"Sing the song," Mila whispers. "The one Mama used to sing."
My throat closes. I can barely remember Katya's voice anymore, let alone the lullabies she sang. Five years is long enough to fade even the sharpest memories.
But Valerie starts humming. Soft, melodic, some Russian lullaby I recognize from childhood. Where the fuck did she learn that?
Mila's eyes drift closed. Her grip on my shirt loosens. Within minutes, she's asleep—real sleep this time, not the nightmare-plagued kind.
I carefully lay her back down and tuck the blankets around her small body. Turn on the nightlight she still needs, and back away slowly.
In the hallway, Valerie leans against the wall like her legs won't hold her.
"How did you know that song?" My voice comes out quieter than intended.
She looks up, eyes still wet. "My father used to sing it to me as a child. I thought—I thought maybe if Mila heard something her mama might have sung to her, it would help."
Something shifts in my chest. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.
Thoughtful. She was being thoughtful about my daughter.
I move closer, crowding her against the wall. Not threatening, just... close. Needing proximity in a way I don't want to examine.
"She's having them less," I say. "The nightmares. Since you came, they've decreased."
"Really?" Hope lights her face, genuine and unguarded.
"Really." My hand comes up, cups her face. She leans into the touch instinctively. "You're good with her, Valerie. Good for her."
"She's easy to love." The words come out simple, honest. "She's just this sweet, brave little girl who's been through hell, and all she wants is to feel safe. How could I not love her?"
The honesty does something to me.
Cracks something open that's been sealed shut since I found Katya's body, since I held my dead son, since I realized love makes you vulnerable and vulnerability gets you or people around you killed.
But Mila's thriving. Laughing again. Talking more. Clinging to Valerie like she's safety incarnate.
And maybe—maybe that's worth the risk.
"Come on." I pull her down the hallway, not toward her room but toward the main stairs. "There's something I want to show you."
She follows without question, and that trust does something to me too.
Downstairs, I lead her through corridors she's cleaned a dozen times. Past the formal rooms where I meet with other Bratva families. Past the study where I handle surface business.
To the west wing offices, where the real work happens.
"This is the legitimate side." I unlock a door, flip on the lights. "Real estate holdings, import/export companies, construction firms. All legal, all profitable, all boring as fuck."
She steps inside, eyes wide. The office is sleek—glass and steel, computers displaying property portfolios and shipping manifests. Nothing illegal, nothing that would raise flags with authorities.
"You run all this?"
"Mikhail handles day-to-day operations. I oversee strategy, acquisitions, expansion." I pull up files on the nearest monitor. "We own sixty-three properties across the tri-state area. Twelve construction companies. Six import firms that move everything from furniture to electronics."
"That's... massive."
"It's cover." I close that file, open another. "But it's also real. Employs over two thousand people. Generates enough revenue that the other side funds itself without drawing attention."
She's looking at the screen, genuinely interested. Asks intelligent questions about revenue streams, property values, and expansion strategies. Not pretending to understand, but actually understands.
