Alexei
The armored sedan glides through Savannah, its reinforced frame smoothing out every bump in the road. Outside, the city blurs by in gentle colors, live oaks draped in pale green, and the early spring air warm against my skin.
I sit in the back seat with Ivy beside me. In front of us, the driver keeps his attention forward, posture rigid, and hands firm on the wheel. He doesn’t speak. His presence is part of a system that exists whether Ivy notices it or not.
I was raised in a world where hesitation gets people killed, and mistakes don’t stay contained. Risk isn’t something you manage. It’s something you eliminate.
Ivy turns toward me, one hand braced against the center console as she talks, her voice filling the entire car.
“I think Daisy likes me best,” she says, her eyes wide with certainty. “Did you see how she followed me? She didn’t follow the workers like that.”
“You were holding treats,” I reply, my tone even and my attention on her instead of anything outside the car.
“That’s not the point,” she insists immediately, her nose scrunching slightly, the way it does when she’s determined to be taken seriously. “She looked at me different.”
I study her for a moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her to fidget. Then I ask, “Different how?”
“She knew I wasn’t going to leave her.”
There’s no doubt in her voice or uncertainty, just belief.
My jaw tightens before I answer, subtle enough that she doesn’t notice. “You don’t leave anyone who depends on you.”
Her entire expression changes at that, brightening into a pleased, quietly proud look. “Exactly.”
She drops back into her seat but doesn’t relax. Her energy is too high, and her thoughts are moving faster than her body can keep up with.
“And Maggie said Daisy likes to sit by people when they’re sad,” she continues, her voice turning thoughtful. “She said some dogs just know when someone needs them.”
I don’t respond right away and don’t miss how she said Maggie’s name. Familiar already.
“She’s really nice,” Ivy adds, glancing at me again. “And pretty. But she’s not old enough to own a whole shelter.”
“That concerns you?” I ask, one brow lifting slightly.
“Yes,” she answers, completely serious. “But she’s good at it.”
I look out the window briefly, tracking the reflection of movement in the glass, then back to her. “You’ve known her less than an hour.”
“That’s enough,” she says.
For her, it is. Ivy doesn’t divide trust into portions. She gives it fully or not at all. There’s no middle ground. That’s not something I taught her. That came from her mother, Clara.
“And all the dogs like her,” Ivy continues, her hands moving as she talks, illustrating everything as if I hadn’t been standing right there beside her. “Even the scared ones. That means she’s a good person.”
Her logic is simple. It’s also rarely wrong.
“It means she knows what she’s doing,” I reply.
“That too,” Ivy agrees quickly, already moving on, her attention changing as fast as it came. “But I still like Daisy the best.”
“You met all of them, even the puppies.”
“I know,” she says, her mouth pulling down slightly, frustration threading through her voice now. “That’s what makes it hard.”
She looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers in a way she only does when trying to solve something she doesn’t like the answer to.
“I don’t want to leave any of them,” she admits.
“You can’t take all of them,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says again, her voice thinning at the edges. “But I wish I could.”
I watch her shoulders dip just a fraction and her lips pinch together as if holding the feeling in place instead of letting it spill out.
“I’ll help you decide,” I reassure her.
Her head lifts immediately, hope cutting through everything else. “Promise?”
“I don’t make promises I won’t keep.”
She studies me carefully, considering the words instead of just accepting them. Then she nods once. That’s enough for her.
“Can we go back tomorrow?” she asks, her voice lifting again, cautious but hopeful.
I expected that.
“I’ll decide before you go to bed,” I tell her.
Her shoulders rise with a quiet breath, her expression changing as she processes it. Not a yes, not a no. She understands the difference.
“Okay,” she says. “But I hope you say yes, Papa.”
“I’m aware.”
That earns me a small, genuine smile before she turns back toward the window, her reflection faint in the glass as she starts talking again, piecing the shelter back together.
I let her keep talking, her voice filling the space while my attention turns elsewhere.
Maggie Hayes didn’t react to me the way most people do. There wasn’t any hesitation, adjustment, or attempt to read me before deciding how to respond. She looked at me, took in what she needed, and then turned her attention back to Ivy as if that mattered more.
Most people don’t do that. Most don’t ignore what I am. She did.
And Ivy… I glance at my daughter again, watching the way she gave herself over to that moment naturally, stepping toward Maggie as if she already knew her. That doesn’t happen. Not with anyone. Not since her mother.
The memory comes in a rush, leaving no room to ignore it. Clara used to listen the way Ivy does, like nothing else existed when you spoke. I tighten my grip against the armrest, holding the thought in place before it goes any further, and then I shut it down.
The car turns onto the private drive, the iron gates opening as we approach, security in place before we reach them. Everything is where it should be and accounted for. That’s the only reason I allow Ivy to move through the world the way she does.
I step out first when the car stops, scanning out of habit, then turn and offer her my hand.
“Stay close.”
“I always do,” she says, placing her hand in mine.
We walk inside together, and as the door closes behind us and the outside world shuts out completely, I allow myself to feel the difference between control and peace. They’re not the same, and I don’t confuse them anymore.
Ivy’s hand slips from mine the second she spots her nanny near the staircase, her entire posture lifting as excitement carries her forward.
“Can I tell Irina about Daisy?” she asks, already moving.
“I know you will.”
Irina Volkova is positioned just off the base of the stairs, her posture straight and presence composed, not drawing attention but never going unnoticed.
Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, not a strand out of place, the style as practical as it is precise.
There’s a quiet authority in the way she holds herself, the stillness of her hands, and the calm set of her expression as she watches Ivy approach.
She’s been with us for nearly two years, long enough to understand the structure of this house without needing instruction, and to know Ivy’s routines better than anyone else.
There’s a maternal warmth in the way she looks at her, not overwhelming or indulgent, but constant and present, never wavering when it matters. Ivy trusts her without question.
Irina meets my gaze briefly as Ivy reaches her, a small, respectful nod passing between us.
Her attention returns to my daughter, her eyes growing fond as Ivy launches into her story, her voice rising as she relays every detail just as important the second time.
I catch fragments as I walk away. Daisy, the treats, how she followed her, how she knew.
I let the sound of it fade behind me as I move down the hall toward my office, the rhythm of routine easing back into place with each step. There’s structure to my life for a reason. Without it, things slip, and I don’t allow that.
I close the office door behind me, and the house fades as the quiet deepens, giving way to a stillness that belongs only to this room. Dark wood, clean lines, and glass overlook the water without exposing anything in return, every detail intentional.
I move to the bar, pour a drink of aged whiskey, and let the glass rest in my hand before taking a sip. The burn is immediate, cutting through the lingering presence of the day, sharpening my focus where it needs to be.
My attention moves to the secure line at the edge of the desk, set apart from everything else, encrypted and limited to a single purpose. It doesn’t ring, and nothing comes through it unless it’s meant for me directly.
I pick it up and dial. It connects on the second ring.
“I’m here.”
Roman’s voice comes through the line, calm and direct, with an authority that doesn’t need to be reinforced. My older brother. Pakhan of the Agapov Bratva. The man who decides outcomes before anyone else even sees the problem.
I lower myself into the chair, leaning back slightly, my fingers resting along the armrest. “I need you to look at something.”
A brief pause follows, his attention sharpening on his end. “Go on.”
“One of our Atlantic routes out of Savannah,” I say, my gaze moving to the window as I pull the details into place. “Container manifests aren’t lining up with port logs. Small discrepancies at first. Now they’re repeating.”
“You think it’s internal?” Roman questions.
“I don’t deal in coincidences,” I answer. “Someone’s moving product through our line without clearance, or something is being redirected before it hits final record.”
The silence that follows is short, as Roman considers this.
“You shut it down?” he asks.
“I’m about to,” I say, lifting the glass then setting it back down untouched. “I don’t want attention drawn to it. If it escalates, it pulls in people we don’t want looking too closely at our operations.”
“Good,” he says immediately. “Cut it clean, isolate the problem, and deal with it before anyone else has a chance to notice.”
“That’s the plan.”
There’s a faint change in the line, not static, just the sound of him moving on the other end, already aligning things on his side without saying it.
“I’ll have someone cross-check from here,” he adds. “If it’s internal, it won’t stay hidden for long.”
“I don’t intend to give it time,” I reply.
“I know.”
That’s enough said on it.