The scent of seared meat, roasted garlic, and rosemary drifted from the kitchen into the dining area, grounding Elara in a moment that, despite everything, felt oddly domestic. She followed Natalya to the long dining table where Nikolai was already setting out plates, his usual scowl softened into something almost… human. He caught Elara's eye briefly—no smirk, no glint of triumph—just a quiet acknowledgment of her presence.
Natalya slid into one of the plush dining chairs with a theatrical sigh and eyed the spread before her: grilled steak, rosemary potatoes, sautéed green beans, and a fresh garden salad drizzled with vinaigrette. She let out an exaggerated hum and said, "Well, at least the boy got something from me—he can cook. Thank God. I was beginning to worry I'd done nothing right."
Nikolai snorted but didn't respond. Instead, he walked over to the wine cabinet, poured three glasses of red, and placed one gently in front of Elara, his fingers brushing the table instead of her skin. She noticed the restraint. And it made her chest tighten.
As they began to eat, conversation flowed easily between mother and son. Natalya teased him relentlessly about his brooding nature, his refusal to smile in photos, and his stubborn rejection of therapy.
"You do know therapy exists, right?" she asked him, chewing thoughtfully on a green bean. "It's not just for poets and people who cry at weddings."
"Not interested," Nikolai replied dryly, slicing his steak with precision.
"Of course you're not." She took a sip of wine. "Because that would involve feelings. And God forbid the Volkov men feel things like normal people."
Elara didn't say much. She ate quietly, her fork scraping softly against the ceramic plate, eyes flicking between mother and son. There was a rhythm between them, a comfortable, jagged love woven through sarcasm and well-aimed jabs. It reminded her of the way old soldiers might tease each other after surviving a war.
Just as she lifted her wine to her lips, the front door swung open.
The atmosphere shifted.
There was a presence. Heavy. Commanding.
And then he walked in.
Dimitri Volkov.
Even without knowing him, Elara knew who he was. You didn't mistake a man like that. He moved like the air bent around him—tall, broad-shouldered, in a dark tailored suit that whispered of old power and brutal elegance. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his eyes the same piercing steel-blue as Nikolai's. Cold. Calculating. And yet, when they landed on Natalya, something softened ever so slightly.
Natalya rolled her eyes immediately, pushing her empty wine glass toward Nikolai for a refill. "You could have texted me, you know," she said, "told me to come down to the parking lot like a civilized husband."
Dimitri arched an eyebrow, unbothered. "And what if you vanished?"
Natalya scoffed, tipping back the last of her vodka like a shot. "Vanished? Please. Even if I was a magician, I couldn't disappear. You have a thousand eyes and ears in every corner of this city. I'd sneeze and a man in a black van would pop out of a bush with tissues."
Nikolai chuckled under his breath. "She's not wrong."
Dimitri shrugged, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You say it like it's a bad thing."
Elara tried to make herself smaller in her chair. Being in the same room with both Nikolai and his father felt like sitting between two mountains—immovable and shadowed. Dimitri's eyes slid to her next, his expression unreadable.
"So," he said slowly, voice rich and low, "this is the woman I've heard so much about."
Elara stood instinctively, unsure if it was out of respect or sheer survival instinct. "Yes, sir."
"Sir?" Natalya rolled her eyes. "She's not a soldier. Stop scaring her already."
Dimitri chuckled, deep and warm. "Force of habit."
He approached the table and offered Elara a hand. His grip was firm, his palm calloused, his cologne a blend of musk, smoke, and something cold and metallic. He didn't smile, but there was something resembling approval in his eyes.
"Nice to meet you, Elara," he said.
"You too," she replied, nerves tight in her throat.
Dimitri took the seat at the head of the table, opposite his wife. Nikolai moved naturally to his side, Elara between them like the eye of a storm pretending to be peaceful. She noticed how Natalya's fingers brushed against Dimitri's arm as he sat, the way his hand came to rest briefly on hers. A silent language only they seemed fluent in.
Natalya leaned toward Elara once again. "Don't let him fool you. This one," she pointed at Dimitri with her fork, "once threatened to shoot a diamond broker in the foot because he said my engagement ring was too big to be tasteful."
"I didn't threaten," Dimitri said mildly. "I suggested."
Natalya looked at Elara and deadpanned, "He also once told me I had no right to die before him because he wouldn't know what to do with himself. And I believed him. So now I stay alive out of spite."
Elara laughed—actually laughed—and it surprised even her. For a moment, the walls inside her lowered just enough to feel the warmth of this strange, dangerous family.
Dinner went on like that. The kind of chaos that only exists between people who have survived each other. Jokes layered over secrets. Laughter punctuating old wounds. And in the middle of it all, Elara sat, trying to find her place.
She wasn't ready to forgive Nikolai.
She wasn't ready to love him again.
But as she looked around that table—the vodka-wielding matriarch, the iron-fisted patriarch, and the man whose heart was chained to both—she realized something:
This wasn't just a world.
It was a legacy.
And now, whether she liked it or not, she was seated right in the heart of it.
Dimitri glanced at his watch, the metal glinting under the warm dining room light. "It's time," he announced with that deep, authoritative voice that filled a room without trying. "Anya said she's not going to bed unless her parents are home."
Nikolai snorted into his wine glass. "She still acts like she's three. You'd think being fifteen meant something."
Natalya shook her head and waved a dismissive hand. "At least she's normal. Emotional, dramatic, and loud—like a proper teenager. Not brooding in a penthouse like someone I know."
Nikolai didn't even pretend to be insulted.
The conversation shifted into the natural rhythm of goodbyes. Natalia pushed back from the table, taking one last sip of her vodka before moving toward Elara with arms wide open. Her hug was firm and warm, motherly in the most unexpected way. She smelled of floral perfume, aged wood, and the unmistakable sharp bite of Russian vodka.
"If he ever hits you," she whispered near Elara's ear, "an iron frying pan can solve that issue quickly."
Elara blinked, startled, half-laughing. "What?"
Natalya pulled back with a grin. "Just woman-to-woman advice."
Dimitri, who had been reaching for his coat, paused mid-motion, raising an eyebrow. "Why are you acting like you've ever used a frying pan for anything other than making the best eggs?"
Natalya turned, her expression smug. "One of my exes was an asshole. I made him say goodbye to his teeth. My cast-iron skillet and I made a powerful team."
Dimitri's hand stilled on his coat collar. "I never knew."
"You never asked," she said sweetly, then slipped her arm through his. "I'll tell you all about it in the car. Come on, let's leave the lovebirds alone."
Dimitri gave a curt nod to Nikolai, and the pair headed for the door. As they stepped into the hallway, their voices faded—Natalya already chatting animatedly, Dimitri listening in that silent, intense way of his. Elara could still hear the faint clink of her heels and the low hum of his voice answering her.
Then, quiet.
Elara exhaled deeply and turned toward the guest bedroom, her steps heavy with exhaustion. But before she could retreat fully, a hand caught her wrist. Firm. Familiar.
Nikolai.
Her shoulders stiffened, her body tensing from head to toe. She didn't look at him.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his voice stripped of its usual edge.
She hesitated before nodding. "I just need to rest," she murmured. "And think. Away from you."
"Elara—"
"I mean it, Nikolai." She turned to face him now, her voice clearer, firmer. "I need to think with my mind, not my heart. And your mother said that staying… should be my choice."
There was a pause. A silence thick with everything unsaid. He looked at her like a man staring at the edge of a cliff he couldn't climb.
"I won't let you leave," he said quietly, almost mournfully, as if the words hurt him more than they should've.
And that was the thing about Nikolai. He didn't scream or plead. He decided. And his decisions had the weight of empires behind them.
Elara laughed bitterly and rolled her eyes, yanking her wrist from his grip. "Of course you won't. How could I expect anything less from a Bratva man? Control is the only love language you people know."
He didn't stop her this time as she walked away.
She reached the guest room, shut the door softly behind her, and leaned against it, her eyes burning with a mixture of anger and grief. She crossed the room, changed into her sleepwear like she had done a hundred times before—except nothing about this night was ordinary.
She flopped onto the bed and let out a long, frustrated groan, muffling it into a pillow. Her body was tired, but her mind wouldn't stop spinning.
It was getting harder. So much harder.
How was she supposed to love the part of him that could order someone's death without blinking? How was she supposed to make peace with the fact that the man who touched her with such tenderness, whose lips had once whispered poetry into her skin, could also discuss the trafficking of human beings like it was just another line item in a business ledger?
How was she supposed to hold on to her soul… without letting go of him?
Because he wasn't just her boyfriend. He wasn't just the man who made her laugh when she was cold or cooked her breakfast without asking. He was the one her heart had chosen when it didn't know better.
But now it did.
And still… it chose him.
And that was the terrifying part.
She stared at the ceiling, her chest tightening under the weight of this strange love. She could walk away—she should walk away. But with every step, she'd leave behind another piece of her heart.
And soon… there would be nothing left to carry.