"These names," Alexei says suddenly, looking up from the screen. "The Russian women. I recognize some of them. Maria Volkov—Roman's cousin. Irina Petrov—she was married to one of my father's lieutenants. These weren't just random witnesses—many of them were bratva wives. Daughters. Women who knew about Moscow operations."
"Harrison wasn't just trafficking them," I explain. "He was selling intelligence both ways. American witness locations for Russian mob secrets."
"A double agent using human lives as currency," Alexei's voice goes deadly cold. "This changes everything. We'll need to coordinate with our contacts in Moscow, verify which families were affected. They should know, and all of them will want to help."
As we work for the next hour, I watch something shift in the room. Mila's rigid posture slowly softens. She stops avoiding looking at Mikhail. When baby Anya reaches for her mother, Mikhail hands her over with such careful gentleness that Mila's eyes get bright.
"So you have been watching us," she says quietly. "All this time."
"Every birthday. Every holiday. Every milestone." His voice is rough. "I know Viktor said his first word at ten months—'mama.' I know you had complications during delivery. I know Alexei held your hand for seventeen hours of labor and never left your side."
Tears slip down Mila's face once again. "Uncle Misha—"
"I'm so sorry, Milochka. So very sorry."
And then she's crying for real, launching herself at him in a hug that nearly knocks him backward. He catches her, holds her like she's made of glass, and I see his eyes close like he's trying to memorize this moment.
"I missed you so much," she sobs into his shoulder. "So much."
When my own eyes start burning, I step away to give them privacy, moving toward the kitchen. That's where Alexei finds me five minutes later, pretending to study the marble countertops while blinking away tears.
"Emotional?" he asks, offering me a glass of water.
"Shut up."
He actually smiles—a real one, not his usual controlled expression. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. Both of you. Mila needs her family, even if everything is complicated right now."
"You mean even though I'm a wanted federal fugitive?"
"This family understands complicated circumstances." He pauses. "Besides, you're good for him."
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb, Mariana. I saw how you two look at each other. How he positioned himself between you and any potential threat the moment you arrived. You even smell like him."
Heat floods my face. "It's complicated."
"It always is with family."
Later, after Mila has composed herself and Irina has served tea—the kind celebrities probably Instagram with those aesthetic overhead shots—Mila pulls me aside.
"Come with me," she says. "I want to show you something."
I follow her upstairs to what must be her personal office—computers everywhere, screens displaying code I couldn't understand if my life depended on it. But she bypasses all of that, going to an antique jewelry box on a bookshelf.
"This was my grandmother's," she says, pulling out a delicate silver bracelet with tiny blue stones. "She gave it to me before we left Russia. Said it would protect me in America."
"It's beautiful."
"It's yours."
I blink. "Mila, I can't—"
"You're family now." She fastens it around my wrist before I can protest. "Maybe not officially yet, maybe not in ways that make sense to anyone else, but family nonetheless. You protected us, and now you are helping my uncle. You're protecting him too."
"He is the one that’s helping me. We're protecting each other."
"Good." She squeezes my hand. "You're both in a dangerous situation, and I feel a little relieved that you have each other to go through it.."
