I stiffen for half a second, as I’m unused to the casual touch that doesn’t come with strings. Then I relax a fraction when she releases me with a grin.
“Arina,” she adds, thumb jerking toward the house. “The sister who actually keeps this family from burning itself down. Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Alexey follows behind me, one hand lightly at my back as we step into the foyer. The space is grand but lived-in with high ceilings featuring exposed beams, polished hardwood floors worn soft in places, walls lined with family photos in simple frames rather than stuffy portraits.
The air smells like roasted garlic, fresh herbs, and something sweet baking in the oven. Voices drift from deeper inside, low and easy.
We move into a large dining room dominated by a long oak table already set with mismatched but beautiful plates and candles that flicker softly. Arina gestures for me to take a seat near the head, then disappears toward the kitchen with a wink.
“Don’t let Alexey bore you with strategy talk. He’s in one of his patient moods tonight.”
Alexey pulls out my chair with quiet courtesy before taking his own across from me. He stays mostly silent, as usual, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture here. His shoulders are a fraction more relaxed, the ever-present edge of control dialed back just enough to let the room breathe.
A phone sits in the center of the table on speaker. Tikhon’s voice rumbles through it, deep and amused, laced with static from whatever secure line he’s on. “—and if Arina burned the potatoes again, blame Katya. She’s the one who taught her the recipe.”
Arina’s laugh echoes from the kitchen. “I heard that, you oversized oaf! The potatoes are perfect. Katya sends her well-wishes, by the way. She’s resting but says to tell Anja the soup helps with the nerves. She’ll join us in person when things settle.”
The casual mention of Katya, the woman Fadir tried to use as leverage, lands softly, without drama. No probing questions about how I fit into all this. Just easy acceptance, like I’ve already been folded into the edges of their world.
I sit there, fingers tracing the rim of my water glass, and feel the violent clash hit me square in the chest.
This easy banter, the way they close ranks without hesitation. It slams against every memory I carry like a wrecking ball.
The Midwest town I fled at eighteen, with dusty streets and judgmental stares. My mother walked out when I was nine, leaving nothing but a scribbled note on the kitchen table:I can’t do this anymore.
The house smelled like stale beer and regret after that.
Dad’s gambling got worse with late nights at the tracks, IOUs piling up, and all the strange men showing up at all hours.
Furniture smashing, glass breaking, and voices raised in threats that made my stomach turn.
”Viktor Kuzmin, you pay what you owe, or we take what’s left.” One of them laughed when a lamp shattered. Another mentioned “the girl” like I am collateral. Dad begged, slurring promises, while I pressed my hands over my ears and prayed they wouldn’t find me.
Those men aren't quiet. They are loud, brutal, chaotic, and Sokolov-linked, or at least that’s what the rumors said back home.
Bratva meant savages in my head for years after that night. Violent enforcers who destroyed lives over pocket change. Rather than let Dad marry me off to settle the latest debt, I packed a single duffel and drove until the town disappeared in the rearview mirror.
Now here I am, sitting at a long oak table in a mansion that feels like a fortress, surrounded by the very world I swore I’d never touch again.
Arina bustles in carrying a massive platter of roasted chicken and vegetables, setting it down with a flourish. She ribs Alexey mercilessly about “that stubborn teenage phase where you thought reading Sun Tzu at fourteen made you invincible,”and he just offers a quiet huff of amusement, dark brown eyes flicking to me once across the table.
That look.
It’s steady. Protective. Not possessive like Fadir’s grip on my arm when he thought I might leave. Not calculating. Just… there. Like a quiet promise that nothing at this table will touch me unless I allow it. I hate how safe it feels.
How the tension in my shoulders eases a fraction under the weight of it. He’s part of the same murky life I ran from.
Yet the banter continues, with Arina teasing Tikhon over the speaker about his latest “secret mission” that probably involves too much paperwork, Tikhon firing back that at least he doesn’t burn garlic bread.
Katya’s well-wishes linger in the air like a gentle thread connecting us all. They naturally close ranks, protecting their own without making a show of it. No one demands anything from me. No one eyes me like a bargaining chip or a weakness to exploit.
Alexey's family is normal. Laughs are shared, childhood mishaps are being told, and people just enjoy one another's company. All things I've never experienced before.
The dread of crawling back home now, tail between my legs, and everyone knowing my “big-city dreams” ended in eviction and betrayal, is the furthest thing from my mind. I ran to escape that cycle. To prove I am more than my parents’ failures.
And yet, sitting here, the easy loyalty around this table feels… different. Honorable in its own strange way.
Arina passes me the vegetables with a warm smile, asking nothing in return but whether I prefer white or redwine. Tikhon’s voice cracks a joke about Alexey’s “patient sniper approach to everything, including dinner,” and even Alexey chuckles softly, the sound low and rare.
