"I skipped two grades in middle school and I didn't readCatcher and the Ryeuntil sophomore year of high school. He's ten! That book is not really appropriate," I squeak, staring between her and Gio, who's now flopped dramatically onto the couch, tucking a pillow up under his chin as he lays across the couch on his stomach.
"I'm going to graduate middle school in six months. I can't read A-Z Mysteries for the rest of my life. Besides, Salinger is one of my favorite writers," Gio mumbles into a pillow.
"You're raising a literal genius, Gwen," I whisper, eyes wide.
She lets out a sigh—long, quiet, and far too elegant to be called exasperated—as she kneels down and gently sets Toni on the floor. He toddles off instantly, busying himself with a nesting tower and a squeaky dinosaur that looks brand-new in the corner of the room.
"Don't remind me," she says, brushing a dark curl from her cheek.
Gwen looks like a woman who belongs on the cover of Vogue. She's wearing socks and cream suede birkenstocks, along with soft cream linen pants that swish slightly when she moves, paired with an oversized oatmeal-colored sweater pushed up at the sleeves. Her dark curls are piled in a loose bun on top of herhead, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face, and somehow, despite her toddler and the chaos of three kids under twelve, Gwen still looks like she belongs in a serene lifestyle blog.
"Where's Aleksandr?" Nik asks as he enters, carrying a sleeping Mia. Her honey-blonde curls flop over her forehead, and she nuzzles deeper into Nik's neck like a kitten.
"I don't know," Nadia shrugs, looking at the watch on her wrist. "He was supposed to be here five minutes ago."
"Give him another ten and then sound the alarms," Nik commands, adjusting Mia on his shoulder.
Nadia narrows her eyes on him, one hand on her hip, the other cradling her phone like she might throw it or use it as a weapon—both equally likely.
The transition from Nik being head of the Bratva to Nadia has been a shaky one. Not because she isn't capable—if anything, she's more dangerous than he ever was—but because Nik never fully stopped acting like he's in charge. Old habits, old instincts. And Nadia? She doesn't exactly do "deferred authority". Not even for her brother.
Nadia exhales through her nose, a tight, controlled sound. "Say that again in a tone I like."
Nik raises a brow, and speaks through gritted teeth. "If he is not here in the next ten minutes I recommend sounding the alarms. The police could've picked him up."
Nadia's jaw ticks, but instead of snapping back, she nods once. "Done. If he is not here in ten try his cell and then start sounding the alarms," she says coolly, the words just shy of biting.
"As you wish Vor," Nik nods with a locked jaw.
"While we wait, we need to talk next steps," Nadia says, already turning toward the hallway that leads to the kitchen. "Come on."
Gwen nods. "I'll take the kids upstairs," she says, reaching out for Mia, who transfers from Nik's arms without stirring. Toni, still clutching two Legos and a plastic spoon like twin swords, waddles over to Gwen and lifts his arms.
"Come on, buddy," she murmurs, hoisting him up, and placing him on the opposite hip of Mia.
"I'll meet you guys after the kids are down."
Oh, did I mention that, along with being ridiculously beautiful, Gwen is also a lawyer? Like, top of her class at NYU, passed the bar on her first try, full-blown badass lawyer. She's the reason that—even with my dual degree from Yale in English and Political Science—I've accepted that some people are just built differently.
Gio rises from the couch with a dramatic sigh and a flair only a ten-year-old prodigy can pull off. "????????? ????, ????. ????, ????!"
"He knows Russian?" I gasp.
"Taught himself," Nik shrugs, moving down the hallway, and I follow because I wasn't told not to, but I don't know what I would add to the conversation.
"Yeah, that kid is scary smart," I whisper under my breath as we step into the kitchen—and immediately forget what I was saying.
It's stunning. Industrial and sleek but somehow still warm and welcoming. The countertops are black marble with delicate white veining, polished to a mirror-like sheen. Brass fixturesgleam beneath recessed lighting, and the oversized farmhouse sink looks like it could bathe a medium-sized dog. There's a six-burner gas stove, a double oven, and a built-in espresso machine that looks like it belongs in a spaceship.
It's like my ultimate dream kitchen. There's even a bowl of apples and pears on the counter, perfectly arranged like they were summoned by a food stylist.
Nadia moves around the space, opening a cabinet and pulling down a stack of mugs without even looking. "Expresso?" she offers, already reaching for a container of coffee grounds. "Because it's going to be a long night, and if you fall asleep I am not liable for how I wake you up."
"Only if you promise there's cream, sugar, and possibly caramel in this house," I reply, sliding onto one of the counter stools.
Nadia shoots me a look—because she indubitably drinks her coffee black. No cream, no sugar, no mercy. Just straight-up roasted bitterness. It's literally the craziest thing about her, and I know her murder body count.
I, on the other hand, am a former coffee connoisseur turned matcha addict, and there is no universe in which I think coffee should be consumed black. It's a war crime of the mouth. A dark roast assault. Coffee, in my opinion, should taste like a nicely made tiramisu.
