Chapter 10
Maksim
T he secure room smelled like recycled air and bleach. My brothers waited for me to update them, patient but eager. Nikolai looked like he hadn't slept in days—because he hadn't. Katya was cutting her first tooth, and the six-month-old had decided that suffering should be a family affair.
Konstantin sat with his chair pushed back from the table, arms folded over his massive chest. The pose looked casual—was designed to look casual—but I'd grown up watching Kostya read people. Right now, he was reading me.
I ignored him. Set my files on the table. Became the Fox.
"Anton's people are still in the city. Six confirmed operatives, all former intelligence or Spetsnaz." I pulled up the surveillance images on the room's central display. "They've been rotating through three safe houses in Queens, never staying more than forty-eight hours in any location."
Nikolai studied the images with tired, sharp eyes. "Movement patterns?"
"Reconnaissance, mostly. They've been photographing our supply routes, cataloging the legitimate business fronts. Building a target list."
"So he's preparing for a long game," Konstantin said. His voice was a low rumble, the sound of thunder waiting to happen. "Not a quick strike."
"The Deshnev backing suggests resources for a prolonged campaign." I clicked to the next image—the shipping warehouse in Red Hook, the one I'd flagged as a potential staging area. "They're not desperate. They're patient."
We talked through the tactical implications for another twenty minutes.
Security rotations. Communication protocols.
The chess game of anticipating an enemy who was anticipating you.
This was familiar ground—the kind of work I'd been doing for a decade.
Clean. Logical. A world where patterns made sense and emotions stayed locked away.
By the time Nikolai shuffled the final papers into their folders, I could feel the other conversation waiting. The one I'd been avoiding since I walked into the room.
"There's something else."
Both brothers looked at me. Kostya's eyebrow rose—that expression he got when he suspected someone was about to confess something interesting.
"So." I kept my voice even. Professional. "The art authenticator I said was out of the picture."
Konstantin leaned back in his chair and fixed me with that knowing stare. The one that saw through every deflection, every carefully constructed lie. The one that said I've known you your entire life, and you're not as mysterious as you think you are .
"She's staying with me," I continued. The words came easier than I expected. "She's helping us track Anton's money trail. The gallery network, the authentication pipeline—she can identify the inconsistencies no one else would see."
"And?" Nikolai's voice was mild. But his grey eyes missed nothing.
I'd planned to ease into this. To explain the situation rationally, to frame it in terms of strategic value and operational security. To be the Fox, calculated and composed.
"And she's mine."
The words came out before I could soften them. Raw. Unfiltered. The admission of a man who had stopped pretending.
Both brothers went still.
Then Konstantin grinned—wide and delighted, the expression of a man who had just won a bet with himself. "Baby brother finally found someone."
Nikolai was quieter. More assessing. His eyes tracked my face with that attention he gave to problems that required careful handling.
"The woman from the surveillance photos," he said slowly. "The one Anton's people were watching."
I nodded. No point denying it.
"She's vulnerable." The word tasted bitter in my mouth. My fault. All of it my fault—leading them to her door, exposing her to a war she'd never signed up for. "She's involved now whether I like it or not. And I'm going to protect her."
The brothers exchanged a look I couldn't quite read. Some silent communication that passed between them, the kind of understanding that came from decades of shared blood and shared violence.
"There's . . . uh . . . more," I said.
Konstantin's grin widened. "Of course there is."
I took a breath. Steadied myself. This was the part that felt like stepping off a cliff—admitting not just that I cared for someone, but how I cared for her. The shape of my devotion.
"She's—we're—" I stopped. Started again. "I'm her Daddy."
The word hung in the secure room's filtered air.
Konstantin didn't even blink. Of course he didn't—he'd found his own version of this with Maya, the doctor who'd somehow cracked through his brutal exterior and built a home there. He understood.
Nikolai's expression shifted into something softer. Something that looked almost like recognition.
"Like Sophie," he said quietly.
"Yes." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "Like Sophie. And Maya."
The comparison wasn't perfect. Every dynamic was different—the needs, the specific shapes of care and surrender. But the foundation was the same. The architecture of devotion. The love that came from taking care of someone who needed you to be strong so they could be soft.
"She needs structure," I continued. The words were coming easier now, the confession spilling out like water through a broken dam.
"She needs someone to take care of her, to make decisions when she's overwhelmed, to—" I stopped.
Swallowed hard. "She needs someone to help her feel safe.
And I want to be that for her. I am that for her. "
Konstantin was still grinning, but his eyes had gone serious. "You've done this before? The Daddy thing?"
"Online. For five months." I met his gaze. "Never in person. Never with someone I—"
The sentence wouldn't finish itself.
Never with someone I love.
I couldn't say it. Not yet. Not out loud, in this room full of secrets and surveillance equipment. But my brothers heard it anyway. They always heard the things I couldn't say.
Nikolai nodded slowly. "Sophie was scared too. At first. Hell, she's still scared sometimes—of how much she needs it, of what it means to let someone else hold that much of her." He paused. "But she chose it. She chooses it every day. That's what matters."
"Auralia chose me." The words felt like a prayer. "Last night. She asked me to be her Daddy. For real."
The silence that followed was different from before. Warmer. The quiet of family witnessing something sacred.
"Well," Konstantin said finally. "Guess we need to meet her."
My chest tightened. "Not yet. Not until she's ready. She's overwhelmed enough without adding the full Besharov experience."
"Fair." Konstantin's grin turned wicked. "But eventually. Maya's going to want to compare notes."
I groaned. The thought of my brothers' partners dissecting my relationship was horrifying. Inevitable, probably, but horrifying. Maybe there was some comfort in it. Auralia might enjoy the companionship. But not yet.
Nikolai was watching me with that quiet, knowing expression. The one that said he understood more than I was willing to admit. The one that reminded me, despite everything, that I wasn't alone in this.
"Bring her to Sunday dinner," he said. "When she's ready. Sophie will make her feel welcome."
It wasn't a command. Just an invitation. The offer of family that meant more than any tactical alliance.
I nodded. Didn't trust my voice.
Konstantin leaned back in his chair, that shit-eating grin spreading across his scarred face. "Tell me, brother—does she know you've spent more time with your encryption software than actual human beings for the past decade?"
"Kostya—"
"Does she know about the billion monitors? The fact that you talk to algorithms more than people? That you once forgot to eat for three days because you were tracking a data breach?"
"That was one time."
"It was three times." He held up fingers, counting. "I kept a list."
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Nikolai was smiling faintly—the tired, fond expression of a man who'd watched his brothers needle each other for decades and had long since stopped trying to intervene.
"I'm happy for you," Konstantin continued, and something in his voice shifted. The mockery fading into something warmer. "Really. You deserve someone who sees past the screens and the silence. Someone who makes you show up as an actual person instead of a ghost in the machine."
The words landed somewhere unexpected.
"Maya changed you," I said quietly.
"Maya broke me open." His grin was softer now. "Best thing that ever happened. Worst thing too, some days. Loving someone that much—it's terrifying."
Nikolai set down his files. The motion was slow, deliberate. When he looked at me, his grey eyes held something I couldn't quite name.
"You look terrified," he observed.
No point lying. Not to them.
"I am."
The admission came out smaller than I intended. More honest.
"It’s different," I pressed my palms against the table, grounding myself. "Doing it online is one thing. When I have time to think about my replies, get things right. But in person—I've never—with someone I—"
The sentence refused to finish itself.
Konstantin was watching me with an expression I'd never seen on his face before. Something almost gentle, underneath the sharp edges.
"You love her," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
Just the word. Just the truth.
Nikolai nodded slowly. His hands were clasped on the table in front of him—steady, certain, the hands of a man who'd learned to hold power without crushing the things he cared about.
"The thing about caring for someone," he said, "is that you'll get it wrong. Constantly."
I waited. Let him continue.
"I mess up with Sophie all the time. Read her wrong, push when I should hold back, hold back when I should push.
Katya keeps us both up all night, and I'm too tired to be patient, and I snap at Sophie for something that isn't her fault, and—" He stopped.
Took a breath. "The goal isn't perfection.
It's showing up anyway. Listening when you fail. Trying again."