Leonid's answer is careful, measured. "I think he was braver. Because being brave isn't about not being scared. It's about doing the right thing even when you are scared."
Like trusting the man who turned your world upside down. Like believing his plans will keep your family safe. Like watching him with your son and letting your heart hope, just a little.
"Mommy?" Elijah's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Are you okay? You look funny."
"I'm fine, baby." The lie comes easily after three days of practice. "Just thinking about how Boris Junior probably had your smile."
Leonid's eyes catch mine across the space between us, and something in that look steals my breath. It's not just heat or want or even tenderness – it's understanding, bone-deep and terrifying. In that moment, the truth hits me like a physical blow: I love him. The realization makes my hands shake, because loving Leonid Kuznetsov might be the most dangerous thing I've ever done.
He winks at Elijah, giving me a chance to remember how to breathe. "Boris Junior liked Jenga too," he says smoothly. "But he was terrible at it. Kept knocking the tower over with his tiny hamster paws."
"That's silly," Elijah giggles, reaching for another block. "Hamsters can't play Jenga."
"You'd be surprised what determined Russian hamsters can do," Leonid says, and this time I hold his gaze, letting myself believe in impossible things.
The Jenga tower collapses. Elijah's laughter fills the room as he and Leonid gather the scattered blocks.
Two knocks.
I sit up straight, my ribs protesting the sudden movement. Maksim steps in, his usual swagger nowhere to be seen.
"Pakhan." He gives me a quick wave, like we're neighbors bumping into each other at the grocery store. "He's here."
60
Leonid
The mirror catches my reflection as I enter Vic's private meeting room, and for a second, I think I'm seeing double. But no - the neatly tied bleached-white hair in the reflection belongs to my brother, who's sprawled in one of Vic's insanely expensive leather chairs like he owns the place.
Blyat. Typical.
The room reeks of Vic’s flair for wealth—gold-leaf ceilings, intricate tapestries, and a chandelier that could bankrupt most people just by being near it. A marble fireplace anchors one wall, its pristine white surface glowing faintly from dying embers. The windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, casting harsh light that fails to soften the tension crackling in the air.
My eyes don’t leave Ludis. Behind him, his shadow of a bodyguard looms in silence, his massive frame out of place against Vic’s refined surroundings. The man’s shoulders seemtoo broad for his tailored suit, and his hands flex subtly, like a predator waiting for the signal to strike.
By the door, Maksim leans casually against the frame, his arms crossed and his hand grazing his holster. He’s loose but ready, his sharp eyes flicking between Ludis and me. Across the room, Vic sits behind his oversized mahogany desk.
He seems, calm. But I know, he is calculating, likely running odds on whether this room will still have a roof by the end of the meeting.
"No smoking in my office," Vic says mildly, his manicured fingers drumming once against the mahogany. His blue-gray eyes track the smoke curling around the gilded ceiling. "My artisans don't appreciate having to restore restore three-hundred-year-oldgold leaf because someone can't step outside for their nicotine fix."
Ludis's left eye twitches, a muscle in his jaw flexing before his lips curl to a smirk. He grins around his cigarette and takes one last drag before stubbing it out in what looks like an antique crystal ashtray. His eyes sweep the room—taking in the gold-leaf moldings, the priceless artwork, the subtle displays of old-world wealth—before landing on Vic with newfound interest.
Ludis shifts in his seat, one boot coming to rest on the edge of the table, the polished surface catching the scuffed sole. He gestures lazily toward Vic with two fingers. "So this is the famous Victor Montclair. I was starting to think my brother had made you up. Another one of his... personal assets he doesn’t like to share."
"Unfortunately for everyone," I say, lowering myself into the chair across from Ludis, "this isn't about business."
The Glock at my back presses against the leather—a cold reminder that some conversations end in blood. I notice how his jacket pulls slightly on the left side. Armed, then. Of course he is.
Vic clears his throat, those calculating eyes missing nothing. “It’s nice to meet you, Ludis. I’ve heard,” he adjusts his watch, a tell I’ve learned to read like a warning bell, “quite a lot about you.”
Ludis laughs, but his fingers tighten slightly around the crystal tumbler. “All terrible things, I hope. Though I have to wonder,” his eyes shoot toward mine, “what’s so important it couldn’t wait for our usual death threats over the phone.”
"So, let's cut to it," I say, ignoring how my stomach churns at the mention of phone calls. Three days of revelations sit like acid in my throat. "What do you know about Aleksei Sokolov?"
Ludis barks out a laugh. "Your father's loyal dog? Please tell me this isn't about territory disputes. I thought we'd moved past—"
"Ourfather's loyal dog," I correct him. "The same one who arranged our mother's murder."
