I hesitate. "I don't want to intrude?—"
"You're not." Karolina's red-rimmed eyes meet mine with an intensity that reminds me sharply of her brother. "Dmitri brought you here. That means something."
I step inside.
Karolina closes the door behind me, shutting out the cold. "This way."
I follow her through the house, past paintings, past doorways that reveal glimpses of libraries and sitting rooms.
The living room opens before us, and I stop.
Two people sit on a cream-colored sofa near a crackling fireplace. A young woman with honey-blonde hair tucked behind her ears, her face pale and drawn. Beside her, a man with broad shoulders and the same sharp jaw as Dmitri, though his hair is lighter, almost brown.
They both look up as we enter.
"This is Vittoria," Karolina says.
The young woman rises first, smoothing her hands down her thighs. She can't be older than twenty, maybe twenty-one. Her eyes are puffy, her nose red from crying.
"Natalia." She offers her hand, and I take it. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly. "I'm the youngest."
The man stands next, towering over his sister. He moves with the same controlled grace as Dmitri, the same awareness of his own body in space. A soldier's posture.
"Vladimir." His handshake is brief, firm. "Thank you for coming."
I nod, unsure what to say. Thank you for having me feels wrong. I'm sorry feels inadequate.
Six children. I remember reading that in the files Pietro showed me weeks ago. Six Baganov siblings. Dmitri is the eldest,the heir. Then there's Aleksander, who I haven't met. Karolina. Vladimir. Natalia. And another brother whose name I can't recall.
"Please." Karolina gestures toward an armchair near the fire. "Sit. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"
"No." I lower myself into the chair. I'm still not wearing underwear. Dmitri has them in his pocket.
I press my knees together. "I'm fine. Thank you."
Karolina settles onto the sofa beside Natalia, pulling her younger sister close. Vladimir remains standing, his back to the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest.
Silence falls.
I don't know what to say. What could I say?
Natalia sniffles, wiping her nose with a crumpled tissue. Karolina strokes her hair absently, staring at nothing.
Vladimir shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His jaw works, muscles tensing and releasing.
I study my hands in my lap. Less than an hour ago, I was tied to a chair in an empty theater while Dmitri knelt between my thighs. Now I'm here, in this room heavy with grief and anticipation.
Death doesn't wait for convenient moments.
My father taught me that. One morning he was drinking espresso at the breakfast table, complaining about a shipment delay. By noon, he was gone. No warning. No goodbye.
The memory rises unbidden, and I push it down. This isn't about me. This isn't my grief.
But I understand it. The way time stretches and compresses, minutes feeling like hours, hours like seconds.
Natalia's quiet crying fills the silence. Karolina murmurs something in her ear, too soft for me to catch.
Vladimir's gaze lands on me, assessing. I meet his eyes without flinching.
