Chapter 18
STEFAN
AN HOUR EARLIER
One of my soldiers, Denis, enters my office as I’m adjusting my cufflinks for the fifteenth time—a nervous habit I thought I’d killed years ago. But here I am, fidgeting like a teenager before prom, all because of a dinner with a woman who currently hates my guts.
I offer him only a cursory glance from the mountain of paperwork covering my desktop. This is what the movies get wrong about Bratva life—there’s a fuck ton more paperwork involved.
“Boss, got a sec?”
I force my hands to still, putting down my pen. “It better actually be a second. What is it?”
“The team has a lead on your... erm... on Natalia.”
My blood goes cold, then hot. I lean back in my chair, my back aching from hours hunched over this damn desk. “What kind of lead?”
“A woman matching Natalia Safonova’s description. Spotted in Brookline, residential area. She’s been seen entering and exiting a house on Cypress Street multiple times over the past forty-eight hours.”
My blood goes cold, then hot. “You’re certain?”
“Dark hair, same height, similar build. She’s keeping her head down, wearing oversized sunglasses, but the walk is distinctive.”
Natalia always moved like she was on a runway, even when she was just getting the mail. Some things don’t change.
“Send me the address.”
My phone pings with the information. I pull it up on my laptop, studying the modest two-story colonial. It’s nothing special—white siding, black shutters, the kind of house that blends into every suburban street in America.
“What do we know about the property?”
“Registered to the Vladislav family. Owned by one Vera Vladislav until her death. The house was left to her two daughters.”
I study the address. Vladislav. The name means nothing to me. Not Bratva, not affiliated with any of our operations. But it is Russian. That, in and of itself, is suspicious.
But the whole thing sounds vague. My men know I’m riding them hard for answers, and I don’t want to waste my time chasing ghosts.
I pass the paper back to him. “Keep an eye on the house and do a more in-depth search on the owner’s daughters. I want more certainty before we risk blowing our plan.”
Denis hasn’t even turned toward the door when my intercom starts buzzing—one of my two assistant lines. I press down on the green button. “Yes?”
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Safonov, but I have an Elena Safonova here to see you.”
“Send her in.”
As I wait, I stare at the house on my screen. Cypress Street. Such an innocuous location for my mother to resurface. If it’s even her. Which it probably isn’t.
But the doubt gnaws at me. What if it is her? What if she’s been hiding in plain sight this whole time, in some random suburban house with people I’ve never heard of?
A knock at my door interrupts my spiral.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and my grandmother walks in, her cane tapping against the hardwood. She’s wearing her good coat—navy wool with silver buttons—and her expression promises a lecture.
“Did you get all dolled up for me or do you have a hot date after this?” I ask.
She throws me a dirty look, ignores my desk altogether, and makes straight for the lounge to the left of the room. “It took me an hour to get ready. The least you can do is pour me a drink.”
“Whiskey or wine?”
“Scotch.” She taps her diamond watch with pointed emphasis. “And step to it.”
“Someone’s in a rush today.”
“Only because I happen to know that you’re meeting Olivia tonight.” Those sharp, misty eyes land on me. “Am I right?”
“Don’t act like you know me.”
“I changed your diapers, Stefan. I know you as well as anyone on this planet.”
“You didn’t change my diapers. We had a nanny.”
“I supervised.” She settles into the chair with a satisfied huff. “And that’s exactly why I’m here. If I waited for you to come to me, I’d be waiting until my funeral.”
“That’s morbid.”
“I’m eighty-three years old, Stefushka. Every conversation could be our last.”
The familiar guilt kicks in, right on schedule. “You’re not dying, Babushka.”
“We’re all dying. Some of us just have better timing.” She studies me. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I sigh wearily. “Yes, Babushka, I’m meeting Olivia for dinner tonight. On the yacht.”
Her eyebrows rise. “A date?”
“A dinner.”
“In that suit? With that cologne? After sending Taras to buy out half of Newbury Street?”
“How did you—never mind.” Of course she knows. Babushka knows everything that happens in my life, usually before I do.
“It can wait ten minutes for a conversation with your babushka.” She leans forward on her cane. “Trust me, what I’m about to tell you can only help this dinner tonight.”
I check my watch. I’m already cutting it close, but the steel in her voice tells me this isn’t negotiable.
“Fine. What do you want to tell me?”
“I caught your Olivia snooping around the manor this morning.”
My stomach drops. “Snooping where?”
“The basement door. She was trying to get in.”
Fuck. I should have known she wouldn’t just accept my refusal to explain. Olivia Aster doesn’t do passive acceptance.
“She claimed she was looking for the bathroom,” Babushka continues. “A terrible liar, that one. Her whole face turns pink when she’s being dishonest.”
“Fuck.”
“She suspects you’ve got someone down there, Stefan.
And because she can’t trust you to tell her the truth, she’s doing her own detective work.
You know what’s worse? She doesn’t trust me, either.
When I caught her, she told me she was looking for a bathroom.
Or the laundry room. She couldn’t decide which. ”
“You didn’t tell her anything?”
“What would I tell her? That you have your head of security locked in the basement? That you’re torturing information out of a woman who’s been like a daughter to you?” She shakes her head. “No, I kept your secrets. But I shouldn’t have to.”
“It’s for her protection—”
“Bullshit.” The profanity sounds wrong in her voice, but it gets my attention. “You’re protecting yourself from the possibility that she might see the real you and run.”
“The real me is exactly why she should run.”
“The real you is the man she’s already falling in love with, you idiot boy.” She raps her cane against the floor for emphasis. “But she can’t love someone she doesn’t trust. And right now, she doesn’t trust you. She’s suspicious of you, and she has every right to be.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re doing everything possible to push her away while claiming you want her close.”
I sink into my desk chair, suddenly exhausted. “It’s complicated.”
“Love always is. That’s what makes it worth having.” She softens slightly. “She didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, either. She thinks we’re all keeping secrets from her.”
“We are.”
“Then stop.” She pushes herself up with her cane, moving toward me with surprising speed. “Don’t waste time keeping the truth from her. Whether it will hurt her or not is irrelevant. She needs to know. She needs to be able to trust you.”
“If only she knew you were on her side.”
“She needs to know that you’re on her side, too, Stefan.” She cups my face in her weathered hands, the way she used to when I was small. “You love this woman. Don’t try to deny it—I see it in your eyes every time you say her name. And she’s carrying your child. Your father would be so proud.”
“My father would be horrified that I’m repeating his mistakes.”
“Your father’s only mistake was not fighting harder for what he wanted. Don’t make the same error.” She pats my cheek, then steps back. “Tell her the truth. All of it. Even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll do more than think.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “You owe your child that much.”
She leaves before I can ask more questions, the tap of her cane marking her progress down the hallway until it fades away altogether.
I sit in the silence of my office, processing. Natalia at the Vladislav house. Olivia trying to break into my basement. Mikayla still refusing to talk. Iakov still in the wind.
And in an hour, I’m supposed to sit across from Olivia and pretend everything is fine.
No. Not pretend. Babushka’s right—the pretending has to stop.
I pull out my phone and text Denis: Keep eyes on the house. If anyone matching Natalia’s description leaves, follow at a distance. Do not engage.
Then I grab my keys and head for the door. The drive to the harbor takes thirty minutes if I obey traffic laws, twenty if I don’t. I have just enough time to make sure everything’s perfect on the yacht before Olivia arrives.
Because tonight, I’m going to tell her everything. About Mikayla in the basement. About my plans for her clinic. About how terrified I am of losing her. About how I’ve never wanted anything the way I want her—not money, not power, not even revenge.
The truth might destroy us. But if I let them fester, the lies definitely will.
As I drive through Boston’s narrow streets, I let myself imagine a different future. It’s a dangerous fantasy for a man like me. But then again, Olivia Aster has always made me want dangerous things.
The harbor comes into view, and I can see The Antonia lit up like a constellation against the dark water.
My team outdid themselves with the decorations.
I park and make my way aboard, checking every detail.
The champagne is chilled—non-alcoholic for Olivia, the real thing for me because I’m going to need it.
The dinner I spent all day working on is keeping warm in the galley.
The orchids are perfect, their white petals glowing in the candlelight.
Everything is ready.
Everything except me.
I stand at the rail, looking out at the city lights reflected in the harbor.
Somewhere out there, Olivia is getting ready, probably second-guessing herself, definitely plotting my demise.
I sent her diamonds and Dior as an apology, but what she really deserves is honesty. Nothing less than that will suffice.
My phone buzzes. It’s Taras: En route with your girl. She looks fucking incredible, by the way. If you screw this up, I’m proposing.
I type back: Over my dead body.