Page 47 of Feral King

“Come inside.”

We step out, my eyes never leaving the building. Julian guides me with his hand on the small of my back in that way I’m starting to get addicted to.

The front door opens before we reach it. A woman appears in the doorway. She’s in her fifties, with short gray hair, a latte-colored complexion, and reading glasses perched on her head. Her face lights up when she sees Julian—something I didn’t expect. I can tell she’s genuinely happy to see him.

“Mr. Volkov! The kids said they saw your black car. They’ve been pressed against the window waiting for you for the last five minutes.”

“Maria,” he says, his voice taking on a rare softness. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Julian?”

“And I told you thatmi madreraised me with manners.” She turns to me. “And who is this pretty lady?”

“Lyra Thibodeaux. She runs the foundation’s event operations.”

“Ah, so she’s the one I’ve heard so much about,” she adds with a smile. “I assume she’s here for a little tour?”

Julian nods. “I wanted to show her some of the foundation’s lesser-known endeavors. Galas and balls are glitzy and essential, butthisis the real work. This is why we do it.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” she says. Then she offers me her hand. “Maria Torres. I’m the director here.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I say as we shake.

“Come. Let me show you around.”

Inside Irina’s House it’s clean, bright, and loud—not deafening loud—butaliveloud. Kids’ drawings line the hallways, and the smell of baked goods wafts through the air. We walk past a common room, where a cluster of kids is sprawled across bean bags and charmingly mismatched furniture, playing games, drawing, and talking.

The moment they spot Julian, he’s ambushed.

A girl of maybe six launches herself at his legs like a little missile. A boy around eight grabs his hand. More kids materialize, and within ten seconds, Julian Volkov—CEO, Bratva don, a man capable of violence I can only imagine—is surrounded by children, all competing for his attention.

“Julian, Julian, look what I drew?—”

“Can we play Zenga? Youpromisedlast time?—”

“Miss Maria said that you’d bring cookies. Did you bring cookies?”

“Out in the car,” he says. “I always keep my promises.”

“I’ll get them,” Maria says with a wink. “You catch up.”

Julian eases into one of the bean bags. The sight is absurd, and it makes me giggle. This enormous man in a tailored suit is plopped onto a beanbag chair, while a six-year-old girl sits on his lap, showing him a crayon drawing of what appears to be a big purple dinosaur eating a building. He studies it with the same focused intensity that I’ve seen back at the office.

“That’s a very aggressive dinosaur,” he says.

“It’s not a dinosaur; it’s asuperbig dog.”

“Of course, it is. My mistake.”

I stand in the doorway, watching with admiration. The control and precision he usually displays are gone, stripped away and replaced by a part of him that I didn’t know existed.

He’s patient with the kids, engaged. He gets down on theirlevel and speaks to them like they’re little adults. I watch, totally taken by this side of him.

A boy named Mateo pulls me into a game of Go Fish that quickly devolves into chaos when Lily, the purple dinosaur artist, joins in and starts making up new rules.

Julian joins in too, playing with absolute seriousness and losing spectacularly. When Maria arrives with the box of cookies, the kids go nuts.

“He comes at least once a month,” Maria tells me quietly while Julian passes out the cookies. “Has since the house opened. Brings food, books, toys. He even fixed the boiler last winter when the contractor no-showed. A lot of these kids… they don’t have anybody. But he makes sure they havesomeone.”

A warmth fills me at her words.