Sofia
I have never met Yuri Baranov.
His father, my father’s brother, died before I was born. Some internal dispute no one has ever fully explained. An uncle I never knew and now a cousin I’ve never met. I’ve heard Yuri’s name, but until today, that’s all it’s ever been. A name.
I didn’t know he was in New York. Last I heard, leaving Russia wasn’t an option for him. Interpol wanted Yuri Baranov.
But I doubt Yuri Baranov has been Yuri Baranov on paper for years.
I know all about fake identities.
He was raised in Moscow. My father has mentioned him maybe a handful of times in my entire life. No pictures. No phone calls. No holiday cards. Nothing that would make him feel like family.
Until this moment, he barely existed to me.
He’s standing in the foyer with a smile that looks practiced instead of warm. Security would never have let him through the gate if he were a threat. Which means my father let him in.
I’m not sure I would have.
Since the attack, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. The therapist who spoke to me in the hospital told me I wasn’t to blame. When I admitted I’d felt something was off and went with him anyway, she said that was common. Women are taught to override the voice that tells them something is wrong.
My father never let me speak to a therapist again after that night, so I did the next best thing.
I researched the hell out of intuition.
And my intuition spikes. I quickly take in the details. He’s medium height, wearing a nice suit. Dark hair. Our family’s blue eyes. A small resemblance to my father in his younger years. He looks polished. Ordinary. Harmless, if you’re stupid enough to trust appearances.
But my body doesn’t buy it.
"Sofia." He says my name with easy familiarity, like it’s his right. He crosses the foyer and takes both my hands without hesitation, leaning in to kiss either side of my cheeks.
My eyes sweep the room before I can stop them. Door behind me. Anton at my nine o'clock. Two guards at the gate.
I try not to recoil. Everyone in my world knows they are not allowed to touch me. Except Anton. He is the only man ever allowed to put an arm around me or take my hand.
Anton is there now, watching me, waiting for a sign.
Yuri is family. Touch is normal. But it feels horrible and it makes my skin crawl.
"I would have recognized you anywhere,” Yuri says as he steps back. He’s still holding my hands. I pull them free as calmly as I can, despite the pounding in my chest.
“You look like your mother."
I’ve been told I look like my mother many times. I don’t see it, but I don’t try to look for a resemblance to her either. It’s too painful.
"Yuri. It’s so nice to meet you.”
That’s true only if lying counts. I don’t know if it’s nice to meet him. I don’t know why he’s here. I can guess why, but until I know for sure, I’m keeping my guard up and acting naive.
“I’ve been looking forward to this,” he says. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
I want to ask from whom, and what specifically, and through which channels that information traveled, but I don’t. Not yet. "Come in. Can I get you a drink? I’ll send someone to inform my father.”
Anton picks up on my cue and gestures to one of the other guards who quickly disappears down the hall.
I lead Yuri into one of the sitting rooms. It’s formal with a view of the garden.
This room was one of my mother’s favorites.
I rarely step foot in it because it stirs up memories I try to keep buried.
I gesture for him to take a seat. Once he does, I take the seat farthest from him.
A housekeeper brings tea. Yuri takes his with sugar and tells me about his flight. I listen and watch him, judging him. Looking for the reason he’s really in New York. The risk he took to come into the country has to be worth the reward.
Is it really about saying goodbye to a man he doesn’t know?
I don’t think so.
He asks about my studies. The city. My social life. Each question is normal. Expected.
“It must be difficult to keep up with your education while managing the business,” he says. “When I learned of Uncle Mikhail’s illness, I knew I had to come. It took a little time to secure entry into the country, but I came as quickly as possible.”
"It's been manageable," I say.
"You're modest." He fixes his eyes on me while offering a smile. "Your father tells me you've been running the business almost single-handedly since his diagnosis."
My father told him that. He’s spoken with my father, and yet my father never mentioned him to me. "He's exaggerating. He's still very much directing strategy. I'm handling operational details."
That’s a lie, but for now, I want him to believe my father is still in charge. There’s a certain protection in being perceived as naive.
He gives me a look that passes for admiration. “The construction arm alone is complex. Contractors, inspectors, city contracts. A portfolio like that takes oversight,” he says lightly. “How many properties are in the hotel group now?”
"Three," I say, "with a fourth in development."
“And how far along is the development?”
I pick up my tea. "Early stages still. A lot of moving parts." I smile over the rim. "You know how it is."
He does. The Baranov family has a similar business in Moscow.
I’ve never thought much about it. I know Yuri runs the operation there, but I was under the impression it is relatively small.
I don’t like how interested he suddenly is in the operations here.
If I weren’t paying attention, I might mistake this for conversation.
My instincts say otherwise.
It could be nothing. Idle chitchat while he waits for my father.
Or it could be something else entirely.
He changes direction so smoothly it almost makes me doubt what just happened. He tells me about Moscow and the business there. He’s entirely at ease. Like we’re long-lost family.
Dinner is the three of us with my father at the head of the table, Yuri to his right, and me across. The housekeeper serves. Nobody mentions that my father barely eats.
My father and Yuri talk about Russia, names and loyalties old enough to shut me out without ever saying so. I know we send a percentage of our earnings to Moscow to support the family there.
My father is more animated than I’ve seen him in weeks. His eyes are brighter. Real joy.
Yuri is blood. A living link to the brother my father lost. A living reminder of the brother my father doesn’t discuss but still grieves.
I watch my father’s face and think Yuri is studying him too. Measuring. Assessing. My father either doesn’t see it or doesn’t care.
I eat my dinner and listen to everything while pretending to hear nothing.
"The old families are navigating interesting times," Yuri says, refilling his wine. "New York especially. So much has changed.” He gets a look on his face like he’s remembering better times.
"The traditional models of succession are changing.
People underestimate how much stability that offers. Especially during a transition."
He doesn't look at me when he says it. He doesn’t have to.
My father says something noncommittal. I take a sip of water.
"Stability is important," I agree pleasantly, then ask the housekeeper about dessert.
After the meal, my father announces he’s tired.
I walk Yuri to the door. I don’t invite him to stay, despite there being more than enough room in the house. My father didn’t invite him either, and I have to believe there’s a reason for that.
“I’d like to visit again,” Yuri says.
“I’m sure you can call my father and arrange a time,” I reply.
He waits. I’m not offering.
I feel Anton’s presence. I can’t see him, but I know he’s there.
I keep my hands clasped. It does two things. Yuri can’t take them, and it makes a hug impossible.
“Goodnight, Yuri.”
Something in his face goes still. I hate that more than anger.
“Goodnight,” he says with a smile that lands like a warning.
I watch the car’s taillights disappear through the gate.
Then I go to my father's room.
He's awake. I know he doesn’t sleep much these days. He’s in the chair by the window. A lamp glows beside him. A glass of water sits on the side table. The television is on mute. He looks at me when I come in and waits.
I sit on the edge of the ottoman across from him.
"Tell me about Yuri."
He knew I’d come with questions.
"What do you want to know?"
"What I should know." I keep my voice calm.
He would not respond well to an interrogation.
"He's been here a few hours, and he's already asked me detailed questions about the business. He said the word traditional at dinner in a way that wasn't about tradition. He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t trust me. "
My father goes quiet, and I think he might redirect me. "Yuri believes his claim to the Baranov leadership is stronger than yours."
This doesn’t surprise me. Bratva men always want more. "On what basis?"
"On the basis that he is a man and you are not. Certain people in Moscow agree with him." He doesn’t soften it for me. He doesn’t care that I’m being told I’m not good enough simply because I’m a woman.
"The bratva sends money back to Russia. Significant money.
The Moscow leadership has interest in New York's operations continuing to produce.
If they believe there is instability in the succession—" He pauses.
"If they believe the heir is weak, or untested, or easily removed, they will support whoever offers them certainty. "
"And Yuri has been talking to them."
My father says nothing, which is the same as yes.
"How long has this been a possibility?"
“Since I got sick.” He picks up the glass of water and takes a sip, then coughs hard enough to cut himself off. I don’t pat his back or ask if he’s okay. I wait for him to regain control. “Perhaps before I got sick.”
I take a breath and consider what he isn’t saying.
"What do I do?"
My father looks at me directly. "You hold your seat."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer." His voice is not unkind, but there’s no softness in it. I’m glad he’s not trying to soften this.
That’s not what I need right now. “Yuri will look for weakness. If he sees it, he’ll exploit it.
If he doesn’t, he’ll manufacture it. Your reign will be tested from the first day and every day after that.
That will be true no matter what you inherit. "
"So what do I do about him. Today. What do I do with him?"
"I can't tell you that." He says it simply. "You know the problem. I can't give you the solution. If I give it to you, you wouldn’t have built it. And anything you haven’t built, you won’t be able to hold.”
“You won’t help me.”
“I won’t be here to do your thinking for you, Sofia.” There’s anger in his words. At me. At fate. At everything. "Whatever is coming, comes after me. I can't fight it from wherever I'll be, and I can't solve it for you now. You have to be the one left standing when it's over."
I hear him clearly. Hold your seat. Don’t die. And do it alone.
I’ve always known my family was small. In that moment, I understand the rest: I am standing in a city full of enemies with no one between them and me.
“When it’s over?” I ask.
"Don't die," he says. I used to think that was his version of I love you. Now I'm not sure it isn't just instructions.
“You think I will,” I say.
His eyes are a little cloudy these days, but there’s nothing uncertain in them now. “Yes.”
I nod, accepting his prediction of my untimely death.
I stand up. "Goodnight."
"Sofia."
I stop at the door.
He doesn't say anything else. He just looks at me in the lamplight for a moment. He doesn’t say he hopes I won’t die. He doesn’t say anything at all.
I leave his bedroom and slowly walk to my own.
For the briefest second I let myself imagine running. I have money. I could walk away and never look back. There’s a long life ahead of me if I choose to stop being Sofia Baranova.
All I have to do is give up.
I can’t. I won’t. I promised myself I would never give up again.