Page 171 of Nemesis

The past few months have been spent rebuilding. The Siderov Bratva might not be mine by blood, but it is mine by triumph. I claim it, just as I claim her, and I’ve settled into my role at her right side with pride. Our soldiers hover around the compound with reverent adoration every time Octavia walks by or turns the corner. She single-handedly ended a cold war that many of them had spent their lives fighting. We now have a powerful truce with the Solokov Bratva, and Ivan’s presence grows stronger by the day as his men recover Popov’s business domains. The syndicate has never had such a sturdy foundation.

“Would you be upset with me if I never gave you any children?”

I straighten. The pen goes still in her grip as she waits for my answer.

“Not at all,” I say, slipping her small hand into mine. “We don’t have to have children. Not a single one.”

My words are earnest. Little Octavias running around is a tempting fantasy, but that means nothing if she doesn’t wish for it.

“I do want them, but I can’t stomach the thought of creating another when so many are out there. When we were in New York, I promised myself that Anya would never have to wait for someone to show up and claim her. I knew she was mine then, and I know she’s mine now.”

A fissure cracks open in my chest.

I accepted my strange role in my sister’s life a long time ago. We will never argue like playful siblings or show up at our folks’ house for a Friday night dinner. I will always be her parent, and it is a role I’ve learned to cherish. But how can I ever repay the burden my wife’s about to take on for me?

I must be the most selfish asshole in the world, because as soon as those concerns rise, an image overtakes them. I fall into it like a pool of water.

The birds chirp, but we’re already awake. There’s far too much to do to sleep in. I bring her morning coffee in bed, and she scoots up the mattress, allowing me to settle behind her and braid her hair. We talk the way we’ve always talked—far more gossip than strategy—as we work out deals for our new transport expansion routes. We spar before most of the compound rises, and when my sister finally wakes and wanders outside, Octavia will lift her into her arms, just as she did today. She will mindlessly mutter I love you as she walks away, and I will never tire of hearing it. She will thrive in her chair of leadership, and I will always be at her back with a blade for anyone who steps out of line.

“Vasiliy.” She invades my space, forehead pressing to mine. “Let’s start our family.”

A shaky breath flutters from my lips. I nod fervently, far too overcome with emotion to find words.

Octavia’s lawyer shuffles his papers and slides them across the wood. “If you’re ready to finalize the adoption, I’ll have you sign here. Will she have three last names, or one?”

My hand grazes chipped grey bricks as I stroll down the familiar hall. The air buzzes with muddled murmurs from the crowd that filters into the theater above. Through thick layers of concrete, I can just barely make out the low whine of the orchestra tuning to A.

I’d forgotten that sound.

A sharp thorn catches my skin from the bouquet under my arm. I move instinctively, pinching off the offending needle and flicking it to the ground. When I finally come to a stop at the last door in the hall, I have to physically wrangle in the muscle memory of cranking the knob and thoughtlessly pushing my way in.

Three sharp knocks echo through the air.

Silence.

A grin pulls at my face. I wrap my fingers around the cool bite of metal and turn.

At least I tried to do the polite thing.

“I know, I’m late,” a sweet voice bursts out through the crack, tinged with exasperation. “Just hold the curtain call and give me a sec⁠—”

The words cut off as I step into the dressing room, and I take the liberty of shutting the door behind me. The woman sitting at the light-up mirror is a vision in white tulle and sparkles. Her hands freeze mid-hairpin as those doe eyes stare back.

“Octavia?”

I smile, stepping forward to set down the flowers.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I thought⁠—”

“It’s fine, Bambi.” The light pink bodice of her costume is stunning against her dark skin. She practically glows in the low light of the dressing room, even though her eyes are wide with panic. “How late are we running?”

She sighs, gazing up in defeat. “I’ve been trying to get the twist to stay for an hour. The costume department threw a new hairpiece into the mix at the last moment, and I haven’t even finished my makeup, and…”

I step forward, patting the stool sitting in front of the bright mirror. “Here, let me.”

My deft fingers pull pins free with precision. It’s as if no time has passed at all. I palm the nearby can of spray and reset the base, securing her bouncy brown curls into a neat slick-back.

Bambi chews her nails and asks me questions about where I’ve been.