49. Russ
RUSS
The kitchen in the central mansion is massive, all gleaming marble countertops and stainless steel appliances that look like they belong in a restaurant rather than a home.
Morning sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the woods, making everything feel warm despite the cold air outside.
My mother stands at the stove wearing an apron over her usual conservative dress, muttering under her breath in Russian about how modern stoves are "too complicated to trust."
"Ma, it's just a touch screen," I say from where I'm sitting at the island counter, nursing my second cup of coffee. "You press the temperature you want."
"In my day, you turned a knob and the stove heated," she says without looking at me. "Now I need a degree in engineering just to boil water."
I hide my smile behind my coffee mug. She's been complaining about the appliances since she arrived an hour ago, but I can tell she's secretly pleased by how modern everything is.
The kitchen alone is bigger than her entire house was, with custom cabinets, a walk-in pantry, and enough counter space to feed an army.
Which, considering how many people live on this estate now, isn't far from the truth.
"You'll get used to it," I tell her.
"I'm too old to get used to things," she replies, but there's no real bite in her tone. She's making blini, the thin Russian pancakes she's been making for me since I was a kid. The familiar smell fills the kitchen, making the massive space feel more like home.
I hear footsteps on the stairs and turn to see Marla descending slowly, one hand on the railing and the other resting on her rounded belly.
Her red hair is messy from sleep, falling in waves around her shoulders, and she's barefoot despite the cold floors.
When I suggested putting socks and shoes on one day, she'd told me her feet were swelling too much and socks made her feet too hot.
My mother notices her immediately and abandons the stove, crossing the kitchen with surprising speed for a woman her age. "Marla, dorogaya, you should be resting. Why are you walking around without slippers? Your feet will freeze."
"I'm fine, Ekaterina," Marla says, smiling as my mother fusses over her. "I just wanted some water."
"Water? You need more than water. Have you eaten this morning? You're eating for two now, you need proper nutrition." My mother guides her toward the island, pulling out the stool beside me. "Sit. I'll make you a plate."
Marla catches my eye and gives me a look that's half amused, half exasperated.
I grin back at her, enjoying watching my mother in full protective mode.
It's been like this for weeks now, ever since Ma found out about the pregnancy.
She treats Marla like fragile glass one moment and scolds her like a stubborn child the next.
But it's all done in the name of love, and I know Marla feels it too.
"I had toast earlier," Marla says as she settles onto the stool. Her hand finds mine on the counter, her fingers threading through mine naturally. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my chest go tight, thick with emotion.
"Toast is not breakfast," my mother declares, already piling blini onto a plate. "Toast is what you eat when you're too lazy to cook properly."
"I like toast," Marla says defensively.
"You like a lot of things that aren't good for you," my mother replies without missing a beat. She sets the plate in front of Marla, along with cream, jam, and honey. "Eat. The baby needs real food."
Marla looks at the mountain of food and then at me. I shrug, squeezing her hand. "Just eat it. Trust me, arguing with her is pointless."
"I can hear you," my mother says from the stove.
"I know, Ma."
Marla picks up her fork and takes a bite of the blini, and I watch her face transform as she tastes it. "Oh my God, this is amazing."
My mother looks pleased despite trying to hide it. "Of course it's amazing."
I watch Marla eat, noticing how comfortable she looks sitting here in the kitchen.
She's not nervous or out of place anymore.
She moves through this house like she belongs here, like she's always belonged here.
This is right. Having her here, having my mother here, building something that feels like an actual family instead of just an organization.
It's what I've wanted without realizing I wanted it.
My mother returns to the stove, flipping more blini with practiced efficiency. "I've been thinking," she says casually, too casually. "I'm ready to move in permanently."
I straighten in my seat, surprised. "Really? That's great, Ma. I'll have the guys start on the renovations for the mother-in-law building this week. We can upgrade the security system, maybe add another bathroom, whatever you want."
She turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised. "Why would I live in that little building when there's a perfectly good mansion right here?"
I blink. "What?" I'd thought she was talking about the mother-in-law house at my other estate.
"I'm not living separately," she says firmly, turning back to the stove. "I want to live here. In the main house. With everyone else."
She turns to look at me, holding her spoon like a weapon. "I want to be where my grandbaby is," she says, and the word "grandbaby" hits me harder than I expected. "I want to be close. I want to help. None of you men know the first thing about raising children."
Marla's hand tightens around mine, and when I glance at her, I see tears gathering in her eyes. It's the first time my mother has openly called the baby family, claimed it as her grandchild without hesitation. The significance isn't lost on either of us.
"Ma," I start, my voice rougher than I intended.
"Don't argue with me, Rustik," she says, using my full name the way she only does when she's serious. "I've already decided. I want the suite on the second floor, the one with the sitting room attached. It has good light in the mornings."
I'm too stunned to argue. My mother, who fought me for years about moving closer, who insisted on maintaining her independence, is now demanding to live under the same roof.
"And the nursery should be on the same floor," she continues, completely ignoring my shocked silence. "Close enough that someone can hear if the baby cries at night, but far enough that the noise doesn't wake everyone in the house. I'll need to see the room this week so I can start planning."
"The nursery is off of our room, Ma," I say. There's no way we're changing that. It wouldn't be fair to Marla. Plus, all of us want to be near the baby. "It's just a couple doors down from the room you want."
"Planning what?" Marla asks, her voice thick with emotion.
"Everything," my mother says matter-of-factly. "You'll want everything organized before the baby arrives. Trust me, once you're in labor, the last thing you'll want to worry about is whether you have enough diapers."
Marla laughs, wiping at her eyes. "I don't even know what I need yet."
"That's why I'm here," my mother says, finally abandoning the stove to sit across from us at the island. Her dark eyes are warm as she looks at Marla. "You're family now, dorogaya. That means you don't do this alone."
The word "family" hangs in the air between us, heavy with meaning. My throat feels tight watching them, watching my mother reach across the counter to squeeze Marla's free hand while Marla tries not to cry.
This is what I wanted. This exact thing. Not just the merger, not just the power and territory. This. A family that actually means something.
Footsteps on the stairs interrupt the moment. Nick appears first, already dressed in dark slacks and a black button-down, his phone pressed to his ear. His expression is irritated, the way it always is when he's dealing with business shit this early in the morning.
"I don't care what the shipment schedule says," he's saying into the phone, his voice cold and controlled. "If the containers aren't inspected by noon, heads are going to roll. Figure it out."
He ends the call and notices us in the kitchen. His expression softens slightly when he sees Marla, his green eyes moving over her like he's checking to make sure she's okay.
"Morning," he says, heading straight for the coffee maker.
"Good morning, Nikita," my mother says. "There's food if you're hungry."
"Thanks, Ekaterina." Nick pours himself coffee and leans against the counter, still looking tense. "Any word from Alex?"
"Not yet," I say. "He left around three this morning. Didn't say where he was going."
Nick's jaw tightens, but he doesn't comment. He's been disappearing at odd hours for the past week, working on the Zach situation. None of us ask for details, respecting his wishes.
The contrast between this domestic morning scene and the reality of what we actually do is jarring.
My mother making breakfast, Marla eating blini at the counter, Nick drinking coffee in his business clothes while coordinating shipments and planning God knows what else.
This is our life now. Family and violence, breakfast and bloodshed, all tangled together in ways that should feel wrong but somehow don't.
The front door opens and closes, and a moment later Alex walks into the kitchen. He looks exhausted, his brown hair disheveled and his clothes rumpled like he's been up all night. There's a tension in his shoulders that tells me whatever he was doing, it wasn't pleasant.
"Coffee," he says by way of greeting, heading straight for the pot.
"There's food," my mother offers.
"Not hungry." Alex pours coffee into a mug and leans against the counter beside Nick. His brown eyes find Marla, and something in his expression softens. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Marla says. "Your mother is trying to feed me enough for an army."
"Good," Alex says. "You need to eat more."
"See?" My mother gestures at Alex triumphantly. "Even he agrees with me."
Marla rolls her eyes but takes another bite of blini.
I watch the four of us standing in this kitchen, this strange family we've built.
My mother stands and starts clearing plates, moving around the kitchen like someone who's already claimed the space as her own.
She's humming under her breath, some old Russian song I remember from childhood.
"I'll need to see the nursery room today," she says, rinsing dishes in the sink. "And we should discuss paint colors. Nothing too bright. Babies need calm environments."
"Ma, we have time," I say. "The baby isn't due for three more months. Plus, we already painted it a nice yellow so it will be perfect no matter if it's a boy or girl."
"Three months goes faster than you think," she replies. "And there's a lot to prepare. Furniture takes weeks to arrive, and you'll need time to assemble everything."
Nick and Alex exchange a look over their coffee mugs. I can tell they're both amused by my mother's takeover of the household, though neither of them would dare say it out loud.
Marla finishes her breakfast and stands, stretching slightly. Her hand moves to her lower back, and I'm on my feet immediately, steadying her.
"I'm fine," she says, but she doesn't pull away from my touch. "Just stiff from sitting."
"You should rest more," my mother says without turning from the sink.
"I rest plenty," Marla argues.
"Not enough."
I catch Marla's eye and mouth "pointless" at her. She bites back a smile.
My mother dries her hands on a towel and turns to face us, her expression thoughtful as she studies the four of us standing around the kitchen. Nick and Alex with their coffee, me with my arm around Marla's waist, and all of us looking like we belong together.
She pours herself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter, her dark eyes moving between us with that calculating look she gets when she's thinking about something important.
"I have a question," she says casually, taking a sip of her coffee.
"What's that, Ma?" I ask.
She sets down her mug and looks directly at Marla, then at me, then at Nick and Alex. Her expression is completely neutral, but I know my mother well enough to recognize when she's about to drop a bomb.
"Which one of you plans to marry Marla first?"