Chapter 1 #2
I ransacked the refrigerator. Found cream—the heavy kind our cook used for sauces. Poured some into a pot, warmed it on the stove. Not too hot. I tested it on my wrist like I'd seen mothers do with baby bottles, though where that knowledge came from, I had no idea.
The kittens watched me with those too-large eyes. Suspicious. Starving.
I poured the body-temperature cream into my cupped palm.
The grey one understood immediately, stumbled forward on legs that barely worked.
Its tongue was tiny, pink, rough like sandpaper as it lapped at the cream.
The orange one held out for maybe thirty seconds before hunger won.
They drank from my hand, and I stood there in the industrial kitchen, still wearing a blood-stained shirt, refilling my palm until their bellies went round.
"Malysh," I said to the grey one. Baby. Because that's what it was—something soft and helpless that shouldn't exist in my world.
"And you—" I looked at the orange tabby, who had cream on its whiskers but still managed to look fierce.
"Zmeya." Little snake. Because even tiny and starving, it had tried to fight me.
I found a cardboard box from the storage room—sturdy, clean.
Grabbed kitchen towels, the soft ones. Made them a nest in the corner of my room, near the radiator where it was warm.
They explored for maybe a minute before exhaustion won.
Malysh curled into a grey ball. Zmeya wrapped around him, protective even in sleep.
I sat on the floor, back against my bed, and watched them breathe. In and out. Tiny ribs expanding and contracting. Alive when they should have been dead. Safe when they should have been freezing in an alley.
These tiny, broken things that had hissed and fought even when they were dying—I understood them. They were survivors. They were fierce even when they had no right to be. And now they were mine.
"You're safe," I told them in Russian, even though they were asleep. "No one hurts you now. No one touches you. Ever."
It was a promise I would keep. This, at least, I could control. I could be their monster—the one that stood between them and everything else.
Zmeya's paw twitched in his sleep, probably dreaming of fighting something ten times his size. Malysh purred, a sound barely louder than breathing.
The monster in my chest went quiet. Not satisfied. Not peaceful. Just . . . quiet.
I stayed there on the floor until the sky started to lighten outside my window. Watching them sleep. Standing guard. Being something other than just destruction, even if only for a few hours.
The third floor of the compound had been Mikhail's domain for forty years—the seat of power where decisions got made and men got buried.
Now it belonged to Nikolai, though the office still smelled like our grandfather's pipe tobacco, probably always would.
The room commanded a view of the Verrazano Bridge, steel and sky framed by bulletproof glass.
Mikhail used to call it his throne room.
These days, it felt more like a war room.
Nikolai sat behind the massive oak desk that had belonged to three generations of Besharov pakhans.
He was reading through reports, that little crease between his eyebrows that meant he was calculating moves ahead.
The chess board in the corner of the space indicated as much.
Maks sprawled in one of the leather chairs like he owned the place, laptop balanced on his knee, fingers flying across the keyboard without looking up. And Sophie—
Sophie was curled on the leather sofa, feet tucked under her, seven months pregnant and glowing like she'd swallowed sunlight.
She had a tablet in her lap, reading glasses perched on her nose—the ones she claimed she didn't need but wore anyway.
She was doing intelligence work, because even pregnant, Sophie couldn't sit still. Had to be useful. Had to contribute.
She looked up when I entered, and her whole face transformed. "Uncle Kostya!"
The name hit me in the chest like it always did.
She set aside the tablet, struggled to her feet. Before I could stop her, she was waddling over, arms already reaching for a hug.
I froze. Complete system shutdown. She was so small, even with the pregnancy belly. So clean and bright and good. My hands—I'd washed them, but I could still feel Alexandr's blood under my nails. Could still feel the give of cartilage under my knuckles.
"Relax, you big teddy bear," Sophie said, gentle because she understood. She always understood too much. Her arms came around me as far as they could reach, her head against my chest. She smelled like vanilla and that pregnancy glow everyone talked about—something warm and alive and precious.
I stood there like a statue, arms at my sides, terrified that if I hugged her back, I'd contaminate her. Transfer the violence that lived in my skin to her and the baby. But she just held on, patient, until my arms came up on their own. Careful. Barely touching. Like she was made of spun glass.
"There we go," she said, pulling back with a smile. "Was that so hard?"
Yes. It was impossible. But I didn't say that. Instead, I just grunted.
Nikolai gestured to a chair. "So? Report."
I sat, grateful for the distance, for the return to business. This I could do. This made sense.
"Alexandr talked," I said. "After sufficient encouragement."
Maks looked up from his laptop. "Define sufficient."
"He'll live."
Sophie settled back on the sofa, and I tried not to watch how Nikolai's eyes tracked her movement, making sure she was comfortable.
The way his whole body angled toward her even when he was looking at me.
Seven months ago, he'd been all sharp edges and control.
Now he was still those things, but softer somehow.
Sophie had changed him. Changed all of us, probably, though I wasn't ready to think about what that meant.
"Anton Belyaev is extending his influence, even from exile. He’s partnering with someone at Brighton Medical Center," I continued. "Dr. Brand. Running an organ trafficking ring."
The room went still. Even Maks stopped typing.
"Organ trafficking," Nikolai repeated, voice flat.
"Taking them from immigrants. Homeless people. Those who won't be missed. The Belyaevs provide security and transportation. Brand provides the medical infrastructure and buyers."
"How long?" This from Maks, his usual playful tone gone.
"Months. Perhaps the infrastructure was in place before Anton’s exile?"
Sophie made a small sound of disgust. Even after everything she'd seen, everything she'd survived, she still had the capacity to be horrified. I envied that. I'd lost it so long ago I couldn't remember what it felt like.
"Brighton Medical," Maks said slowly, fingers already flying across his keyboard again. "That's where Morris Medical Supplies has their primary account. We run sixty percent of their distribution through that hospital."
Now it was Nikolai's turn to go still. The Besharov medical supply operation was one of our cleanest revenue streams. Legitimate, mostly. Profitable. If the Belyaevs were interfering with that . . .
"They're not just rebuilding," Nikolai said quietly. "They're declaring war. Using our territory as a hunting ground and potentially disrupting our operations."
"Anton's desperate," Maks added, reading something on his screen. "His organisation is hurting. They’ve lost their drug routes, and their weapons suppliers cut them off after the Settling incident. Organ trafficking is quick money. One kidney can go for sixty grand on the black market."
"It's evil," Sophie said quietly. "Taking organs from people who came here for safety."
We all looked at her. She had one hand on her belly, protective, and her face had gone pale.
"Yes," Nikolai agreed. "It is."
He turned to me. "I need you to investigate. Find out how deep this goes. Identify Dr. Brand and his network. Map out all the Belyaev connection points."
I nodded. This was what I did. What I was good at.
"But Kostya." His voice sharpened. "Quietly. We can't afford another public war. Not with Sophie pregnant and Anton growing in power. This needs to be intelligence gathering, not intimidation."
My stomach dropped. Intelligence gathering. Subtle investigation. Everything I wasn't built for.
"You want me to be subtle?" I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice. "I'm six-five and look like I eat children for breakfast."
"You'll figure it out," Maks said, unhelpfully. "Maybe try smiling. Oh wait, that might make it worse."
"Maks," Sophie chided, but she was fighting a smile.
"I'm serious," Nikolai said. "This is delicate. We're dealing with a hospital, with civilian doctors and nurses. You can't just walk in and start breaking fingers."
"Then send Maks. He's good at talking to people without terrifying them."
"Maks is tracking their financial networks. I need you on the ground." Nikolai's tone said the discussion was over. "Start with the warehouse addresses Alexandr gave you. Work your way up. Find Brand."
I nodded, even though every instinct said this was going to go badly. I was a hammer. Everything looked like a nail to me. But Nikolai was Pakhan. His word was law.
"When do I start?"
"Tonight. After dark." He looked at Sophie, then back at me. "And Kostya? Be careful. If Anton's desperate enough to traffic organs, he's desperate enough to do anything."
The meeting continued, Maks pulling up financial data, Sophie cross-referencing with her intelligence networks.
But I was already thinking about tonight.
About investigating quietly when my very presence was a threat.
About navigating a world of doctors and hospitals where my scars marked me as exactly what I was—a monster pretending to be human.
This was going to require a different kind of violence. The kind where I had to violence to my own nature, force myself into shapes I wasn't meant to fit.