Chapter 28
Frances
Aside from Darius and Lucky, I can count on one hand the people I’ve let hug me.
But since arriving in Russia, I’ve let absolute strangers embrace me and, to my utter shock, it all feels…familiar.
And right now, I’m being hugged by who I’m almost certain is Mikhail Petrov—the Pakhan , himself.
Misha, as Aleksandr had referred to him earlier, holds me ever so tightly, his voice trembling with emotion. “I found you. After all these years, I’ve finally found you.”
I don’t know this man.
I’ve never met or seen this man a day in my life.
But to my own amazement, I find myself leaning into his warm embrace. I’m not sure why, but I feel safe—safer than I’ve felt in my entire life.
When he finally pulls back, he keeps his large hands on my forearms, his eyes studying me as if he’s seeing someone else entirely. Someone from his past. There’s pain in his expression, a crack in the ice-cold persona I would have expected from a Russian mafia boss.
And that’s when a thought runs through my mind.
Could this man be my father?
I frown when I do the math in my head. It can’t be possible. Misha is in his early thirties, if that. Too young to have an eighteen-year-old daughter. That hope crashes just as quickly as it formed.
It’s only when I feel Lucky’s protective presence bristle beside me that Misha drops his hands and shifts his gaze.
“Luciano Romano,” he says Lucky’s name like it’s a curse. His sharp cheekbones and angular jaw clench just as his ice-blue eyes narrow at my boyfriend. “At last, we meet. Your presence in my home has made my day… complicated. Your father is not pleased.”
“That makes two of us. Though I didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Lucky replies dryly.
Misha looks at me again, softer this time. “Yes. I can see that now.”
He then turns without another word and walks over to a large oak desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a stack of yellowed letters, bound in a red ribbon. The gesture alone knocks the wind out of me.
“I imagine you have many questions.”
I nod as Lucky and I take our seats again. My throat is dry. My heart pounds madly in my chest. But none of that matters, because something tells me that in the stack of letters Misha is holding is the answer to where I come from.
“I do,” I manage to reply.
Misha glances toward Aleksandr, who silently walks over to the door and locks it without needing instruction.
Lucky frowns beside me, not happy to be locked in a room with what I can only assume are the Bratva highest leaders.
“We’re safe here,” Misha assures, his voice smooth but cold. “But one can never be too cautious.”
He then sits down, placing the letters on his lap, but his gaze never leaves the medallion on my wrist. Instinctively, I start rubbing it.
“I see that’s important to you,” he says.
“No, not really,” I lie, letting go of it.
“There’s no need to lie to me. You’re among family now.”
My forehead creases. There’s that word again. Always that word.
“So I’ve been told,” I mutter. “Though I’m still unsure how we’re family.”
“It’s like I’m looking at you, Katya,” Misha murmurs under his breath, more to himself than to me. The way he says that name makes something in my chest ache.
Then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. “Maybe I should start from the beginning. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Your mother, Katya… she was my sister.”
The world shifts beneath me at how he didn’t even try to ease me into it.
“Your sister? ” I repeat, blinking rapidly.
“Yes. Our eldest. Six years older than me.”
“And a mother to us all,” Aleksandr adds quietly, his voice thick with emotion. His blue eyes, so much like Misha’s, suddenly darken with what can only be grief.
Was.
I hang on that one word.
They’re speaking about her in the past tense.
Which means…
“What…” I try to swallow. “What happened to her?”
“Evil, Kira. Evil caught up with our Katya,” Aleksandr answers with a snarl.
“Sasha,” Misha warns with a poignant look, and instantly Aleksandr goes silent, his lips pressed into a fine line.
“As I was saying,” Misha continues, clearing his throat, “Katya stepped up and raised us after our parents passed. I won’t go into the details of how it all happened, but what matters is this—she took care of us. All of us. Five younger siblings, a blind grandmother, and a house barely holding itself together. We were just kids… and she became everything we needed. She was barely more than a child herself, but she mothered us the best she could—especially Kostya. He was still just a baby when our mother died.” He pauses, the weight of the memory pulling his shoulders down. “It wasn’t always easy. There were nights we had no food. No electricity. No heat. And sometimes even running water was a luxury. Since our grandmother couldn’t work, Katya was also the breadwinner of our home. Sasha and I tried to help, but we were younger than you are now. Still, we made do… until we didn’t.” His voice falters. “Katya, unwillingly, became involved with the worst kind of man—Vasily Fedorov.” He spits the name like poison. “Vasily was Pakhan at the time. Saying no to him was a death sentence—for her, and for us. So, she endured his advances, sacrificing her body, even her soul, just to ensure our safety as well as keeping food on the table. And for a time, our small family had more than most. Until she got pregnant.”
The room stills so silently that my heartbeat feels like thunder in my ears.
“Katya couldn’t risk Vasily discovering your possible existence. If you were a boy, he’d make sure to have raised you as a soldier to join the Bratva. But if you were born a girl… he’d have discarded you—or worse. Sell you to the highest bidder. Katya couldn’t let that happen. No mother would.”
He touches the stack of letters gently.
“So, ever the clever one, my sister, your mother, faked her death. And with our help and a few close friends, she fled to America. Vasily believed she died by suicide, throwing herself off the Moskva River. Of course, we mourned her publicly… but secretly, we kept her alive in our hearts.”
He looks down at the stack of letters again, sorrow etched into every line of his face.
“Though I made her promise never to reach out to us, Katya yearned for her family. So…she wrote us letters. Always letters. About Chicago, and about you. Every last letter… was about you, Kira.”
A lump forms in my throat as I now start to understand why everyone in this house has called me by that name.
“Little did we know that her letters to share in her joy with us, would bring us so much pain. Unbeknownst to us at the time, Vasily must have found one of those letters and tracked her down. But before he could reach you… she hid you somewhere he’d never think to look.”
“A Catholic church,” Lucky says beside me.
“Yes. To be fair, Vasily wasn’t the only one who couldn’t find you. I never thought she’d leave you with strangers either. I always assumed she had made friendships in America and handed you off to them. I searched and searched… but I never found you. Not until now. Not until your boyfriend walked into my club and showed Kirill a picture of that bracelet.”
I turn to Lucky. His head is bowed, his jaw tense.
“That bracelet,” Misha continues, “is the only family heirloom we ever kept. Even when we had nothing to eat, we never sold it. It was passed down through generations, going back as far as the ear of Catherine the Great herself. Our grandmother made Katya take it to America, saying that one day she, her baby, and the bracelet would come back, to their rightful home.”
“But that didn’t happen,” I say, already dreading his answer.
“No,” Misha says quietly. “Katya did return to Russia. But not as we had hoped.”
“What happened to her?” My voice breaks. “What happened to my mother?”
“I’m not sure—” Aleksandr begins, only to be cut off by the crack of Misha’s fist slamming into the coffee table beside him.
“She deserves to know!” he roars.
I should be afraid.
The force behind his voice is thunderous, echoing through the ornate room.
But I’m not. I see it—feel it. His fury is steeped in grief. Grief so deep it rattles through his bones.
“My father found her, didn’t he?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“That man was not your father,” Misha snarls, his lips curled with disgust. “He was a dog. A flea-ridden animal that I personally made sure to neuter and put down.” He takes a few shaky breaths, then nods, voice more controlled. “But yes. Vasily found our Katya.”
“What…what did he…do to her?” I stammer.
“The same thing I did to him,” Misha growls, eyes like winter steel. “I tortured him. Maimed him. Then hung his carcass on a lamppost in front of the Basil’s Cathedral for the whole world to see.”
The image strikes me like lightning, even if my mind is unwilling to conjure it. The horror of my mother’s body… displayed like that. My chest tightens.
“Can I…” I whisper, “Can I see her? A picture, maybe?”
Misha’s face softens at the request. Without a word, he looks at Aleksandr, who nods grimly. He walks over to the desk and picks up a small, timeworn photo frame from it. Carefully, he brings it to me and places it in my hands.
It’s a family portrait.
Worn at the edges, but vibrant with life.
A teenage Misha—sixteen, maybe—stands with his arm slung around Sasha, who’s clearly about fourteen. Sasha holds a toddler in his arms, a round-faced boy with wide eyes that must be Kostya. Kneeling in front of them is Kirill, no older than six maybe, his thin frame held upright by an elderly woman’s frail hands resting on his shoulders. Her eyes are clouded, but her smile is soft.
But it’s the woman in the center who steals my very breath away.
She looks just like me.
Wild blonde hair dancing in the wind, cheeks pink from the cold. Her blue eyes shine with joy and fierce devotion. She looks like she could take on the world.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“As are you, plemyánnitsa, ” Misha says affectionately, his voice trembling, just a little. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to bring you home. I never lost hope. Not for one second.”
And I believe him.
I believe that he would have done just about anything for his sister, even if that meant searching Chicago top to bottom until he found me.
He reaches forward and gently hands me the stack of letters, still bound in red ribbon.
“Katya loved you more than life. You were her world, Kira. You’ve always been loved—always.”
“Kira,” I repeat the name, running my fingers over the ribbon. A tear slips down my cheek. “That’s the name she gave me?”
He nods. “Though I imagine she’d be just as proud to call you Frances. She’d be proud of both names. Proud of who you’ve become.”
More tears follow. This time, I can’t stop them. Misha’s face begins to blur through the flood.
“Can… I have a minute?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Alone… to read her letters?”
“Of course,” Misha says, rising to his feet and then glances at his brother. “Take young Romano to see his sister. Give Kir—Frances—some privacy.”
“I can stay,” Lucky offers quietly, his eyes glued to mine. He doesn’t want to leave me.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “Go check on Stella. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” he asks, doubt and love tangled in his voice.
I nod. “I’m sure.”
He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek—warm, lingering—then steps away. Aleksandr opens the door and gestures for him to follow. They both leave without another word.
Misha hesitates for a second though. His eyes lock with mine for a long moment, the weight of family, history, and mourning passing silently between us.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, offering me a mournful smile, and then leaves.
Once I’m alone, my fingers tremble as I loosen the ribbon. The bundle falls open, revealing neat handwritten letters in English.
The first letter dates almost eighteen years ago to the day.
With shaking hands, I begin to read.
My dearest Misha,
I know you warned me to keep my distance, but I just had to reach out to tell you that I’m safe. I’m writing this in English in case you-know-who intercepts it. We both know his men aren’t exactly scholars. I doubt a single one of them can read Russian much less English.
How are our brothers, Misha?
How is our grandmother?
My heart aches for home.
Thankfully, my little bunny is keeping me company. She’s so active already, so eager to meet the world. I can’t wait to see her face. To kiss her goodnight.
You were right—motherhood changes everything.
I always doted on you and the boys, but this … this love is different. Deeper.
I never imagined this kind of devotion could exist.
I wish you could meet her when she’s born. I wish I could take her home.
Maybe one day our paths will cross again, sweet brother, and I can introduce you to my daughter.
With all my love,
Katya
I wipe my tears away as I pick up the next letter and open it.
Dearest Misha,
Kira came into the world kicking and screaming two days ago. She’s a fighter. A true Petrov.
Oh, Misha—she’s beautiful. So beautiful. My heart is overflowing.
But the joy is bittersweet, because I don’t have you, Sasha, Kirill, or little Kostya here to share it with.
I miss you all terribly.
Kira … Kira is my whole world now. I never imagined loving anyone this much. I wish she could grow up surrounded by her uncles, with laughter in her ears and safety in her heart.
Instead, it’s just me. And I feel like I’ve robbed her of a true family.
Maybe one day we’ll be together again. Maybe she’ll know all of you and be wrapped in the love she was born into.
She’s brought me hope, Misha. Hold onto it with me.
Always,
Katya
My breathing comes out ragged, the tears blurring my vision in such a way that it takes me a minute before I venture to the next letter.
Dear Misha,
Kira smiled at me today. A real smile—not gas, not sleep—but a warm, true smile that stopped time itself.
She’s only two months old, so small, but her eyes … they see everything.
She’s too young to know anything, and yet I swear she understands too much.
I haven’t slept a full night since her birth, and not just because she cries.
I lie awake with fear curled around me, preventing sleep to ever take me.
What if he finds us, Misha? What if I was wrong to come here?
But when I look at her, all of it quiets. Her breath against my skin is my anchor.
I dream of the day I’ll take her home. To you. To our family. Maybe she’ll learn our lullabies. Maybe she’ll laugh and dance in the snow like we did when we were children.
Until then, we move forward. One quiet day at a time.
Yours, always,
Katya
Two months. She left me at St. Mary’s Cathedral the very next month.
That means she only had one more month of happiness.
One more month to love me.
To be my mother.
Misha,
I think they followed me today.
I was at the supermarket getting diapers and I saw a man near the bread aisle. But he didn’t shop. He didn’t blink. He just watched me. And when I left … he was still there.
I didn’t go home.
I walked the city for hours, holding Kira against me, praying she wouldn’t stir.
We’re staying in a small room near the hospital now. It’s not much, but it’s hidden. Quiet.
I sleep with my coat and shoes on, just in case we need to run.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this. But I will. Because I must.
Kira coos when I hum Babushka’s lullaby.
Do you remember it? Maybe one day you’ll sing it to her. If I can’t.
Promise me, if anything happens to me, you’ll find her.
She wears the bracelet Babushka gave me every night for protection.
It’s the only piece of home I could give her.
Please, protect her, Misha, if I fail.
With all my love,
Katya
When I see that there is only one letter left, my heart breaks. But even as I feel all this pain, I need her words to hold me up, to keep me from shattering completely.
Misha,
He’s found me.
I feel his eyes even when I’m alone.
This isn’t paranoia. This is real.
I need to protect Kira. She can’t be touched by his evil. I would rather die than let that happen.
I will find a way. I’ll keep her safe.
No matter the cost.
Be safe. Live for both of us.
Your beloved sister,
Katya
Tears run freely down my cheeks as I read the last letter. My hands tremble as I press the pages to my chest, trying to breathe in the scent of the faded paper, as if it might bring me closer to her.
She sacrificed everything.
She didn’t abandon me. She saved me.
I turn my head over my shoulder when I hear the door creak open.
“Frankie?” Lucky’s voice is soft but tight with worry.
“She loved me, Lucky. She really loved me. She didn’t leave me. She saved me.”
In an instant, he crosses the room and pulls me into his arms. I collapse into him, sobbing into his shirt.
“Of course she loved you,” he whispers, lips close to my ear. “How could she not?”
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms and surrounded by the words of a mother I barely knew but now understand, something in me finally breaks free.
The pain. The loss. The longing.
All of it spills out, softened only by the knowledge that I was never unwanted. Never abandoned.
I was loved.
I was always loved.