not loud terrifying. Not aggressive terrifying. The opposite, actually—he was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that came from absolute certainty about what violence he was capable of and complete control over whether to deploy it. Dark eyes tracked me as I entered, missing nothing, cataloging everything. The assessment lasted maybe three seconds. It felt like an autopsy.
He stood in the foyer like he owned the space. Which, I supposed, he did. Tall—not as tall as Maks had described Konstantin, but tall enough. Dark hair, sharp features, the particular handsomeness that came from good bones and dangerous living. He was holding something small and dark-haired against his chest, but my brain was too busy processing threat assessment to register what.
"You must be Auralia."
