17
Nat takes a breath and ramps the intensity up in a heartbeat.
"First off," she says, rapid-fire, "I'm not a detective."
Vega and I turn at the same time, eyebrow up, mirror posture, so in sync it’s funny. I keep the jab to myself and let her be the mouthpiece—she’s got a lifetime permit to wade into the mud.
"You don’t say?" Vega lets out a short, mean giggle. "Well, that’s a bummer. You looked like the lead in those bargain-bin detective paperbacks, the ones with orgasms and a gun on the cover."
"We already knew, Nat. If you think we’re a couple of ditzes, think again," I finish.
"Look, Alaska, I know your friend told you who my people are. I’m assuming you’ve Googled me by now. And I have been playing detective, for the record—I didn’t completely lie," she drops it in the flattest voice in her catalog. Not even half a smile. She’s clearly here to drop heavy drama on us.
I curse myself hard, because no, I haven’t Googled her; that’s how much of a rookie I am.
Ten years ago, Irina, my boss, found out her father had had a daughter.
Just a couple of old papers, a line in a letter, a shadow of data.
And in my head I picture Irina in a turban with a vodka glass saying, ‘Blood calls to blood,’ little-sister style, with a mustachioed Russian butler hiding something in a trunk behind her.
The worst part is I already see where this is going.
She told me the first day that before she knew there were two of us, she suspected it was us.
And now, with that face, that tone, this intro, my pulse kicks up, my hands sweat, I want to open a window.
"And why the hell are you telling us this?" Vega asks, now hungry for real tea, not weak gossip.
"Okay, patience, I’m getting there. It wasn’t overnight, not even close. At first it was Mission: Impossible—no leads, every door shut. Irina’s father was already in bad shape, advanced Alzheimer’s. She asked him, tried to scrape something up, but it wasn’t reliable."
"So she hired you," I put in, half-squinting. "To find her."
"No, at first they hired private investigators. Ex-bureaucrats with vices, IOUs, and fat expense accounts. There were payoffs, envelopes under the table, even extortion. My sister-in-law handled the tech."
"The intense Asian from the restaurant?"
"Her. Rashel is a lot of things: she’ll break your arm if you piss her off, she’ll cook you fried rice that’ll blow your mind, she goes cold when politics comes up, and she’ll hack Russian Tinder just to snoop on who our cousins are flirting with. But don’t get it twisted—she’d bleed for Irina."
"And you?" I ask, my body already tight.
Nat’s lashes snag. She blinks weird, her rhythm cuts. On her scale, that’s high alert. A nervous laugh bubbles up that I swallow, and dumb thoughts zip through my head like she’s a Ukrainian princess on the run. Oligarch wedding canceled, TV crews rolling.
"I’m not going to pull the stunt of hiding anything. You’re already halfway in, so here’s the whole thing," she says. Vega and I don’t need to talk. She said it in the plural, crystal clear. We’re in. I grab the back of my chair. This is serious. "The thing is, Boris…"
"Your ex-husband?" Vega cuts in, already having built the Russian family tree in her head.
"No, honey. My brother. He’s twenty years older, so brother and a little bit grandpa.
When my dad caught the first flight back to Russia and left us here as a keepsake, I was twelve with two zits on my forehead already warning me life was going to demand patience.
My brother got stuck with the mess, played head of household, but grudgingly—affection in short supply. "
"So you’re Russian-Russian, passport and polar cold, right? No accent, but girl, the look… the only thing more mobbed-up than you is the knockoff cold cuts from Carrefour," Vega tosses, classy as ever.
"My parents are Russian, but I was born in Madrid. My folks were immigrants trying to make a living. My brother chose something else: working for dangerous people. And he ended up tied to Irina Popova, the mafia diva. My mother and I were at each other’s throats over everything, and he was always gone.
He didn’t raise me or his son Ivan, who was still losing baby teeth.
Luckily there was Rashel. And then Irina, who called the shots. "
"She became your boss too, right?" I ask, alert now—stories like this keep me from yawning.
"Irina recruited me in record time. She liked Boris, but he was rigid, all dry edges. Me, I turned out a dyke, and that pissed my brother off. High school bored me to tears; I had zero interest in studying. I’d rather memorize Russian license plates, slip into clandestine meetings, and hone the art of giving undercover cops the side-eye.
Rashel and Irina ran the academy: Russian, computer skills, drills, and spotting when a potato salad comes with cyanide on the house.
The first gigs were a trip. I had premium connections and I was damn good.
I shot up the org chart fast. I wanted to be like them. "
"So… yes? You're bona fide mafia?" I blurt, and in my head "Kalinka" starts playing.
And for the first time Nat drops the tough-girl act and nods, a clear warning this is serious.
"Yes, Alaska, yes. We can call it that. Irina runs a consortium of companies—half legit, half 'don’t ask, honey.' Real estate, security, art, jewelry, shady contracts, the usual. No guns, no drugs, no trafficking; our turf is digital snooping and a little shady work."
And I’m stuck somewhere between fascinated and scared shitless—my favorite state lately—deciding whether I want Nat to spill the rest or if I’d be better off hitting an imaginary reset so she goes back to being the mean dyke from the grocery store, who kept me calm and fed me bad jokes for the group chat with the girls from the group home.
"The estate is like a bougie gated community. There’s Irina’s mansion, and then, scattered around the grounds, little houses where the people who work for her live."
Immediately, I see it: full-on mafia mega-mansion, with goons doing push-ups and running laps.
Chechen cleaners. Stone-faced drivers in black suits.
Cooks with knives worthy of a Japanese thriller tucked among the chard.
Retired Russian marines doing yoga on the porch—one in Downward-Facing Dog with a gun peeking out of his sweatpants. You know, the usual.
"Then what about you?" Vega arches an eyebrow so high she almost musses her bangs. "Are you the head of the chill-out lounge at the mansion, or do they just let you water the carnivorous plants?"
Nat looks at the floor and I swear she shrinks two sizes for a second—but only on the inside, okay?
On the outside she’s still fiv e? eleven and radiating that aura of could-break-your-legs-with-her-mind.
I watch her shed the armor and, for a beat, I fantasize about stripping it off myself and putting her in a bathrobe and slathering her in cica cream to heal the trauma.
"When I turned eighteen they gave me a little treehouse—tiny, yeah, but with W i? Fi, honestly amazing, and best of all, it was mine alone. That’s where I really started the job.
" She rubs the back of her neck. "Because I, the idiot, figured they’d make me the boss mama’s lieutenant in no time.
Or at least my siste r? i n? law’s. And then—smack from reality: crappy errands like filing paperwork.
I’ve only used a gun at the shooting range.
No chases, no drama. I spent my days organizing security files and doing bodyguard duty. I felt like… nothing. Invisible."
"And now they gave you a top-secret mission to find the secret sister, or was it just to shut you up?" I ask. "Are we getting to that part or what?"
I watch her in silence. Seeing her like this, vulnerable, throws me off. I’m used to the version of Nat who can strip you with one eyebrow. She looks up and meets my gaze. There’s no game in that look anymore, no seduction, no control. Just truth.
"Okay… here’s where it twists. Let’s take it chapter by chapter.
One thing led to another, Irina got seriously pissed at me, and she shipped me off to Timbuktu—Spain edition, as in Madrid-to-Toledo, resignation included.
Between her loving me only when I’m not in her way, and Rashel being my fairy godmother and bailing me out of everything, I wound up playing detective on the hunt for the lost princess. "
"And did you… find anything out?" I prod, with that tiny voice you get when you’re scared of the answer but act tough because it’s all you know how to do.
"She did it to keep me busy. But I took it seriously. I was almost sure it was you. Or you," she says, looking at Vega now. Then back to me. "I’ll tell you another day how I figured it out, because honestly, I’m a genius and I’m lucky.
From the first time I saw you, I tailed you out of professional kink and because, truth be told, you’re hot as hell.
It blew my mind that you’d catch me creeping on you from the car and didn’t call the cops or anything.
But then I saw you go up together—twins—and my brain, babe, just short-circuited. "
"Why?" I ask.
"Because I was looking for one girl, not two. Seeing you cloned was a blow. Another epic fail for the resident useful idiot."
"But of course… then you said, 'Since I’m here, might as well fuck her,'" Vega cuts in, never one for delicacy.
"Exactly, babe. If she wasn’t the heir then… I don’t know. I stuck around to celebrate the disappointment my way."
And me, for a change, I go up in flames. Everything itches. My ass, my chest, my tongue. Everything.
"So what then? You investigate me, fuck me, and on to the next?" I snap, because when it comes to drama I can go on forever.
"I kept it totally separate from the job. I really like you, I do. But sometimes you’ve got these tics, these weird little tells… seriously, at times it was like I was railing the beta version of Irina."
"And what did you do? Hit the dollar store to snag one of those DNA tests they give away with a pack of pads?" Vega fires off, full pisse d? off sarcasm now.
"More or less." She lets an evil little smile slip. "Remember at the grocery store, that scene you made where we almost ended up slapping each other over a hair? Not an accident. I yanked it. Professor of dirty tricks, at your service."
"I knew it!" I shout. "Vega, I told you."
"I didn’t send it in for testing at first because I’d ruled you two out on account of, well, being two.
But the day Rashel saw you, she freaked.
She’s been on me for weeks to test the hair.
And every day I kept seeing the resemblance more and more.
I finally sent it to the lab and here’s the result, fresh out, with a whiff of weird Russian plot twist." She says it like she’s ordering takeout.
"No doubt. You’re the boss’s half sisters—on her dad’s side.
Daughters of none other than Mikhail Popov. "
"No way," I say. Because I have no idea what else to say.
Vega clamps down on my hand and I squeeze back, in case this is one of those freaky dreams and I have to wake up.
Look, we’ve spent years speculating about Mystery Dad: secret agent, reggaeton dancer, maybe selling marinated chicken under the table in Lavapiés.
Mom would only say, and I quote, "He’s a Russian asshole with a lot of money and zero shame." And now—boom. Russian-mafia plot twist.
"Only Rashel knows for now, but she’s dying to tell Irina and that scares me.
This is about to blow up. Heads up: your Google Calendar, your life, and your commitment to staying broke are about to get wrecked.
Irina’s been looking for you for years and she wants you close, under her wing and her checkbook if necessary.
Family, love and yes: the goal here is millionaire status, not half measures. "
If they splashed me with cold water, I’d still be fizzing. Vega beside me, same energy, but she keeps it together while I picture myself saying "thank you" in Russian or chucking my phone at someone’s head, just in case it’s a joke.
At best we were due a dad with a mustache and a beer belly; inheritance, mob drama, and millions? Not a chance.
And of course, my brain immediately does Tony Montana: Vallecas Edition—me dressed like a mob-boss Carmela Soprano, cheap white suit, gold heels, screaming-red lipstick, making it rain on the social worker who won’t stop nitpicking.
Vega, meanwhile, is tricking out a hot pink Lada—flamenco dancer stickers, a clip-on spoiler, and THE SHAMELESS SISTERS splashed across the side in giant letters.
I add a trunk full of cash bundles to the fantasy and a chihuahua in a sequin sweater.
I get the giggles and at the same time my left eyelid starts twitching, and suddenly a revenge lightbulb flips on.
I run with a thought that sounds like a joke but isn’t: maybe it’s time to settle scores—enemies list, high priority, knife and snowflake emojis—because apparently now I’ve got a last name to back the mood.
I look at Vega and Vega looks at me. No words needed.
We’re thinking the same thing. One call, two, three, and half the city gets jumpy.
And I’m itching to break in the family, the checkbook, and revenge, all in one package, and in a Zara outfit if necessary—going full mafia theme won’t hurt my profile pic either.
I laugh at myself—I know me. Two steps in and I’m already buying into this new version of me.
But fair warning: if anyone owed me anything, time to pay up.
I’m nice, sure, but I’m also a Popova, apparently.
And I’m not planning to let it slide. Otherwise the to-do pileup will murder my afternoon between Nat, Rashel, Irina, and the salon—I urgently need a dye job if I’m going to look cute on the org chart.
"Fuck…" I whisper. I don’t know if what comes next is applause, a nervous breakdown, or a toast with a shot of store-brand vodka. I’ve got zero precedent.
What do we do? ID-style family photos in our sweats?
Book an appointment at Zara for the new-rich wardrobe run?
Or just print T-shirts that say "Illegitimate but adorable"?
But of course reality pulls the rug when you least expect it, and Nat, in a funeral-mass voice, drops the bomb:
"There’s just one tiny problem…"
And that’s when my heart lodges in my throat.
If this were a real Russian movie, the lights would cut out, dogs would start howling, and a painting would definitely fall off the wall.
But here the only thing falling is my hope, in free fall.
I look at Vega. I look at Nat. Inside, I’m already firing off emergency voice notes to the group home’s chat: 'Ladies, if this turns into a Nigerian prince scam, somebody open the wine. '"