42. Chapter 42
Addy
If someone had told me a few months ago I’d end up living in a heavily guarded house overlooking the ocean, sharing meals with men who casually carried guns, and discussing shipping schedules over muffins, I probably would have thought I’d made some terrible life choices.
And yet here I was.
The delicious smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the kitchen as the sunlight poured in through the tall windows and turning the counters into long rivers of gold.
Outside, the ocean lapped lazily against the distant docks, the air thick with salt, heat, and the kind of quiet only existing before the day starts demanding things of people.
I was sitting cross-legged on one of the kitchen stools with a notebook open in front of me and a half-eaten pastry balanced precariously in my hand, scribbling down notes.
Across the island, Danil was watching me as though he were witnessing advanced mathematics.
“You’re writing again.” He narrowed his eyes.
“It’s a list.”
“You always say that.”
“That’s because it is indeed a list,” I insisted.
Misha leaned over my shoulder, trying to peek at the notebook. “Why is there a diagram?”
“It’s not a diagram,” I snapped, closing the notebook.
“It looks like a diagram.”
“It’s a flow chart, if you must know.”
Danil squinted, while Misha looked deeply suspicious.
“You’re planning something.”
“I’m always planning something,” I said cheerfully.
This seemed to be the wrong answer, as both of them looked alarmed.
Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, guys.
Behind them, Sasha was leaning against the doorway with his arms folded, watching the entire scene unfold with a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Danil gestured toward the pastry tray. “You made extra today.”
“I always make extra.”
“Yes,” he said carefully, “but today you made a lot extra.”
“That’s because Kyrill eats like a rabid raccoon.”
As if summoned by insult alone, Kyrill appeared in the doorway.
“I know I did not hear you calling me a raccoon.”
I shot him a mischievous smile. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Danil immediately handed him a pastry. “She made extra.”
“That eases the sting of insult slightly.” Kyrill took a bite and closed his eyes briefly. “So good.”
“Thank you,” I chirped.
Sasha finally pushed off the doorframe and walked into the kitchen, moving with an effortless, predatory confidence capable of making the entire room shift slightly around him.
This weird, chaotic, domestic circus was still so strange to me, sometimes I felt like I might wake up and realize it was all just a dream.
In principle, these men should have terrified me, now stopped by my kitchen every morning, argued with me about frosting ratios, and asked me for life advice. Yesterday, Danil wanted to know whether he should call a girl back after three or two days.
Somehow, I had accidentally become the emotional support system for a group of extremely intimidating Russian criminals.
Life was so fucking weird.
My phone buzzed against the counter prompting me to glance down at the screen — and freeze. The name flashing on the screen hit me like someone quietly opening a door I had convinced myself would stay closed forever.
Mom.
For a second, I just stared at it, then Kyrill nudged me.
“You going to answer that?”
“Yes,” I said automatically, but my voice came out smaller than I’d expected.
Sasha noticed the change immediately. His expression shifted — subtle, but unmistakable.
Concern furrowed his brows. I slid off the stool and walked toward the open terrace doors, stepping outside where the breeze carried the smell of the ocean and the faint sound of waves breaking on the rocks.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
There was a pause, and then my mother’s voice came through the line.
“Well,” she said, brisk and slightly annoyed, “I suppose if I wanted to speak to my daughter I had to call her myself.”
The words landed as they always had: a passive-aggressive remark intended to evoke the familiar stab of guilt.
But instead of feeling guilty, I just felt frustrated. For years, I had been the one to call. Texting. I was trying to maintain a connection with someone who always made me feel like I was pushing a door shut from the other side.
And suddenly I was tired in an entirely unexpected way.
“Hi, Mom,” I sighed.
“You disappeared. No calls. No updates. Do you just not care anymore, Adelaide?”
I stared out at the ocean for a moment and inhaled.
“I noticed something recently,” I said quietly.
There was a pause before she answered. “What would that be?”
“I was always the one reaching out.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“I just called you,” she said defensively.
“Yes,” I agreed. “You did. For probably the first time in years. Not because you wanted to, but because you felt like you had to.”
“Adelaide—”
“I spent a long time feeling like you didn’t actually want me around,” I continued, the words coming more steadily now. “Like every conversation we had was something you were tolerating instead of enjoying.”
“That’s not fair.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Maybe not. But it’s how it felt.”
Through the open doors behind me, I could see Sasha in the kitchen, pretending not to watch me. He was terrible at it.
“And I think,” I continued slowly, “part of the reason things got like this is that I remind you of Dad.”
This time, the silence was heavier but I refused to be the one to break it. I wanted to hear her say it, no matter how much it might hurt.
“You have his personality.”
I did, but what was wrong with that?
“I know.”
“You’re impulsive.”
“I know.”
“You’re … a lot.”
Ouch.
I laughed softly, but there was no joy or amusement behind it. “That one I definitely know. Not like you’d ever let me forget it.”
“But it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you,” she said indignantly.
My chest tightened slightly. “I believe that’s what you thought.”
I did. And yet, it didn’t erase the years of feeling like I was too loud, too intense and too much of an inconvenience for a warm welcome.
“I was lonely, Mom,” I admitted quietly. “For a long time.”
The words hung heavily between us.
“I felt like no one was really … in my corner.”
“I think your dad always knew how to handle you, and I … I didn’t. When he was gone, I wasn’t sure what to do. But I should’ve done better, Adelaide. I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded strained. “I didn’t realize you felt this way.”
I swallowed hard. “Well … now you do.”
“So what are you saying?” she asked after another long stretch of silence.
“I’m saying I’m disappointed and hurt by the way you’ve been treating me.” I hesitated. “But I might be willing to work on our relationship.”
Behind me, I could see Sasha leaning casually against the doorframe and listening intently.
“But it can’t just be me trying,” I continued. “If we’re going to fix things, you have to meet me halfway.”
The warm, soft breeze swept across the terrace.
Finally she said quietly, “I can try.”
It wasn’t what I’d hoped or wanted to hear, but at least it was honest.
“I’d like that.”
Then she cleared her throat. “So … Where are you, exactly? Still in Florida?”
I glanced back at Sasha, who raised an eyebrow.
I smiled softly. “I met someone.”
The corner of Sasha’s mouth curled up immediately.
“And I might have moved to Puerto Rico.”
He folded his muscular arms, clearly enjoying this heavily edited version of events.
“And you didn’t think to mention that earlier?” my mother said sharply.
“It happened quickly.” I raised my brows. “And it’s not like you were asking.”
“Who is he?”
I grinned and shot Sasha a heated look as I tried to describe him in a way encompassing everything he was.
“He’s … intense.”
Sasha smirked.
“But he’s good to me,” I added.
This much was true, at least.
“And you’re staying there?”
“Yes,” I replied, looking out at the ocean again.
“I think … I think this is where I’m supposed to be.”
There was another long pause, followed by a sigh.
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to come and visit.”
I blinked. “That would be nice.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. And call me next—” She caught herself. “I will call you next week.”
“Sounds good. Bye, Mom.”
“Take care, Adelaide.”
The line clicked off. I stood there for a moment, staring at the phone until Sasha walked out onto the terrace.
“You really gave her a shortened version. Cut out all the good parts.”
I shrugged.
“It’s the PG version.”
He raised a brow. “It’s also the least accurate version.”
“I left out the kidnapping. I felt like that was probably the right decision.”
He studied my face carefully. “You’re alright?”
I considered this as I replayed the conversation in my mind. The strange, fragile possibility of fixing something long thought beyond repair.
“Yeah,” I finally said with a nod.
Then I looked back at the villa, where Misha and Danil were arguing over the last muffin.
“I never imagined this would be my life,” I added.
“I know.” His tattooed arm slid around my waist, grounding and warm. “But it’s not bad, is it?”
I met his piercing gaze and smiled softly. “No. Not bad at all.”
Maybe it was crazy; maybe I was crazy. But I was just happy to have finally found a place where people stayed.