Chapter 16
LYRA
Iquickly realize that we’re headed north.
“This isn’t the way back to the office.”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“No.”
“Are you kidnapping me?” I ask with a small smile.
“If I were, you’d be blindfolded.”
He follows this up with his patented almost nonexistent smile, a micro expression that passes for emotion when it comes to Julian Volkov. I’m starting to catalogue them. His “almost” smile is warmer, less guarded, and I rarely see it.
It’s a relief to see it now. This last week of avoidance and busyness had been almost too much to take. I’ve been playing it cool, but the moment Julian stepped into the foundation offices, it hit me how painfully much I’ve been missing him.
“Seriously, where are we going?”
“A place I want to show you. Not far from here.”
Part of me wants to press a little more. Something I’m learning about Julian, however, is that he gives information on his own time. And maybe I want to be surprised.
We cross the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx.
The neighborhood facade shifts—glass and steel giving way to brick homes and bodegas with colorful awnings, the tight grid of Manhattan relaxing into something more open.
Julian navigates with ease—he never uses GPS, I’ve noticed.
And the way he drives makes it clear he’s been here many times before.
Eventually, we pull up in front of a three-story brownstone on a tree-lined block in Mott Haven.
The sign out front reads: Irina’s House—A Home for Every Child.
Below it, in smaller letters: A project of the Irina Volkov Foundation.
“Julian…”
“Come inside.”
We step out, my eyes never leaving the building. Julian guides me with his hand on the small of my back in that way I’m starting to get addicted to.
The front door opens before we reach it. A woman appears in the doorway. She’s in her fifties, with short gray hair, a latte-colored complexion, and reading glasses perched on her head. Her face lights up when she sees Julian—something I didn’t expect. I can tell she’s genuinely happy to see him.
“Mr. Volkov! The kids said they saw your black car. They’ve been pressed against the window waiting for you for the last five minutes.”
“Maria,” he says, his voice taking on a rare softness. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Julian?”
“And I told you that mi madre raised me with manners.” She turns to me. “And who is this pretty lady?”
“Lyra Thibodeaux. She runs the foundation’s event operations.”
“Ah, so she’s the one I’ve heard so much about,” she adds with a smile. “I assume she’s here for a little tour?”
Julian nods. “I wanted to show her some of the foundation’s lesser-known endeavors. Galas and balls are glitzy and essential, but this is the real work. This is why we do it.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” she says. Then she offers me her hand. “Maria Torres. I’m the director here.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say as we shake.
“Come. Let me show you around.”
Inside Irina’s House it’s clean, bright, and loud—not deafening loud—but alive loud.
Kids’ drawings line the hallways, and the smell of baked goods wafts through the air.
We walk past a common room, where a cluster of kids is sprawled across bean bags and charmingly mismatched furniture, playing games, drawing, and talking.
The moment they spot Julian, he’s ambushed.
A girl of maybe six launches herself at his legs like a little missile. A boy around eight grabs his hand. More kids materialize, and within ten seconds, Julian Volkov—CEO, Bratva don, a man capable of violence I can only imagine—is surrounded by children, all competing for his attention.
“Julian, Julian, look what I drew—”
“Can we play Zenga? You promised last time—”
“Miss Maria said that you’d bring cookies. Did you bring cookies?”
“Out in the car,” he says. “I always keep my promises.”
“I’ll get them,” Maria says with a wink. “You catch up.”
Julian eases into one of the bean bags. The sight is absurd, and it makes me giggle.
This enormous man in a tailored suit is plopped onto a beanbag chair, while a six-year-old girl sits on his lap, showing him a crayon drawing of what appears to be a big purple dinosaur eating a building.
He studies it with the same focused intensity that I’ve seen back at the office.
“That’s a very aggressive dinosaur,” he says.
“It’s not a dinosaur; it’s a super big dog.”
“Of course, it is. My mistake.”
I stand in the doorway, watching with admiration. The control and precision he usually displays are gone, stripped away and replaced by a part of him that I didn’t know existed.
He’s patient with the kids, engaged. He gets down on their level and speaks to them like they’re little adults. I watch, totally taken by this side of him.
A boy named Mateo pulls me into a game of Go Fish that quickly devolves into chaos when Lily, the purple dinosaur artist, joins in and starts making up new rules.
Julian joins in too, playing with absolute seriousness and losing spectacularly. When Maria arrives with the box of cookies, the kids go nuts.
“He comes at least once a month,” Maria tells me quietly while Julian passes out the cookies.
“Has since the house opened. Brings food, books, toys. He even fixed the boiler last winter when the contractor no-showed. A lot of these kids… they don’t have anybody. But he makes sure they have someone.”
A warmth fills me at her words.
“How long has the house been open?”
“Six years. He funded it personally before the foundation took over operations. Named it after his mother, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” She pauses. “He never lets anyone photograph him here. No press, no publicity. He does it because he wants to, not because anyone’s watching.”
Tears sting my eyes, and I quickly blink them away.
I watch Julian crouch down to tie a little girl’s shoes, his massive hands gentle on the tiny laces.
Unbidden, Alexander appears in my thoughts.
I think about how he used to use the foundation for photo ops, taking money out of the budget for yacht parties.
He couldn’t care less about any of this.
Never in a million years could I imagine him playing Go Fish with a group of kids, let alone sitting in a beanbag and helping children tie their shoes.
This is the man Sophia warned me about months ago—the one she said chewed people up and spit them out. This is the man Alexander never missed a chance to trash behind his back.
And it’s the man I’m falling hard for.
He looks up and catches me watching, that almost smile appearing once more on his lips.
The kids are pulling him into the backyard, a big, fenced-in area with a playground and sand pit.
“Lyra,” he says, extending his hand. “Come on.”
I take his hand, his fingers closing around mine, warm and certain. We step outside, and one of the girls introduces me to everyone as Julian’s girlfriend.
He doesn’t correct her.
And neither do I.