Chapter 31 Miko
MIKO
The air inside the Novikov compound feels heavy with silence following the explosion.
I’ve put Gio and the twins in charge of ensuring the perimeter is secure once again—and finding out how the Russians got in to begin with.
Meanwhile, I follow the winding hallway to the far wing of the house, where I know I’ll find Svetlana’s room. The old matriarch is the only Novikov alive who might know the truth about some secret Russian heir—if her mind is still sharp enough to recall.
If not, I’ll have to uncover whatever the lead the Bratva think they found for myself.
“Come in,” says a gravelly voice after I knock.
The door groans as it swings open, and I stop in the threshold to study the old woman.
She’s sitting in a worn armchair beside the window, sunlight catching on the strands of silver hair pulled into a low knot. The curtains are half-drawn, casting long shadows across the floorboards.
She doesn’t look surprised to see me, though I haven’t sought her out in the weeks since Anika’s meltdown—even if I will be forever grateful that she put everything on the line to come to my wife’s defense.
The old woman folds her hands over her lap with quiet patience. Her eyes, the color of pale stone, fix on me with a tired sort of interest.
“So, you’ve finally come to see me,” she says, her voice cracking with amusement.
Releasing the handle, I leave the door ajar as I approach her. “I have something I wanted to ask you.”
“Then sit.”
She gestures to the chair across from her, but I remain standing. A nagging sense of foreboding makes it feel like bugs are skittering across my skin, and I fight the urge to pace as I study her wrinkled face.
She studies me right back, her gaze filled with curiosity, then she looks past me toward an old bookshelf lining the wall.
Her apartment is full of memories—faded portraits, dust-laced tapestries. It’s the kind of place people go when they expect to be forgotten.
“The Novikov men have a history of coming into power at a very early age,” she begins, almost as if to answer my unspoken question. “That’s because their predecessors never last long.”
Not many do in our line of work, but I find it curious that Svetlana would feel inclined to give me her family history with such little prompting. Does she know the answers I’m looking for?
“My husband was gone by the time my son turned twenty. My Mikhail took up the crown with too much grief and too little guidance. I tried to steer him in the right direction, but sons can be hard, you know.”
I nod, because even if I don’t have children of my own, I saw how challenging Leo could be for Don Augusta sometimes. Many times, it was probably merited. Often, it was not.
“Did you and your husband have any other children?” I ask, prodding gently around the subject I want to broach.
“Oh no. Another one of the Novikov curses, if you ask me. Each generation is blessed with a son. Just one son. A fact that has plagued many generations of Novikov men—and the wives who must endure them.”
A curious turn of phrase, and I study the old woman, wondering just how much she’s witnessed in her long years.
“So, Mikhail had one son…” I press.
“Yes, my grandson, Viktor.” Svetlana’s eyes return to me, sharper now, measuring as she lifts a finger. “But then a miracle happened. After Viktor’s first wife died giving birth to his son, he took a second wife who gave him a second child,” she says softly.
“Viktor had two children?” I ask, ice crawling up my spine.
“Yes, for a time, after Viktor’s second son was born, it seemed the family curse was broken.”
I step forward as Svetlana unwittingly answers my question. But I can hardly believe my ears. “That means Pyotr had a brother,” I clarify.
Svetlana’s eyes twinkle as she nods, and she leans in as well, her voice growing conspiratorial. “An older brother. The true heir to Viktor’s crown.”
I’m stunned that this wouldn’t be more common knowledge.
The only reason I can think of that the Novikovs would want to cover it up is if something happened to Viktor’s heir—something terrible that they didn’t want going public.
My first thought is that Pyotr must have killed his brother.
It would fit his sociopathic tendencies, and if Viktor intended to give his empire to his younger son after his older child’s death, he wouldn’t want people to think Pyotr was responsible.
“What happened to him?” I ask. “Viktor’s first child.”
“He was taken,” Svetlana says, her voice ripe with mystery.
She would make for an impressive storyteller, but the suspense is killing me when all I want to know is if I need to be looking over my shoulder for another Novikov monster.
“By whom?” I press, keeping my frustration in check.
“Why, don’t you know? I’d have thought Don Augusta would have loved telling you the story—considering he plays the role of the villain.”
My throat tightens, and I take a step closer. “You’re saying… the Don took Viktor’s son? Why?” My head is already spinning as I try to make sense of her story—to weed out the lies and the fables. Only, every word Svetlana’s said rings dangerously of truth.
“Because he wanted to break us. To punish Viktor for daring to take territory that didn’t belong to him.
He saw us as a threat, so he took what was most precious to my grandson.
Because he knew that Viktor would never retaliate for fear of what might happen to his child.
Don Augusta took that boy. He raised him far from our name, shaped him into something else. Someone else entirely.”
I shake my head, my heart hammering against my ribs as a lead ball settles in my stomach. “That’s impossible.”
Svetlana doesn’t flinch.
Just reaches over to a drawer in the table beside her and pulls out a small velvet box.
She opens it, revealing a locket—made of old gold and worn with age.
She hands it to me, and I meet her gaze before I flip it open.
Two little boys stare back at me from behind the glass, one still a baby, the other no more than three as he struggles to hold his baby brother around the waist.
No. No, no, no.
“You knew.” My voice is jagged. “This whole time. You knew who I was.”
“Of course I knew,” she chides. “You think I wouldn’t recognize my own blood? It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen you since you were a toddler. I felt it in my bones the moment I laid eyes on you. You move like your grandfather. And your eyes hold the same sadness Viktor’s had.”
I can’t breathe.
Don Augusta—my mentor, my father, my tyrant. He raised me to hate the Novikovs. To burn them down. And I did. For months, I’ve led the charge against them. I’ve reveled in their destruction. I killed their Pakhan.
I cut Pyotr’s throat and watched the life drain from his eyes as he bled out.
“Pyotr,” I whisper. “He was my brother.”
The locket slips from my hand and hits the floor with a soft thud.
Svetlana doesn’t move to pick it up.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Don Augusta knew exactly who I was the whole time.
And he let me believe that I had no one but him—no one who even cared if I lived or died.
He turned me into a weapon against my own blood. He fed me lies for decades.
Told me some sob story about taking me in off the streets like he was some saint.
All the while, he was holding me as a hostage—collateral to ensure my family never stepped back out of line.
Until the day my brother put a bullet in his head.
I wonder if Pyotr knew.
If he came for Don Augusta to get revenge for his family. But if he did, he took that secret to his grave.
I doubt, even if he hated the Don for what he did, that a man like Pyotr would have welcomed an estranged older brother back into his life, someone who could challenge his position as Pakhan.
And then there’s Anika. The woman I married. The woman I’m madly in love with. My brother’s widow.
I stumble back from Svetlana, the room lurching dangerously around me.
“No,” I growl, my voice ragged with distress. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” she says calmly, but it only makes it worse.
“You’re just saying it to screw with my head.”
“Mikail—”
“Don’t call me that!” I roar. Blinding fury rips through me, and I wheel away from Svetlana as my hand lashes out before I can stop it.
My fist drives through the wall there. Drywall crumbles around my knuckles. Dust rains down.
But the old woman doesn’t flinch.
I yank my hand back, blood welling along my knuckles. “Why tell me now?” I snarl. “After everything that’s happened? After all that I’ve done.”
“You’re the one who came to me looking for answers. I didn’t want to force the information upon you, but I knew this day would come—when you were ready to know the truth, though I think you’ve suspected something all along. You deserve to know who you are.”
“I knew who I was, until five minutes ago,” I hiss, my brain screaming that she’s got it all wrong. Combing my fingers through my hair, I try to rein in my tumultuous emotions.
She’s just a senile old woman. Right?
Svetlana watches me, as quiet as a tombstone.
I turn to pace the room, rage boiling over as the truth claws at my soul like fire.