As the evening unfolds, Anya carries most of the conversation, asking Mireille about school, her family, and the things she likes to do. Alexei listens quietly, weighing her every word. Watching.He’s always been someone who sees too much—like he can look right through a person to what they’re hiding underneath. It’s what makes him a goodpakhan. It’s also what makes me nervous tonight.
Mireille answers honestly, though I can tell she’s trying hard to make a good impression. Her voice softens when she talks about her father, the FBI special agent who inspired her to study criminal justice.
I feel Alexei’s eyes flick toward me for the briefest second when she mentions her father. His expression doesn’t change, but I know what he’s thinking. I know what we all are.
Anya’s soft laugh breaks me out of my thoughts. I look up to see her smiling amusedly at her husband, like they're sharing some private joke. She leans into him, her hand deliberately brushing against Alexei’s, and he holds her gaze, the hardness in his expression falling away for a full second.
I watch them, something strange twisting in my chest. It's easy to see how in love they are with each other, the unspoken intimacy that they share. I always admired it. But now, more than ever, I find myself craving it.
“Do you have any other brothers?” Mireille asks, and I look up to see her staring at me with a curious smile.
Damn. She's so beautiful.
“Yes, one more,” Viktor answers before I can. “Mikhail. The youngest. “He’s twenty-eight—lives in California, runs a record label.”
“A record label?” Mireille’s eyebrows rise. “That’s impressive.”
I nod. “He’s done well for himself. His company has an office here in the city, too, so we see him fairly often. He just couldn’t make it tonight.”
“He prefers to forge his own path,” Alexei adds, and there’s respect rather than judgment in his tone. “We all find our place in different ways.”
Viktor raises his glass. “To Mikhail—the only one of us smart enough to spend his days surrounded by musicians instead of spreadsheets.”
We all chuckle, and I catch Mireille relaxing into her seat. This is what I wanted—for her to see the warmth beneath the intimidating exterior, to understand that we’re still a family.
Anya rolls her eyes affectionately. “Ignore him, Mireille. He thinks he’s funnier than he is.”
“I am exactly as funny as I think I am,” Viktor protests, hand over his heart.
Mireille laughs then, a real, lighthearted sound that cuts through the heaviness in the air. I feel something in my chest ease at the sight of her smiling.
Dinner carries on with laughter and conversation, Anya telling stories about the opera house, Viktor teasing me about how “domesticated” I’ve become. Even Alexei seems to soften, listening more than speaking, his gaze occasionally flicking toward me with something that might be understanding—or might be a warning. With Alexei, it’s hard to tell.
When dessert is served, Anya and Mireille drift toward the sitting area with their coffee and pastries, their voices dropping to an easy, feminine murmur. I can tell Mireille likes mybrother’s wife, and that’s a relief. Anya has a way of making people feel at home, even in a house full of ghosts.
A few minutes later, as Viktor refills everyone’s glasses, Alexei stands. “Dmitri. Viktor. A moment.”
Mireille looks up, her eyes catching mine. She raises her brows as if to ask if everything is okay. I give her a reassuring smile, signaling to her that I’ll be right back.
She nods, though I can tell she’s curious.
We follow Alexei down the hall to his office. He moves to his desk, pours himself a drink, and doesn’t offer us any. That’s never a good sign.
“Well?” he says finally, turning toward me. “You’ve been seeing Turner’s daughter for weeks. What have you learned?”
The question hits harder than it should.
I keep my tone even. “Not much. Mireille doesn’t talk about her father’s work. He’s private, careful.”
Viktor leans against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re slipping, brother. Usually by now you’d have passwords, schedules, blood type.”
I glare at him, but he only shrugs, smirking.
Alexei studies me, eyes narrowing slightly. “And you still haven’t met Turner himself?”
“Not yet,” I hesitate, then add, “She’s mentioned introducing me to her parents. I’ve been putting it off.”
“Putting it off,” Alexei repeats flatly. “Why?”
