19. Eighteen
The restaurant looked like it had been transplanted directly from Cold War Moscow. It was all dark wood paneling and Soviet-era propaganda posters that somehow managed to seem ironic and threatening at the same time. The familiar scents of cabbage, dill, and cigarette smoke hit me like a punch to the gut. For a moment, I was twelve again, standing in the kitchen while Uncle Sacha he taught me to make pelmeni, correcting my Russian pronunciation between demonstrations of proper folding technique. But this wasn't Ohio, and these weren't the comforting smells of home.
The dining room buzzed with multiple Slavic languages. Russian dominated, but I caught snippets of Ukrainian, Polish, even some Georgian. This was where the Eastern European diaspora came to remember home while plotting their next moves in the West. Old women in headscarves shared tables with young men sporting designer watches and suspicious bulges under their jackets. A trio of priests from what looked like the Russian Orthodox Church huddled in one corner, their long beards not quite hiding their military bearing. This wasn't just a restaurant. It was an embassy for a shadow kingdom.
Ash's hand stayed possessively on my lower back as we followed our escort through the dimly lit space. Anton moved with the careful grace of someone who broke things for a living, his massive frame somehow avoiding the crowded tables while maintaining perfect positioning to control our movements. The weight of watching eyes made my skin crawl, but Ash's touch kept me grounded, prevented me from spiraling into paranoia.
A group of younger men at one table caught my attention. They had that hungry look I recognized from Papa’s stories about the new generation of Eastern European criminals. Designer clothes, expensive watches, and eyes that calculated everyone's worth in terms of potential profit. One of them muttered something crude in Russian about my appearance. Without breaking stride, Anton's hand shot out and grabbed the speaker's throat. The movement was so smooth, so casual, that half the room probably missed it.
"Mr. Dubois expects better manners from his guests," Anton said quietly in Russian. The young man's face went from red to purple before Anton released him with a gentle pat on the cheek. Message delivered.
The private room in the back hit us with a wall of cigarette smoke and tension. Two men dominated the space. One sat behind an ornate antique desk with intricate carvings that screamed old money, the other looming by the window like he was posing for a mob boss photoshoot. The room itself was a perfect blend of old world and new wealth. Crystal decanters caught the light from modern recessed fixtures, while an actual samovar sat steaming in the corner beneath what looked like an original Kandinsky.
My heart stuttered when I recognized Nikolai Dubois from Papa’s old family photos. He bore an unmistakable resemblance to Uncle Sacha, bearing the same sharp cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, and the same stocky build. It was like looking at a ghost. My uncle, who had been killed three years ago. This was his son from his second marriage, and there was no mistaking it.
"Cousin," he said warmly in Russian, though his eyes remained sharp as he kissed my cheeks. "How kind of you to join us on such short notice."
The man by the window turned, and my breath caught. Viktor Vasiliev's presence filled the room like smoke, heavy and choking. The scar along his jaw stood out like pale wire against his flushed skin as his eyes tracked me with undisguised disgust, taking in my dress, my heels, the deliberate feminine grace I'd spent years perfecting.
But it was the way he deliberately avoided looking at the photos spread across Nikolai's desk that made my chest tight. Even from here, I could see Misha in the surveillance shots. Misha looked elegant in designer suits at Roche's side, but his eyes were haunted.
"So this is what's left of the Volkov line," Viktor said in Russian, each word precise as a blade. "Simeon the Immortal would weep to see what his bloodline has become."
I smiled, channeling every inch of Nikita’s lessons in making pleasantries sound like threats. "Simeon is rotting in an unmarked grave without a head," I pointed out in Russian. "And my gay brother put him there. Guess he wasn't so immortal after all."
The color drained from Viktor's face, leaving his scar in stark relief. That was the thing about the old guard. They hated being reminded that their precious traditions hadn't saved them from the new generation.
"I believe family matters should be handled by family," Nikolai said smoothly, his accent pure French, despite the Russian words. "Which is why I wanted to discuss your daughter's unfortunate choice in companions."
Misha’s misgendering hit me like a slap. My fingers twitched toward my concealed blade before I could stop them. "His name is Misha," I snapped, abandoning any pretense of diplomacy. "And he's not anyone's daughter ."
Nikolai's eyes glittered with something that might have been approval. "My apologies," he said. "You're right, of course. Times change, even if some of us are slower to adapt."
"That person is nothing to me," Viktor spat, but his eyes kept dragging back to the photos. "My child died when she decided to—"
"The right pronouns had better start coming out of your mouth," I cut in, letting ice coat every syllable. "Or I’ll have to show you why misgendering people is bad for your health."
“You claim you don’t care, yet you have people watching the house.” Nikolai's voice held a dangerous edge. "Following their movements. Documenting every venue they visit." He tapped one of the surveillance photos. "These aren't my people's work, Viktor. This is your surveillance team. Your resources being spent to track someone who is supposedly 'nothing' to you."
Viktor's hand shook as he lit his cigarette. Smoke curled between us like all the words he couldn't or wouldn't say. "I monitor all potential threats to our interests. Roche has become unpredictable. Unstable."
"Has he?" I kept my voice neutral, though rage still simmered beneath the surface at his continued misgendering of Misha. "Or has he just grown confident that his connections protect him? That having the child of Viktor Vasiliev in his bed makes him untouchable?"
The cigarette snapped between Viktor's fingers, tobacco spilling onto the desk. His face twisted with something ugly. "You dare—"
"Yes, I dare." I leaned forward, letting him see the steel beneath my carefully crafted appearance. "Because someone needs to say what everyone in this room is thinking. You drove your child away with your bigotry, and now you're too proud to admit you might have been wrong. Too wrapped up in your precious masculinity to acknowledge that your son might be in danger."
"Careful, cousin," Nikolai murmured, but there was something like approval in his eyes.
"No." I was done being careful. Done watching Viktor hide behind his prejudice while Misha's life hung in the balance. "You want to know why Roche's security has gotten so bold? Because they know. They know you're watching. They know you keep tabs on every move Misha makes. And they know you'll never actually do anything about it because you're too ashamed to admit you still care."
"Which brings us to why I called this meeting," Nikolai said. "As head of the Russian consortium's interests in France, I find myself... concerned about certain developments." He gestured to the photos. "Roche has grown bold. Careless. His private security force has become increasingly visible at certain establishments. Le Baron, L'Arc. Places where young men tend to... disappear." His eyes met mine. "Perfect opportunities for a wealthy couple new to Paris to make his acquaintance."
The photos spread across the desk made my stomach turn. It was a mix of crime scene shots, missing persons reports, evidence carefully buried but not quite deep enough. And among them, those surveillance photos of Misha, looking both elegant and trapped in Roche's orbit.
"Why involve Lucky Losers?" I asked, watching Nikolai's face. Something wasn't adding up.
His smile was sharp. "Perhaps I specifically requested their most qualified operative. One with... unique insight into certain family dynamics."
"You knew." It wasn't a question. "You knew I worked for them."
"I make it my business to know where useful assets are positioned." He shrugged elegantly. "Having family involved provides certain... advantages."
"Roche's security detail," Ash cut in, his voice professionally detached, though his hand stayed warm on my shoulder. "What are we looking at?"
"Former military, mostly local," Nikolai said. "He pays extremely well for loyalty. But money only breeds so much dedication." His smile turned predatory. "And I know exactly how much everyone's loyalty costs in this city."
He slid several more photos across the desk, personnel files, by the look of them. " Philippe Mercier runs the security team. Former GIGN, discharged under... interesting circumstances. The kind of circumstances that suggest he might be open to alternative employment opportunities, given the right motivation."
"You've already approached him," Ash said. It wasn't a question.
"Let's say certain conversations have been had." Nikolai's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Roche trusts his security team implicitly. Perhaps too implicitly. They know his schedule, his habits, which clubs he favors on which nights. They know exactly when he's most... vulnerable."
"And they know what he does to his companions," I added, watching Viktor's face. "They've helped dispose of the evidence."
Viktor's hand clenched on the arm of his chair. "These are rumors. Speculation."
"Are they?" Nikolai produced another file, this one thicker than the others. "Seven models in the past year alone. All young men with certain... similar features. All last seen at private parties in Roche's home. All officially listed as having moved abroad for work opportunities." He opened the file, spreading crime scene photos across the desk. "Until last month, when a construction crew found this under the foundation of a building Roche's company had demolished."
The photos made bile rise in my throat. The body had been preserved somehow, posed like a mannequin in what looked like an elaborate couture outfit. The face was perfect. Too perfect, maintained through some grotesque taxidermy process that made the victim look like a living doll.
"Jesus," Ash breathed behind me. His hand tightened on my shoulder, possessive and protective.
"The police were paid to classify it as a cold case," Nikolai continued. "No connection to Roche, officially. But his security team knows. They've helped him perfect his... techniques over the years. Helped him select suitable subjects. Helped him dispose of the evidence when he tired of his living art pieces."
"Why should I care?" Viktor's voice was harsh. "She made her choice."
"He," I corrected, voice like steel. "And did he really have a choice? Or did you give him exactly two options: deny who he was or lose everything?"
Viktor's fist came down on the desk hard enough to rattle the crystal decanters. "You think I don't know what Roche is? What he does to his pretty toys when he's finished with them?"
"And yet you let your own flesh and blood—"
"She is not my blood!" Viktor surged to his feet, but Nikolai's hand shot out, catching his wrist in what looked like an iron grip. The movement was so smooth it seemed almost casual.
"Sit down," Nikolai said pleasantly, though steel ran beneath the words. "We're not finished."
I felt Ash move closer, his presence solid and protective at my back. The contrast between his possessive touch and Viktor's rejection of his own child made my chest ache. This was what real strength looked like. Not denial and fear, but acceptance and protection.
"The operation," Ash said once Viktor had subsided. "What's our timeline?"
"Three nights," Nikolai said, producing a thick envelope. "Complete floor plans of each club, staff rotations, guest lists. Everything you need to make the right impression." His smile was cold. "I trust Lucky Losers' newest power couple can handle the rest?"
The implied question hung in the air. Could we pull this off? Could we get close enough to Roche to eliminate him while extracting Misha? The familiar electricity of a challenging mission thrummed under my skin.
"We'll need a safe house ready," I said, already planning out angles of approach. "Somewhere Misha will feel secure after extraction."
Viktor cleared his throat roughly. "There is a property," he said, not meeting anyone's eyes. "In Lyon. Nobody knows about it except—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "It was her… his mother's family's home. He would remember it. From before."
For a moment, just a moment, his mask cracked. I caught a glimpse of something raw beneath the surface. A father's fear warring with years of rigid beliefs. His hands shook as he pulled out another cigarette.
"There was a garden," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Behind the house. They used to... used to spend hours there together." His voice caught. "Before everything changed."
The admission hung in the air between us. Not quite acceptance, not quite love, but something. A crack in the wall of rejection he'd built. I thought of all the times I'd wondered about my own father, the nameless, faceless man who'd never known I existed. Was it better or worse, having a father who chose to stop knowing you?
"I'll make sure he knows," I said, keeping my voice neutral even as I seethed at Viktor. "Though you could tell him yourself."
Viktor's face hardened again. "No. But..." He looked at Nikolai. "Perhaps I can ensure my interests don't interfere with whatever happens at the clubs."
"Well," Nikolai said, rising smoothly. "I believe we all understand each other." He gestured to the door where Anton waited. "Your car is ready whenever you are."
Outside, the Paris night was cool against my skin. Ash pulled me close as we waited for our ride, his touch possessive in a way that made heat pool in my belly despite the tension of the evening.
"A word of advice," Nikolai said quietly, lighting a cigarette. "The old guard… Men like Viktor? They don't change. Not really. But sometimes..." he exhaled a stream of smoke, "Sometimes they can still serve a purpose."
The black SUV pulled up, and Ash helped me inside. As Paris slid by outside the windows, I leaned into his solid warmth, suddenly exhausted.
"You know," I said quietly, "I used to wonder what was worse. Having a father who didn't know you existed, or one who rejected everything you are." I closed my eyes, breathing in Ash's familiar scent. "After tonight, I don't have to wonder anymore. At least I never had to watch someone try to force me into a box that didn't fit. Never had to see disgust in a parent's eyes when I started exploring who I really was." I thought about the years I'd spent finding my balance between masculine and feminine, the freedom in finally rejecting the need to choose just one. "Misha didn't get that choice. He knew exactly who he was, but Viktor made him choose between his truth and his family."
"At least you know where you stand," Ash said softly, his arms tightening around me. "Viktor's caught between his prejudice and his instinct to protect his child. That kind of internal conflict makes people unpredictable. Dangerous."
"You think he'll warn Roche?"
"No." Ash's voice held the certainty of someone who'd spent decades reading human behavior. "But he might try to extract Misha himself. Try to prove he can handle it without outside help. Without having to acknowledge why he really wants to save him."
I turned that over in my mind as Paris glittered past our windows. The city of lights lived up to its name, each boulevard a river of gold in the darkness. Somewhere out there, Roche was probably planning his next club appearance, selecting his next victim. And Misha... Was Misha looking out different windows right now, wondering if anyone was coming to save him? Or had he given up hoping his father might choose him over his precious traditions?
"We'll get him out," Ash promised, as if reading my thoughts. "Whatever it takes."
I leaned into his solid warmth, grateful that at least one person saw all of me–the beauty and the blade, the feminine and the fierce–and wanted every piece. Tomorrow we'd start working the clubs, begin the dangerous dance of catching Roche's eye. But for now, I let myself be held, let myself believe that sometimes love really could transcend everything else.
Even if that love came from unexpected places.