21 #2
Vera, Sabina and Amaia’s daughter, plants herself in front of us and bolts for Svet without a word.
She hangs off her neck, squeezes, and lets out a squeal.
Svet catches her midair, spins her, and they both crack up, crying and laughing at once.
Pure energy. Noise, arms, hair in faces, sneakers thumping the floor, and furtive glances at the twins, who are already going nuts checking everyone out.
And of course, glued to Rashel is Ana Malagamba, her wife.
I see Malagamba and protocol kicks in on its own.
She’s a fucking bulldozer with a sharp undercut, a leather jacket that says "don’t fuck with me," and boots that could open cans and, if it comes to it, armored doors.
A brow piercing catches the light, a geometric tattoo peeks up her neck, and she greets me with the barest nod—very boss.
Just a little chin-up "what’s up," but her eyes come with auto zoom.
They sweep over the twins: up, down, pivot, click, filed.
It’s not that she gives off bad vibes—quite the opposite.
She’s got competent boss energy, you know?
Looks like she’s taking notes for a secret report with a matte-black cover and gold staples.
"Eyes up, girls, Malagamba’s taking attendance; slap on your ID-photo smile, this counts toward your grade," I tell myself, cracking up.
And it calms me down, dude; having her there is like having the cool teacher proctoring the test: if anything weird pops up, she catches it before it blows up and, on top of that, she even lends you a pen.
The atmosphere is electric. The Popova twins get welcomed like the rightful heirs to a dynasty that’s both feared and admired.
They’re not playing dress-up as princesses—no way.
They are princesses: hair on point, heels with dignity, and that walk that says, "My knee’s shaking a little, but don’t you dare notice. "
I move half a step behind, right where I belong.
And I watch them. They kill me with tenderness, I admit it.
They’re nervous—of course they are—you can see it in the flutter at their wrists—but they hold their own.
They don’t step into the room as victims but as equals, Popovas straight from the factory, only with that neighborhood upgrade that makes them unique.
Julia, a sweetheart in heels, does the introductions, but she can’t last two seconds without blurting it out:
"Oh my God, they’re the spitting image of Irina!"
The enthusiasm in her voice yanks a laugh out of Amaia.
Irina shoots Julia the "reel it in, please" look, but Julia is Julia and she couldn’t give a damn about discretion.
"Oh, come on, Irina, don’t tell me you don’t see it."
Irina clears her throat, adjusts her ice-queen poise... and that’s that. Her eyes are shining; I can tell even from where I’m standing. Her face softens a millimeter—only a millimeter; it’s Irina.
Meanwhile, I give myself the internal order: Do not look at Alaska.
Repeat: do not look at her, Nat. Because if I lock onto those green eyes that have kept me in an emotional coma these past few weeks, my professional mask will drop and even the gardener will find out I’ve got a weak spot with a first and last name.
I pin my gaze to a doorframe, count the moldings (twelve, for the record), and take a deep breath. But it’s useless. I turn my head and my eyes betray me. Alaska meets my look with a flash I can’t decipher—hate? pain? defiance? All of it at once.
Julia snaps her fingers and the foyer fills with life: someone lowers the ambient music, the butler throws open the doors to the formal living room, and for a second it feels like the house itself takes a breath.
Alaska and Vega move forward slowly, with that dignified walk they’ve whipped up in a matter of hours: shoulders back, head high.
.. and one’s fingers squeezing the other’s like they’re a single creature with two main nerves and one shared battery.
They’re beautiful, not window-display beautiful—beautiful from having been through it and still carrying light in their eyes.
It makes me proud, even if it isn’t mine.
I don’t know what face I’m wearing—probably hardass cop—but Rashel grazes my elbow with her knuckles.
Mini-gesture in Rashel-ese: "Don’t light yourself on fire, Nat.
Breathe through your nose and save the drama for later.
" Malagamba, right next to her, catches everything.
That radar of hers detects lies three rooms away and mini heart attacks at two.
I wonder if Rashel has told her anything.
I’d love to stay frozen in this perfect movie moment. But memory is a bitch and drags me back to last week, to Irina’s office. Rashel and I were waiting for her.
The office is brutal, all glass onto the garden.
Immaculate desk, pens lined up, total museum vibes.
The air was freezing, of course, to keep everyone calm.
Inside, I was shaking, hands cold and feet glued to the floor.
Rashel stared at her phone without touching it, that move that tells me the drama’s about to get real.
I kept running the key line in my head, in case I choked.
Irina walked in, sat, crossed her legs, put her phone face down, and pinned us with that “get to the point, I don’t have your time” look. I took a deep breath. I’d rehearsed a thousand times with Rashel, but in the end I let out the basics, my voice drier and lower than usual: “I found them.”
She didn’t say anything right away. Just a slow blink and a clench of her jaw.
Then she let the air out, like setting down a weight.
She didn’t smile, but I saw the relief. Small victory.
Rashel, efficiency personified, set two manila envelopes in front of her: heavy paper, clips, the twins’ photo, and my report.
“Twins? Where?” she asked, without raising her voice.
“Madrid. Malasana. They live together. They had no idea.”
Saying it stabbed me in the gut. Grief and rage for everything they’ve missed. Irina only murmured, “My fucking father…”
And that was that. It was clear we’d park that chapter for another day.
She put the reports away, gave Rashel a nod, then looked at me. Held my gaze, unblinking. I felt naked—pride and fatigue peeled away.
“I told you this is how you’d earn your place, Natasha.”
And me, already running hot, I shot back, “I didn’t deserve to be sidelined like that.”
It was the most dangerous truth I’d spat in years. My pulse was hitting a hundred.
The air tightened. Irina tilted her head. Then she stood, came around the desk, and stopped at my level.
“I’ve always looked out for you, you know? I’m your godmother. The last time I set foot in a church was your baptism, by the way.”
I swallowed the usual—how I always find out about the important shit last. She told me Boris showed up in front of her with me in his arms and said, “This girl is going to need someone to teach her not to be afraid.” She thought it was massive bullshit, but since then she’s taught me everything and cleared shitstorms without me even noticing.
“My brother said that?” I asked, quiet.
“Exactly. He was obsessed with you—you were his golden girl.”
“Well, lucky me, because if not…”
I stuffed my hands in my pockets. She went on, no sugar:
“You think I exiled you. I kind of did. Don’t look for euphemisms. It was because of Sabina. That. Because of the—” she pressed her mouth—“clumsy way you chose to prove you were free. And also to keep a storm from breaking over your head and make you wake the hell up.”
“I didn’t think it was an offense against you,” I said, tilting my head. I glanced at Rashel. Still silent.
“It was. Though don’t tell Julia,” Irina shot back with a little smile. There was the spark from before this stupid fight—the woman, not the queen. “Ever. It doesn’t matter now, but don’t tell her.”
“I won’t,” I promised. Not out of fear, but because I know what we protect here.
“Good,” she said, brisk.
She held my gaze for a second that stretched long.
Then she scribbled something on a piece of paper in her tight handwriting.
She tore the page out, folded it in half, and put it in my hand.
She tapped my fingers closed. Rashel cleared her throat in the back.
She didn’t need to make a sound—I could feel her there.
I opened the paper. I saw the number and my breath left me. A million. I counted the zeros twice—I’m great with numbers—but that one froze me.
"I can’t…" I stammered.
"What you brought me can’t be paid for. Even so, around here we close with deeds, not pats on the back."
The corner of the paper nicked my palm. I wanted to shove it in my pocket and never take it out. The “thanks” wouldn’t come. It jammed up on my tongue.
"If you don’t want it for yourself, invest it in whatever you want," she added. "But take it."
I nodded, wordless.
"And one more thing. I want you to join JARSI."
JARSI, ugh. It’s not just a scary name. It’s the center, the fucking core.
It’s where decisions get made about things normal people can’t even imagine, where they fix the shit the law leaves to rot.
I knew what they did, sure, always from the sidelines, from my role as a drone operator.
Thing is, I’m the best at it, man, and it kept me in the game.
I flew those beasts with more hours than an airline pilot.
I read shadows, caught the wind in my headset. I kept my distance.
"Not as a mercenary," Irina finished, keeping her voice low. "Your opinion will matter; your vote will count."
Holy shit. A vote. My pulse was already at a hundred.
I straightened without thinking. My back went rigid. A silly heat rose in my ears. A tiny smile slipped out, one of those that hurt from pure satisfaction. I clenched my hands and held still. I kept the tremor in my gut.