Chapter 2 #3
Because you're worth the patience. Because when you trust me enough to call me that name, it feels like the whole world stops spinning. Because I think about you constantly and I don't even know your face and somehow that doesn't matter.
I didn't type any of that.
Lis: Because you deserve someone who waits for you. No pressure. No timeline. Just... when you're ready, I'll be here.
Ptichka: What if I'm never ready?
The question hit harder than it should have.
Lis: Then I'll still be here. Being yours isn't conditional on anything, Ptichka. It just is.
Another pause.
Then:
Ptichka: You're going to make me cry. I just woke up and you're already making me cry.
Lis: Good tears or bad tears?
Ptichka: Good, I think. I'm not used to... this. To someone not getting frustrated with me.
I thought about all the ways the world had failed her. All the people who'd called her too much, too intense, too rigid. All the rejections she carried like stones in her pockets, weighing her down with evidence that she was fundamentally unlovable.
She was wrong. She was so completely, devastatingly wrong.
Lis: Your brain works differently. That's not a flaw. It's just different. And the things you call "too much"—your intensity, your attention to detail, your need for clarity—those are the things that make you extraordinary.
Ptichka: You can't know that. You've never even met me.
Lis: I know what matters.
The conversation shifted after that, settling into our familiar rhythms. She told me about a project at work—something about provenance documentation and a painting that wasn't quite right.
I told her I'd had a long night with logistics issues.
Neither of us mentioned the word "Daddy" again, but it hummed underneath everything, a new frequency in our connection.
When she finally logged off to start her day, I sat in the grey morning light of my apartment and tried to remember the last time I'd felt this completely unmoored.
The intelligence work waited. Anton Belyaev waited. My brothers waited.
But for a long moment, I just sat there, reading back through our conversation, lingering on two words she'd written:
being yours
She was. Whether she fully understood it yet or not, whether we ever met face to face or remained anonymous voices in each other's darkness—she was mine.
And I was absolutely, irrevocably hers.
M y brother Nikolai had always been meticulous about security, but since Sophie had come into his life, he'd become almost obsessive.
New encryption on the communications systems. Additional sweeps for surveillance devices.
A dedicated room in the basement of the compound where no signal could enter or escape, where we could discuss family business without fear of interception.
I stood at the head of the table with my files spread before me, feeling the weight of Nikolai's attention like a physical pressure.
Konstantin sat to his left, chair pushed back, boots crossed at the ankle in a deliberate display of casualness that fooled no one.
Both of them were waiting for me to speak.
"Anton is coming back," I said. "And he's not coming alone."
I walked them through it systematically. The transactions I'd traced. The shell companies layered between Moscow money and legitimate purchases. The banks in Cyprus that only serviced one type of client. The gallery in Geneva with its convenient supply of "rediscovered" Russian masterpieces.
Nikolai's expression didn't change—it never did—but I could see the calculations running behind his grey eyes. He was already three moves ahead, considering contingencies, weighing options.
Konstantin was less subtle. "Moscow money," he repeated, and cracked his knuckles. "So we're not just dealing with Anton and his fucking butcher brigade anymore. We're dealing with whoever's backing him."
"Kremlin-adjacent," I confirmed. "The kind of resources that can fund a real operation, not just a desperate play."
"How long until he's operational?"
"Hard to say. The money's been moving for about three weeks that I can track. If he's building infrastructure—recruiting soldiers, establishing supply lines, finding territory—he'll need another month minimum. Maybe two."
Nikolai finally spoke. "What do you recommend?"
This was the part I'd been building toward.
"We need someone inside the art network," I said.
"Someone who can verify what's legitimate and what's pipeline.
Anton's using the authentication system as cover—if the paintings check out, the money looks clean.
We need to know which galleries he's working with, which authenticators are compromised, which purchases are real and which are wash transactions. "
Konstantin raised an eyebrow. "You have someone in mind?"
"I have an authenticator I've been working with. Independent, Brooklyn-based, impeccable reputation. She's been helping me verify our own collection." I paused. "I can bring her in. But I'll need to come clean about who I am."
The "Victor Harmon" alias had served its purpose.
When I'd started building our family's legitimate art holdings two years ago, I'd needed an identity that wouldn't connect back to the Besharov name—something clean, something anonymous, something that would let me move in gallery circles without attracting the wrong kind of attention.
Auralia Hart had been my authenticator for the past eight months. Meticulous. Thorough. The kind of expert who noticed everything and said only what was necessary. She'd authenticated three significant purchases for me, always through encrypted email, always paid in clean wire transfers.
She had no idea who I really was.
"Do it," Nikolai said. "But be careful. We don't need more exposure than necessary."
The meeting continued for another forty minutes—contingencies, timelines, the logistics of preparing for war while pretending to maintain peace. By the time we finished, my files were organized and my brothers had their assignments.
As I gathered my papers, Konstantin threw an arm around my shoulders. The weight of him was familiar, comforting in its own way. My older brother had been physically affectionate since we were children, even when he was breaking bones for the family business.
"So, baby brother," he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "When are you going to bring someone to family dinner? Nikolai has Sophie, I have Maya, and you have . . . what? Your encryption software?"
I shrugged him off with practiced ease. "I'm selective. Plus, the software is a cheap date."
"You're a hermit," Nikolai said, but there was fondness in it. He was watching me with that expression he got sometimes—the one that said he saw more than I wanted him to. "A hermit who paints pictures of buildings instead of talking to women."
"The buildings don't argue back."
Konstantin laughed. "Neither would a woman, if you actually talked to one."
I didn't mention the woman I talked to every night. The one who called me Daddy and made my whole chest ache with wanting. Some things were too fragile for my brothers' teasing.
Later, alone in my apartment, I reviewed the file on the authenticator I was meeting tomorrow.
Auralia Hart. Independent art authentication and provenance research.
Ten years in the field, a reputation for near-supernatural expertise in detecting forgeries.
Her client list was confidential, but the industry gossip painted a picture: if you wanted the truth about a painting, Auralia Hart would find it, no matter how carefully it had been buried.
She'd been helpful to "Victor Harmon." Now I needed her to help me track Anton Belyaev.
The photograph in my file was a professional headshot—dark hair, intelligent eyes, an expression that gave nothing away.
I studied it for longer than I should have, looking for .
. . what? A connection I hadn't earned? A sign that she was the kind of person who could handle the truth about who I was?
She was useful. That's what mattered.
I composed a message requesting a meeting. Tomorrow afternoon, if she was available. I had questions about provenance that couldn't be addressed through email. The usual anonymous professional tone I'd cultivated for two years.
Then I closed the file and opened Discord.
The green dot wasn't there yet—too early, she was still working, on whatever it was she did. But it would appear. It always appeared.
I counted the hours until evening, when the woman I wanted would come online, and I could stop pretending to be anyone but hers.