1

Damon

Fucking hell. Alessandro slams the dossier on the table, photos scattering like confetti, except this ain’t a fucking party. Nick pours another glass of vodka, face stonier than I’ve ever seen. I stare at the pictures of the traitor. Our traitor. His daughter, this innocent pawn, stares back from a photograph, blissfully ignorant.

“Can’t believe Sergey did this,” Alessandro mutters, running his fingers through his hair. “Betrayed by our own.”

“Question is, what do we do with her?” Nick waves at the photo of the little girl. “Can’t just throw her back in the sea.”

“I say we keep her.” My words hang heavy in the air, like the fog of gun smoke. “She’s a symbol. A constant reminder of what happens when someone fucks with us.”

Nick downs his vodka, sets down the glass with a clink and snorts. “Keep the fucking three-year-old? Do you even know anything about kids?”

I take a deep breath, fists clenching. “All I know is that this bastard, this actual one, is partly our doing. It’s our fucking fault Sergey went off the rails.”

Alessandro cuts in. “Fault? You’re saying we drove him to betray us? That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” I shoot back. “We knew he was unstable, emotionally compromised. We kept him close because he was useful.”

Nick leans in, fierce. “So, what, Damon? You want a gold star for admitting we fucked up?”

“No,” I snap. “I want us to fix it, starting with her. She’s innocent in all this chaos. We owe her that much.”

Alessandro, usually an ice fortress, suddenly erupts. “Fine, do whatever the fuck you want. I’m out of here. A traitor’s bastard is not my responsibility.”

He stands abruptly, knocking his chair back, and storms out of the room. The door slams behind him with a bang that lingers.

I stare at the empty space he left, then at Nick. “Well, shit. Looks like it’s just you and me now.”

Nick refills his glass, looks at it, then decides against it and puts it back down. “Alessandro will come around. He’s just... He’s Alessandro. But that doesn’t solve our immediate problem. What do we do now?”

We both turn our heads toward the little girl, who’s been bawling for what feels like an eternity. She’s quieter now, entranced by some cartoon on the TV we set up for her.

Nick, his face all stern angles and stormy skies, rises from his chair. Even in this clusterfuck, the man looks like he stepped out of a goddamn GQ magazine—tailored suit, sharp jawline.

He approaches the child, kneels down, but keeps a respectful distance.

The kid recoils, maybe from the lingering smell of cigarette smoke that clings to him or perhaps the scar which streaks across his cheek like a battle flag.

“Look at me, kid. Do you have any relatives? A... babushka?” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard, but still edged with steel.

She shakes her head ‘no,’ tiny hand clutching a juice box. Her nose is running, and for the first time, the weight of this situation really hits me.

I watch Nick’s eyes, usually so hard, flicker with something I can’t place. Is it regret? Doubt? Whatever it is, it’s gone in an instant, buried under layers of hardened resolve.

“She’s really alone, then,” Nick mutters, standing up and returning to the table. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

“Yeah,” I agree, locking my phone and setting it down. “We definitely do.”

Just as Nick’s about to sit, his phone buzzes. A notification. Odd, considering the guy almost never looks at his phone during our meetings. Must be urgent. Or a woman. With Nick, his list of conquests is as long as his rap sheet.

“Listen, Damon,” he finally says after glancing at his phone and silencing it. “She’s staying, at least until we figure out if she has any living relatives. Except or her mother.”

“What about child services? You think they’re just going to ignore a suddenly orphaned kid?” I challenge.

“Fuck child services. They’re not going to find anyone with the surname Kuznetsov anyway,” he retorts. “Besides, we should probably focus on finding info about her mom first. Maybe there’s family on that side.”

He’s got a point. For better or worse, this kid’s stuck with us for now.

“Alright,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “We keep her, but we do it right. Starting with finding a damn nanny.”

Nick taps his fingers on the table, an unusual display of impatience. “While you’re at it, make sure whoever you hire as ananny doesn’t have ties to any of our rivals. Last thing we need is another betrayal. Also, make sure she is hot or something.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Hot? You planning on seducing the nanny now?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. It’s just a preference. Helps with... morale.”

“Morale? Are we running a daycare or a brothel?” I smirk, but I get his point. Aesthetically pleasing faces do have their own brand of comfort.

“Daycare, brothel, it’s all the same shit. Both are chaotic and cost you in the end,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

I chuckle. “Alright, a hot, unaffiliated nanny it is. And if Alessandro has a problem with it, he can go to hell.”

Nick looks up from his phone and catches my eye. “She shouldn’t learn anything about our business, Damon. We also need to make sure whoever we hire is loyal to us.”

I sigh. “How complicated could it be to hire a fucking nanny? We’re not recruiting for the CIA.”

Nick snorts. “Maybe we should be, considering our line of work.”

I pause, thinking. “We need someone innocent. Maybe someone fresh out of college, early twenties. Someone who wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

Nick grins, a rare sight. “Innocent and naïve, yet smart enough to take care of a kid. I like it. Makes it less likely she’ll poke around where she shouldn’t.”

“Exactly,” I agree. “But finding that perfect balance of innocence and competence won’t be easy. We’ll need to vet them carefully.”

He nods. “And fast. Time’s not on our side, especially with Alessandro being a prick about the whole situation.”

“Trust me, I’m aware,” I say, feeling the weight of our ticking clock. “I’ll start looking tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.”

“Good,” Nick says, locking his phone and setting it aside. “Because whether we like it or not, we’re all this kid’s got.”

I nod. It’s a harsh truth, but a truth nonetheless. We’re her only option.

I lean forward, steepling my fingers. “Also, what the hell is up with Alessandro? Why is he so disturbed by a three-year-old?”

Nick shakes his head. “Don’t act like you don’t fucking know. You’ve known him your whole life.”

“This about Sergey again?” I ask.

Nick sighs. “He still thinks Sergey was innocent or something.”

I chuckle, mocking the absurdity. “Oh, how touching. Stone-cold Alessandro feeling bad for Sergey, right before he put a bullet through his head. Let me guess, he looked into his eyes as he pulled the trigger, soul-searching?”

Nick smirks. “Something like that. But don’t act like you’re surprised. Alessandro may be cold, but he’s not completely devoid of emotion. He just hides it better than us.”

“True,” I admit. “But what’s his deal with the kid? Some misplaced guilt about Sergey, or is there more to it?”

Nick shrugs, his eyes darkening a bit. “Maybe it’s guilt. Or maybe the kid reminds him of vulnerabilities he doesn’t want to face. With Sergey, there was a choice. With this kid, there isn’t.”

I nod, pondering his words. Alessandro’s hard exterior always had cracks, however small. “So, what? We just let him stew in his own emotional turmoil while we sort this out?”

Nick sighs. “We don’t have time to be his therapists. He’ll either get on board or he won’t. We’ve got bigger problems right now.”

I agree, but it’s unsettling. Alessandro’s emotional state could be a liability, and the last thing we need is another complication. “Alright, let’s focus on finding that perfect nanny. And maybe keep an eye on Alessandro, just in case.”

Nick picks up his phone, presumably to resume his endless stream of texts. “Agreed. We have to make this work, with or without Alessandro.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking toward the area where the kid is now quietly watching TV. She’s lost in a world of cartoons, blissfully unaware of the mess around her. “We’re all she’s got. Let’s not fuck this up.”

My head’s a fucking mess, gears spinning nonstop. Got a shit ton to sort before sunrise. Sure, we’ve got the basics down, but with a kid in the picture, everything changes. And hiring a nanny? That’s another layer of hell. We’re not like those other mob families, kidnapping or blackmailing folks into servitude.

Whoever takes the nanny gig has to genuinely give a damn about the girl, but also be disciplined enough to follow orders, no questions asked.

As I’m mulling it over, my phone screeches. My mother - I really fucking need to change that ringtone - calling me in all her shrillness.

“Scammer?” Nick asks. He’s been getting weird-ass texts lately. Thought maybe I was in the same boat.

“Nah, just my mom,” I say, and don’t pick up. I’ve got enough on my plate without adding maternal nagging to the mix.

I turn my attention to Nick. “We need to keep this quiet. No one outside this room should know about the kid.”

We can’t let people know we have a soft side, after all. We’re not some charity case adopting a stray. We’re the goddamn Bratva.

Nick gets it. “The fewer people who know, the better. Loose lips sink ships.”

But then he cocks an eyebrow. “So how the hell do we find a nanny without arousing suspicion? We can’t put it on Craigslist, for Christ’s sake.”

I smirk. “Grace’s network isn’t just inside the Bratva. She’s got ears and eyes in the civilian world too. I’ll give her the heads up, she’ll find us someone who can actually do the job.”

He nods. We’ve got a plan, and not a moment too soon.

I pause, then raise my voice, yelling towards the kid. “Hey, what’s your name again?”

She turns to look at us, this tiny little thing with big eyes. Empty eyes. “Come on, it’s the simplest question in English,” Nick mutters.

Frustrated, I switch to Russian. “Kak tebya zovut?”

And then, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ayla.”

There’s a silence that follows, filled only by the weight of her single word. “Ayla,” I repeat, letting her name hang in the air. It’s a moment of clarity amid the chaos. “Okay, Ayla. We’ve got work to do, don’t we?”

Nick looks at me, then at Ayla. “Yeah, we do. We’ve got a lot of fucking work to do.”

Ayla. So small, so innocent. How did she end up tangled in our fucked-up world?