Chapter 11 Family Ties
Chapter eleven
Family Ties
Mariana
I wake up in Mikhail's bed. Again.
This time, he's still here—sitting on the edge of the mattress, fully dressed, staring at his phone like it might bite him.
The early morning light catches the silver in his hair, and for a second, I let myself imagine this is normal.
That we're just a couple dealing with family drama instead of fugitives about to drop a bomb on unsuspecting relatives.
"How long have you been awake?" I ask, my voice rough with sleep.
"A few hours." He doesn't look at me.
I sit up, pulling the sheet around me even though he's seen everything already. Twice. "What did you tell Alexei?"
"That Ghost needs an urgent meeting. That it concerns Harrison and the federal trafficking network." His jaw tightens. "He agreed immediately. Said you'd be welcome too, despite your... current legal situation."
Current legal situation. That's one way to describe being America's most wanted.
"They know I'm coming?"
"I told them you had critical information about the case." Finally, he looks at me, and the vulnerability in his dark eyes makes my chest tight.
"Mikhail—"
"She's going to hate me." The words come out rough, like they've been scraped from his throat. "She wore black for a year, Mariana. She even named her son partly after me."
I reach for his hand, and he grips mine like an anchor. "She'll be angry. But she won't hate you. You are her family. And she’ll know what you've sacrificed to keep her safe."
He brings my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a gentleness that seems at odds with everything Ghost represents. "What if she tells me to leave? What if she doesn't want—"
"Then we deal with it."
We. That word, again.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Text from an unknown number, but I recognize the style—encrypted, routed through multiple servers.
Agent Castillo - This is Alexei Morozov. Looking forward to seeing you despite the circumstances. Mila says to tell you the twins miss their Aunt Mari. - AM
Something warm unfolds in my chest. They're not going to cut him off. I’m sure. Even with federal manhunts and treason charges, they're still family.
"What is it?" Mikhail asks.
I show him the message. "They called me Aunt Mari. That's what the twins—well, what Mila says when she holds their hands to wave at me."
"You're close with them."
"I've been their FBI liaison for the legitimacy project for over a year.
You already know that part. I remember the twins' first birthday party several months ago.
.." A laugh escapes, slightly hysterical.
"God, that feels like a lifetime ago. I was still a real agent then. Still believed in the system."
"You're still real. Just fighting from a different position now."
I lean into him, breathing in his scent—expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely him. "I'm nervous."
"About?"
"Seeing them. They trusted me to bridge their world with law enforcement, and now I'm a fugitive. What if they think I betrayed that trust? What if—" I stop, the other fear too big to voice.
"What if they find out about us?" he finishes.
"Yeah."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "Would that be so terrible?"
Yes, I want to say. Because Mila will see it as a conflict of interest. Because Alexei will wonder if I've been compromised. Because mixing personal and professional is exactly what got me into this mess.
But what comes out is: "I don't know."
An hour later, we're in his Bentley heading north.
I've changed into my last clean outfit—the same jeans from yesterday and a tank top I had in my go-bag.
We stopped at a Target on the way out of Manhattan, where I grabbed essentials with cash while Mikhail kept watch.
Nothing fancy, just basics to get me through whatever comes next.
"That was risky," I say, checking the mirror for the hundredth time. "Stopping at a store."
"You needed clothes. And I needed to see if we were being followed." He changes lanes smoothly. "We weren't."
"You sure?"
"I've been doing this for fifteen years, Mariana. I'm sure."
The shopping bag sits at my feet—underwear, two shirts, basic toiletries. The kind of mundane necessities that feel surreal when you're running for your life. The cashier hadn't even looked at me twice, too busy scrolling her phone to notice she was ringing up America's most wanted.
"Tell me about them," he says as Manhattan gives way to suburbs. "My family. What they're really like now."
So I do. I tell him about Mila's brilliant mind, how she can hack anything but gets flustered by the twins' crying. About Alexei's dry humor and devastating competence. About birthday parties with too much Russian food and the way they look at each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
"They're happy," I finish. "Really, truly happy."
"Good." The word comes out fierce. "That's all I wanted. For her to be safe and happy."
We pull up to the estate's gate, and my stomach drops. This is it.
A security guard built like a brick shithouse approaches the driver's side. The kind of guy who probably eats FBI agents for breakfast and picks his teeth with their badges. Mikhail lowers the window, and the guard's eyes widen slightly before his face goes carefully blank.
"Sir," he says, then his eyes find me. A flicker of recognition—he knows exactly who I am and what the news is saying about me. "Ma'am."
"They're expecting us," Mikhail says simply.
The guard nods and waves us through. No questions, no ID check. Just immediate compliance that tells me everything about how much respect—or fear—Ghost commands even here.
The house comes into view—massive, beautiful, intimidating as hell. My hands are shaking as we park.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No."
"Me neither."
We get out together, and the front door opens before we reach it. Alexei stands there in a casual sweater and jeans, looking nothing like the Bratva king he is. His eyes scan us both, cataloging everything—our tension, the way we're standing carefully apart.
"Mariana." He says my name first, deliberately. A show of respect despite my current status. "Welcome back."
Mikhail steps forward, and I see Alexei's eyes sharpen as he gets a good look at the legendary Ghost's face. The man he's only glimpsed until now. The phantom killer everyone fears but no one really knows.
"Alexei," Mikhail says quietly. "We need to talk."
"Yes, you said it was urgent." Not a question. Alexei's studying him with the intensity of someone memorizing every detail.
We hear footsteps from inside, then Mila appears, holding baby Anya on her hip.
"Mila!" I call out.
This is the woman who makes federal databases look like open books, watching her approach.
The one who can track money through seventeen shell companies without breaking a sweat.
Alexei mentioned once that she used to work in cybersecurity in Manhattan before the kids—and he also said she could breach the Pentagon if she wanted to, but preferred legal challenges.
"What's wrong? Is Ghost—"
She sees Mikhail and freezes. Unlike Alexei, something flickers in her expression—not quite recognition, but something nagging at her memory. The baby makes a small sound, reaching for her mother's suddenly slack face.
Alexei still hasn’t taken his eyes off Mikhail, but Mikhail turns to face her fully, and that's when I see it happen—the moment she sees something familiar in the angles of his face, the set of his shoulders.
"Uncle Misha?" The nickname comes out as barely a whisper.
"Hello, Mila."
The silence stretches so tight I can barely breathe. Then Anya fusses, breaking the spell, and Mila hands her to Alexei with movements that look automatic.
She walks down the steps slowly, deliberately, until she's standing directly in front of Mikhail. Studies his face like she's confirming he is real, that she’s not seeing a real ghost.
Her hand comes up like she might touch him, then drops. Her eyes fill with tears that she refuses to let fall.
"So many years," she whispers, her voice shaking.
"I lit candles every week. For you, my hero when I was little.
The uncle who'd swing me around until I was dizzy, who'd sneak me candy when Mom said no.
" Her voice breaks. "I cried for months after they told me you died.
And you were just... alive? This whole time? "
She takes a step back, then another, wrapping her arms around herself like she's physically holding herself together.
Tears finally spill over. "I've carried everywhere for years that photo from when I was four, sitting on your shoulders; the only photo of you that I had left.
I showed it to my babies. Told them about their brave great-uncle who died in Chernobyl.
How he was a hero. How I wished they could have met you. "
"Mila, please—"
"You knew?" Her voice rises, fury mixing with devastation. "You knew I was here? That I got married? Had children?"
"Milochka—"
"No! You don't get to 'Milochka' me. Do you have any idea what it was like? I was five years old, and my hero was just gone. The one person who made me feel special, who made me feel safe even when everything was scary and new in America."
"It was safer for you," Mikhail says, his voice rough with emotion. "Everyone who knew I was alive became a target. I couldn't—I couldn't risk you."
"And all these years? In all these years, you still couldn't find me and let me know you were alive?" The tears are flowing freely now. "I had the right to know you were alive!"
Alexei steps forward then, still holding Anya. "Perhaps we should continue this inside. The children..."
Mila nods shakily, wiping her face. She looks at Mikhail one more time, then turns and walks into the house without another word.