I eat mechanically at first. The food is delicious. Herb-crusted chicken, roasted potatoes that definitely aren't burned, and fresh bread still warm from the oven.
But the clash keeps hitting me in waves. These people aren’t smashing furniture or threatening to take what isn’t theirs. They’re bickering like siblings, offering well-wishes, pulling me into the circle without fanfare. Alexey stays mostly quiet, contributing only when needed, but that one steady look across the table grounds me every time my mind drifts back home.
I hate it. I hate how safe it feels. How the black-and-white picture I painted of all Bratva as monsters is starting to blur at the edges, softened by the low light of candles and the genuine laugh Arina lets out when Tikhon complains about bad coffee on his end.
By the time dessert arrives, which is some kind of berry tart dusted with powdered sugar, the conversation has shifted to lighter things. Arina asks about my old marketing job, not prying into the betrayal, but genuinely curious about what I liked about it. I answer carefully, surprised at how easily the words come when no one is waiting to twist them against me.
Alexey’s gaze meets mine again across the table as I speak.
My chest tightens.
This is dangerous. The revenge against Fadir is still burning hot in my veins, the deal still clear. As a business only.
But sitting here, surrounded by the easy way this family closes ranks, the violent contrast with my childhood memories makes something fragile crack open inside me.
I push the feeling down hard as we finish dinner, helping Arina clear a few plates despite her protests. The drive back to the penthouse will come soon enough.
Back to the guest suite across the hall from Alexey’s room. Back to the careful lines and the strategic game.
But as I stand in the Sokolov dining room, the warmth of the meal still lingering, I can’t quite shake the echo of that steady look or the way their loyalty feels nothing like the chaos I fled.
It terrifies me how much I don’t hate it.
***
I’m curled up on the black leather sectional in the living room of the penthouse, a soft throw blanket draped over my legs, when my cell phone buzzes on the coffee table.
The sound is sharp in the quiet space. The gas fireplace flickers with its usual low, steady flame, casting shifting orange light across the pale oak floors and the marble island. Alexey is seated at the far end of the sectional, reviewing something on his tablet, but the buzz draws his attention immediately. His brown eyes flick toward the phone, then to me. It’s a subtle shift in his posture that I’ve learned to recognize as quiet suspicion.
I pick up the phone. The screen shows an unknown number.
My stomach drops.
I know in my gut that the call has to do with my father. Every private, blocked, or unknown number is always abouthim. Someone looking for money. Money for his debts. One of the Bratva's connections, a bookie, or one of the shady “friends” he still owes from the old days.
The kind of call that used to make me hide in my apartment with the lights off, heart hammering, waiting for the voicemail that would inevitably follow.
Alexey’s gaze lingers on me a second longer. I can feel the weight of his suspicion, the way his shoulders tighten just slightly. The protector in him is already assessing whether this is a threat.
I force a small, casual smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll take it to my room.”
Before he can respond, I stand and walk quickly down the hallway to the guest suite, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The moment I’m alone, the mask drops. My hands are shaking as I stare at the still-ringing phone. The unknown number glares back at me like an accusation.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I let it go to voicemail, then immediately block the number with a few quick taps. The phone falls silent. I sink onto the edge of the bed, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
The suite feels safer with the door closed as I’m sitting on the big king bed with its crisp white linens, but the call has dragged the old memories back in.
When will this ever end?
My father’s mistakes have followed me like a curse for years. Even after I ran, and even after I built what I thought to be a new life in the city, the calls still came. Anyone who has a financial hold over my dad.
People he owed, who somehow always track me down. Fadir must've known about them, too. He used that knowledge, letting the debts deepen just enough to keep me dependent, and to make sure I had nowhere else to run.
Now, even with Fadir’s empire crumbling and Alexey’s protection wrapped around me like armor, the calls still find me.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to push back the familiar wave of shame and exhaustion. I’m twenty-one years old, living in a penthouse that looks like something out of a dream, and yet one unknown number can still make me feel like the scared girl hiding in the closet while a ruckus continued in the other room.
