8. Lev
LEV
The house smells like coffee and something burning. I come down the stairs and find Maxim at the stove, waving a dish towel at the smoke detector while Kostya stands against the counter with his arms crossed, looking like a man watching someone else's kitchen burn.
"What the hell are you making?"
"Eggs." Maxim flips the pan with more optimism than skill. "I thought they'd be easy."
"They are easy," Kostya says. "Unless you're an idiot."
"Then why aren't you helping?"
"I'm supervising."
Wren sits at the table in one of my shirts in the closet—black, sleeves rolled three times, the hem hitting her mid-thigh—her hair loose and wavy down her back.
She has a mug of coffee in both hands and she's watching the two of them like it's live theater.
When she sees me she grins, bright and easy.
"Morning."
I cross to her, press a kiss to the top of her head, breathe in the scent of her shampoo and the faint trace of my cologne still clinging to the shirt. "Morning."
"Lev, tell him he's burning them."
"You're burning them."
"They're crispy." Maxim slides the pan off the heat and dumps what looks like rubber onto a plate. "Crispy is a style."
"Crispy is what happens when you don't pay attention," Kostya says, then nudges the good mug—the one without the chip—toward Wren without looking at her.
She takes it, trades it for her old one, doesn't say thank you because she doesn't need to.
We all do this now. Small adjustments to keep her comfortable, fed, warm.
I've caught myself checking the thermostat three times in the last week.
Maxim sets the plate in front of her with a flourish. "For you, solnyshko."
She picks up a fork, pokes at the eggs, then looks up at him with her best attempt at a serious face. "These look like something that died on the stove."
"You haven't even tried them."
"I don't have to. I can see their little egg souls leaving their bodies."
Kostya snorts into his coffee. I lean against the counter next to him and watch her cut a piece, taste it, then make a face that could charitably be called diplomatic.
"It's... crunchy."
"Texture," Maxim says.
"It's supposed to be soft."
"New recipe."
She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded, and something in my chest loosens.
I didn't know how tense I was until just now, standing here in the kitchen with the three of them, the smell of burnt eggs and fresh coffee, her bare legs swinging under the table while she tries not to hurt Maxim's feelings. No staff. No guards inside. Just us.
Kostya catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. I don't look away.
"What?"
"Nothing." He takes a drink. "You look relaxed."
"I'm not relaxed."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
Wren glances over, studies my face, then grins. "You're definitely smiling."
I'm not. Or I wasn't. Now I might be. The chair fits.
My brothers are mine. She's ours. Today the organization sees the new pakhan, and tonight we come home to this—her in my shirt, Maxim's terrible cooking, Kostya's dry commentary from the sidelines.
It's supposed to be a good day. I let it be one.
"Eat your eggs."
She takes another bite, winces. "Can I have cereal instead?"
"Yes."
Maxim throws the towel at her. She catches it, laughing, then gets up and goes to the cabinet.
The shirt rides up when she reaches for the top shelf and I see the curve of her ass, the faint bruise on her inner thigh from yesterday.
Kostya sees it too. His jaw tightens. I know what he's thinking because I'm thinking it too—how easy it would be to pull her back to the table, spread her out, make her forget about cereal entirely.
Not now. We have work.
She pours cereal into a bowl, adds milk, comes back to the table. Maxim steals a bite off her spoon and she swats his hand.
"Get your own."
"Yours tastes better."
"It's literally the same cereal."
"Yours has better energy."
Kostya shakes his head. "You're embarrassing."
"You're jealous."
"I'm drinking coffee and staying out of it."
Wren eats, swinging her legs again, and I watch the easy rhythm of the three of them. Maxim teasing, Kostya grumbling, her holding her own and giving it back. She's not the scared girl from the first night anymore. She's comfortable. Adored. At the center of us, and she knows it.
We finish breakfast. She rinses her bowl, sets it in the sink, then turns and leans back against the counter. "What time do we leave?"
"Thirty minutes."
"I should change."
"Probably."
She doesn't move. Just stands there in my shirt, bare legs, hair loose, looking at the three of us like she's committing it to memory. I know the feeling. This moment—this ordinary, perfect moment—feels like something I should hold onto. Store it somewhere safe for the days that aren't like this.
"What?" she says.
"Nothing. Go get dressed."
She pushes off the counter, walks past Maxim and kisses his shoulder where the shirt pulls tight, then stops next to Kostya and waits until he looks down at her.
He does, and she smiles—small, private, just for him.
He doesn't smile back but his expression softens, the hard line of his mouth easing just enough that I know he's gone for her.
Then she comes to me. I catch her waist, pull her in, press my forehead to hers.
"You good?" I ask.
"I'm good."
"Nervous?"
"A little. You?"
"No."
She laughs against my mouth. "Liar."
Maybe. Today the organization sees the new pakhan.
Today they see what's left of the Volkov line and decide whether it's strong enough to follow.
I should be calculating variables, running scenarios, mapping every possible threat.
Instead I'm standing here with her in my arms, and the only thing I'm sure of is this: whatever happens today, we come home to this. To her.
I kiss her once, slow and possessive, then let her go. She heads upstairs. I watch until she's gone, then turn and find both my brothers staring at me.
"What?"
Kostya shakes his head. "You've got it bad."
"We all do," Maxim says.
He's not wrong.
The two SUVs idle in the driveway, engines low and steady, exhaust curling in the cold air.
Men move with quiet efficiency—checking weapons, scanning the tree line, the kind of readiness that looks like boredom until it isn't. I've done this a hundred times.
Load up, roll out, handle business, come home. Routine.
Wren comes down the steps in dark jeans and a sweater, still the oversized ones from the closet, her hair pulled back, and slides into the SUV next to me. Kostya takes the front passenger seat. Maxim climbs into the second vehicle with the rest of the men. Doors close. Engines rev.
Then she pats her pockets, frowns, twists in her seat to look back at the house.
"I forgot my phone."
I glance at her. "It's dead anyway."
"I know, but—" She makes a face, half sheepish, half stubborn. "I want it. One second."
Kostya turns around, eyebrow raised. "You want your dead phone."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I just do."
I could tell her no. Could tell her we're on a schedule, that she doesn't need a dead phone, that we're leaving now. But whatever she wants, she gets. All three of us learned that the first day.
"Go."
She lights up, leans over and kisses my jaw. "Thank you. I'll be fast."
She's out before I can say anything else, door swinging wide, sneakers hitting gravel.
I track her movement automatically—the bounce of her ponytail, the way she takes the porch steps two at a time like a kid rushing home from school, all that energy packed into someone so small.
The door swings shut behind her with a soft thud that carries in the still air.
My chest does something I don't have time to examine.
Kostya settles back in his seat with a grunt, leather creaking under his weight. "She's going to lose that phone in a week."
"Probably." I keep my eyes on the house. I can see her shadow moving past the window—quick, efficient. She said she'd be fast.
"And you're going to buy her a new one."
"Yes."
He shakes his head, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind he thinks nobody notices. We all are. Smiling. Like idiots. Like men who've forgotten what we do for a living.
The engines idle, a low rumble that vibrates up through the floorboards. A bird calls from somewhere in the pines—sharp, clear, the kind of sound that cuts through silence. One of the men in the second vehicle checks his watch, shifts his weight, bored. Normal. Routine.
A good day.
I can still feel where her lips brushed my jaw. Warm. Quick. Gone.
Her foot hits the porch as she heads back to us.
The world comes apart.
Gunfire rips through the SUVs—short, controlled bursts that crack the air like a whip, professional, precise, aimed at the vehicles like everyone's still inside.
Glass explodes, shards glittering as they spray across gravel.
Metal screams—the high, tortured shriek of steel under assault.
Men shout, voices sharp with adrenaline and alarm.
I'm out before conscious thought catches up, low and fast, weapon up and tracking, reading angles and cover like a language I learned before words.
Two shooters in the trees to the left—muzzle flash giving them away in the shadows.
One on the far side of the drive, using the gate post for cover.
More I can't see yet, but I feel them, the weight of eyes and aim pressing against my awareness like hands.