25
The air smells like wet earth and old woodsmoke.
We head up the path across the estate, steady, unhurried.
Dogs bark in the distance and gravel crunches under our boots.
Irina doesn’t say a word at first. She looks straight ahead, coat open, hands clasped behind her back.
She scans the path with those contro l? freak eyes of hers.
I shove my hands in my pockets and keep quiet.
With Irina you don’t have to push; when she’s ready, she talks.
"I don’t know what to do with Alaska," she says at last. Her voice comes out low, worn thin. "Vega’s easy. She’s open, she’s sweet, she’s up for anything.
But with Alaska…" She shakes her head, half frustrated. "She can’t stand me. Everything I say sets her off. And I don’t get it.
I imagine it’s because I’ve got her stuck here, but right now I don’t have another option.
She’s even told me I’m holding them hostage. "
I catch the tremor that slips out of her. This isn’t the meeting-room Irina who can freeze you with a look. This is someone else. The one who admits she’s not in control. I bite back a laugh because I can picture Alaska telling her that, calm as you please.
"Don’t take the bait," I tell her. "She’s provoking you to see if you’ll ease up. She’s used to doing her own thing and she’s allergic to being told what to do. Even so, she’s happy, even if she’ll never admit it. Trust me."
Irina lets out a small, humorless laugh.
"I feel guilty, Natasha. For not turning Madrid upside down until I found them. For them being alone in a group home and having to get by…" She lowers her voice. "By prostituting themselves."
"Not prostituting themselves, Irina. Escorts," I correct her without drama, as flat as I can. I know damn well what Alaska did—what she’s done. She told me herself. Vega’s a different story.
I know that too because Alaska tells me everything, sometimes by accident, sometimes with that look of hers that says, "Watch me, I’m tough. " And she is, fuck, she is.
She cuts me a look.
"It’s the same thing!" she snaps, outraged. "I can’t stand it. If I’d known this a few years earlier, I would have adopted them, raised them myself, spared them all of it. To me, they’re still kids."
"They’re not kids." I cross my arms and look her dead on.
Irina exhales hard through her nose.
"Until very recently they were. They turn twenty-one tomorrow," she says with tenderness and gravity in the same breath; you can see it in her face, in her still hands. "Twenty-one, Natasha. And they seem so young to me… I want to protect them. From my enemies and from everything else."
"You can’t protect them from everything and you know it. Don’t treat them like kids or they’ll rebel. Alaska will rebel. Vega, I think, does better with a little guidance."
I zip my jacket up to my throat. The cold starts rising off the ground. She stands there chewing on ideas. Her mouth quirks, half amused.
"This morning I had a massive blowup with Alaska," she says with barely disguised pride. "I had to keep from laughing. She isn’t even a little bit afraid of me. She gets right up in my face, defies me. That’s pure Popov. Just like my father. That bastard—if he were alive, I’d kill him myself…"
I stop and look at her, eyebrows up.
"No, Irina. She’s not like your father. She’s like you."
She goes quiet. She holds my gaze. Pure green, less calculation—there’s something else there and she doesn’t hide it. It lasts a second, but it’s there. Inside, it amuses me to see her blushing and proud at the same time. I keep a straight face. I hold it in.
We keep walking. It’s a little past five and the sun is already slipping behind the trees; the mansion appears ahead, the windows going orange from the light inside.
Irina takes a deep breath, lets it out, and recovers her command tone.
The strength comes back into her posture, but the vulnerability doesn’t quite leave, and I can still feel it.
"I want to ask you a favor," she says slowly, picking each word. "It’s not an order, okay? You don’t work for me anymore. You work with me. You can say no and I’ll accept it."
"You scare me when you start like that," I tell her, half joking, half not.
She smiles a little without looking at me, like she doesn’t want to give me the win.
"Alaska told me she wants to go out today. Go to her place, pick up her things, and then celebrate her birthday with her friends. I’m going to let them.
And more than that: it makes me happy they want to celebrate.
I want to see them happy. But they can’t go alone.
And she’s already made it clear she doesn’t want any ‘dude’ trailing her.
I figured she’ll take it better if you go. "
I stop. I tuck my hair behind my ear.
"Do you want me to go with them?"
"I want you in charge. Not to their place yet. First, take them to a mall. Let them buy whatever they want, no limits. Clothes, shoes, phones, whatever they feel like. They can wear it all tonight if they want. Then they can meet up with their friends or whoever." She nods, all business. "Luna’s going with you. She’s their age; they get each other. And even if the twins don’t know it, Luna will be carrying—a small pistol in her fanny pack—but you know her: she’ll be more about having fun and the party than keeping watch.
Alexei and Antón will tail you from a distance, eyes out for anything weird.
But up front… you’ll be point. You’ll have to look after them without pissing them off too much.
If you see danger, put your foot down. I’m asking as a favor, same as I asked Luna. "
She watches me and waits. I cross my arms, blow my bangs out of my face, and take two seconds. If I say yes, Alaska will hit me with that silent hate she’s so good at. If I say no, Irina might start turning over things I don’t want her suspecting.
"Fine." A soft alarm goes off—the good kind. Controlled chaos. It also gets me that she asks instead of orders me. "I’m in. But I pick the mall, we lock down the schedule, and the curfew isn’t up for debate. And you owe me a giant, actually-good coffee."
"I’ll buy you the whole coffee shop if I have to," she says, already wearing that half-smile that means deal done.
"Perfect. Then I’m gonna change and text Luna. And tell Alexei and Antón to quit breathing down our necks—keep it low-key."
"It’ll be low-key," she says, and for the first time she sounds calm.
I nod, stretch my back, and light up a little inside. No-limit cards, friends, potential drama, and me as the responsible babysitter. A totally normal Saturday. And honestly, I’m into it.
"And Mikel?" I ask, raising a brow and slowing down.
Irina frowns, genuinely lost.
"Mikel? What does Mikel have to do with this?"
"Well, according to Ivan, their whole faces change when the other shows up." I fold my arms, delighted with the gossip. "So yeah—there’s a thing."
Irina goes quiet for a beat, thrown. Then she tries to pull it together, but it comes out weak.
"Don’t be ridiculous. They’re kids… besides, Vega…"
"So you’re okay with it, then?" I cut in, leaning toward her a little, on purpose.
Irina exhales, with that look I can’t read—is it surrender, or just tired of having to be the boss?
"As you just reminded me, she’s not a little girl, Nat. I can’t meddle in who she decides to date. Mikel’s a sweetheart. And…" her voice catches for a second, "also, who’s going to tell Sabina her son isn’t a good match for Vega?"
A short laugh slips out of her, almost conspiratorial—rare for her. There’s a real opening there.
"Uh-huh. So Sabina softens you up," I toss, straight at her, taking advantage while she’s soft.
Irina cuts me a side-eye, neither confirming nor denying, and in the end she smiles with that half-smile of hers, tired and proud at once.
"Sabina softens me. Always."
And for a second, I see her as normal, with her loyalties and her messes.
"And since we’re swapping secrets…" I say, edging closer, "what does Julia say about that?"
Irina turns her head slowly and pins me with a look full of mischief.
"Don’t get it twisted with Julia, Natasha. Julia is my wife. And the one who really runs this house."
I laugh.
"You? The Queen admitting someone else is in charge?"
She huffs, her mouth curving up despite herself.
"Nat, on that estate there are several who outrank me." She ticks them off on her fingers. "Julia, Sabina… and your mother, for one."
I crack up.
"I’ll sign off on my mom. Today she almost made you down half a gallon of borscht. With bread and a face that said, ‘you shut up and eat.’"
Irina laughs for real, full-on.
"And there was no escape. She kept refilling the bowl, period. Good luck telling her no."
We keep walking toward the mansion with the laughter still sticking to us. For a moment we forget protocol, hierarchies, and all the built-up bad blood. The garden is insanely pretty, and the porch lights are already on.
My laughter fades, and with it comes a hard itch to tell her that part of Alaska’s pissed-off mood has my name on it.
That I’m in that mix of anger and rebellion too.
My tongue itches to spill it, to drop it and see what she does with it.
But I take Rashel’s advice and don’t. Not yet.
I bite my lip, lift my chin, and nod. I let her talk, let her laugh under her breath, let her be soft a little longer.
And I keep it to myself. The thing with Alaska and me stays with me, for now.
Not even an hour later I’m behind the wheel of one of the estate’s armored SUVs, cruising over the M-40 toward Las Rozas Village, glittering on the horizon.
To my right, Luna’s in low-key bodyguard mode. Cat eyes catching every twitch in the mirrors, alert to any car that drifts too close. I clamp the wheel, because what’s going on in the back would try a saint.