Chapter 11 Family Ties #2
We follow them inside, and the house is impeccable as always—Irina's work, no doubt.
The elegant living room with its perfect furniture and fresh flowers makes this surreal moment even stranger.
Baby Anya is in her playpen, babbling happily at a stuffed bear while soft classical music plays in the background.
Mikhail stops dead when he sees her, and something in his expression cracks. "Anya," he whispers. "That name…"
Mila's face softens slightly. "I remember Aunt Anya.
How she used to braid my hair before bed, how she'd sing those old Russian lullabies—her voice was soft and she was like an angel.
" Her voice catches. "She was so young when she.
.. when we lost her. So I wanted her name to be carried forward, for her to have the chance to live the life she never got. "
Mikhail has to turn away for a moment, his shoulders tight with emotion.
"May I?" His voice is rough.
Mila nods tightly, and he lifts baby Anya with the careful reverence of someone handling spun glass. The baby immediately grabs his finger, babbling something that sounds like "up up up."
Something clenches in my chest watching them. This man who's killed several people, who's lived as a ghost for fifteen years, cradling this tiny girl who carries his sister's name. Baby Anya laughs, and Mikhail's face does something I've never seen—pure, uncomplicated joy mixed with grief.
"We need to focus," Alexei says, though his voice has lost some of its edge watching Mikhail with his daughter. "You said this was about Harrison. About Mariana's situation."
"And about my Anya," Mikhail says, still holding the baby. "My sister. Harrison killed her too twenty-three years ago."
While Mila pulls up the data on her laptop and Alexei examines the files, I still can't stop watching Mikhail with baby Anya.
He's shifted her to rest against his chest, her tiny head tucked under his chin, and he's swaying slightly—an unconscious soothing motion that speaks of instinct rather than practice.
The contrast destroys me. This killer, this ghost who's haunted criminal nightmares for fifteen years, looking like he was born to hold babies.
His large hand spans her entire back, protective and gentle.
When she fusses, he murmurs something in Russian—probably nonsense words, but his voice goes soft in a way I've never heard.
God, he looks good like this.
Too good. Dangerously good. The kind of good that makes my ovaries stand up and take notice, whispering traitorous things about what our children would look like. Dark hair or silver? My stubbornness or his intensity?
"These names," Alexei says suddenly, looking up from the screen.
"The Russian women. I recognize some of them.
Maria Volkov—Roman's cousin. Irina Petrov—she was married to one of my father's lieutenants.
These weren't just random witnesses—many of them were bratva wives.
Daughters. Women who knew about Moscow operations. "
"Harrison wasn't just trafficking them," I explain. "He was selling intelligence both ways. American witness locations for Russian mob secrets."
"A double agent using human lives as currency," Alexei's voice goes deadly cold. "This changes everything. We'll need to coordinate with our contacts in Moscow, verify which families were affected. They should know, and all of them will want to help."
As we work for the next hour, I watch something shift in the room. Mila's rigid posture slowly softens. She stops avoiding looking at Mikhail. When baby Anya reaches for her mother, Mikhail hands her over with such careful gentleness that Mila's eyes get bright.
"So you have been watching us," she says quietly. "All this time."
"Every birthday. Every holiday. Every milestone." His voice is rough. "I know Viktor said his first word at ten months—'mama.' I know you had complications during delivery. I know Alexei held your hand for seventeen hours of labor and never left your side."
Tears slip down Mila's face once again. "Uncle Misha—"
"I'm so sorry, Milochka. So very sorry."
And then she's crying for real, launching herself at him in a hug that nearly knocks him backward. He catches her, holds her like she's made of glass, and I see his eyes close like he's trying to memorize this moment.
"I missed you so much," she sobs into his shoulder. "So much."
When my own eyes start burning, I step away to give them privacy, moving toward the kitchen. That's where Alexei finds me five minutes later, pretending to study the marble countertops while blinking away tears.
"Emotional?" he asks, offering me a glass of water.
"Shut up."
He actually smiles—a real one, not his usual controlled expression. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. Both of you. Mila needs her family, even if everything is complicated right now."
"You mean even though I'm a wanted federal fugitive?"
"This family understands complicated circumstances." He pauses. "Besides, you're good for him."
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb, Mariana. I saw how you two look at each other. How he positioned himself between you and any potential threat the moment you arrived. You even smell like him."
Heat floods my face. "It's complicated."
"It always is with family."
Later, after Mila has composed herself and Irina has served tea—the kind celebrities probably Instagram with those aesthetic overhead shots—Mila pulls me aside.
"Come with me," she says. "I want to show you something."
I follow her upstairs to what must be her personal office—computers everywhere, screens displaying code I couldn't understand if my life depended on it. But she bypasses all of that, going to an antique jewelry box on a bookshelf.
"This was my grandmother's," she says, pulling out a delicate silver bracelet with tiny blue stones. "She gave it to me before we left Russia. Said it would protect me in America."
"It's beautiful."
"It's yours."
I blink. "Mila, I can't—"
"You're family now." She fastens it around my wrist before I can protest. "Maybe not officially yet, maybe not in ways that make sense to anyone else, but family nonetheless. You protected us, and now you are helping my uncle. You're protecting him too."
"He is the one that’s helping me. We're protecting each other."
"Good." She squeezes my hand. "You're both in a dangerous situation, and I feel a little relieved that you have each other to go through it.."
The bracelet catches the light, sparkling like tiny stars. "Thank you."
"You can thank me by not breaking his heart. I just got him back—I'd hate to have to kill you."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Noted."
Dinner is surreal in the best way. Irina has prepared enough food to feed a small army—beef stroganoff, borscht, fresh bread, salads, dishes I can't even name. The twins are in their high chairs, making spectacular messes while baby Anya sleeps in a bassinet nearby.
"Viktor, no throwing," Mila says for the tenth time as peas go flying.
"He has good aim," Mikhail observes. "Gets that from the Kozlov side."
"The Kozlov side didn't teach him to weaponize vegetables," Alexei says dryly.
It's so... normal. So domestic. Like Mikhail hasn't been dead for them until now. Like I'm not wanted for treason. Like this is just a regular family dinner.
"Mariana, try the borscht," Irina insists, ladling more into my bowl. "You're too thin. How are you supposed to give Mikhail strong babies if you don't eat?"
I choke on my bread. Mikhail pats my back, fighting a smile.
"Irina," Mila scolds. "They're not—you can't just—"
"What? I have eyes. He looks at her the way Alexei looks at you when he thinks no one notices."
"We all notice," Mikhail says. "He's not subtle."
"You’re not being subtle either," Alexei shoots back.
And just like that, they're bantering like family. Like brothers. The tension from earlier has melted into something warmer, something that makes my chest ache with longing for things I didn't know I wanted.
"More wine?" Mila offers, already pouring.
"Trying to get the federal agent drunk?"
"Former federal agent. Currently family-adjacent criminal. Very different rules apply."
By the time dinner ends, I'm full and slightly tipsy and warmer than I've felt in years. This is what family feels like—chaotic and loud and overwhelming in the best way.
"You'll stay tonight," Mila says. It's not a question. "The guest room is ready."
"We can’t—"
"You can and you will. Uncle Misha needs to spend time with us, and make up for lost years."
Mikhail's face does something complicated—grief and joy and guilt all at once. "Thank you, Milochka."
I have to admit that the guest room is gorgeous—soft blues and creams, a bed that looks like clouds, windows overlooking the garden. Mikhail stands in the doorway like he's not sure he's allowed in.
"Today was good," I say. "Hard, but good."
"She forgave me."
"Because she loves you. Love forgives a lot."
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "And you? What do you forgive when you love?"
"I don't know yet. Ask me tomorrow."
He moves closer, and my heart starts doing that stupid flutter thing it does whenever he's near. "Mariana—"
"Thank you," I interrupt. "For letting me see this. The real you with your real family."
"Our family," he corrects. "You're part of this now. Mila gave you her grandmother's bracelet—that's basically a blood oath in Russian families."
I touch the silver links, still warm against my skin. "Is that what we are now? Family?"
"We're something." He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Something I don't have words for yet."
He kisses me. Gentle. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and I melt into him.
"Stay," I whisper against his lips. "Just to sleep. I just—I don't want to be alone tonight."
He nods, smiling.
We curl up together on the cloud bed, fully clothed, his arm around my waist and my back against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, and for the first time since this nightmare started, I feel truly safe. Like I’m home.
"Goodnight, little wolf," he murmurs into my hair.
"Goodnight, Mikhail."
Tomorrow we go back to being fugitive criminals with a lot of things on our plates that we have to figure out how to solve. But tonight, we're just two people finding comfort in each other, surrounded by a family who accepts us despite everything.
And at this moment, that's enough.