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“Is this your family?” She glides her fingertips over the protective plastic covering.

I lean forward enough to see which photos she’s talking about and nod.

“My sister, Nadia, my brother Igor, and my parents. I’m in the middle there. I was seven.” I rest my glass on the coffee table and lean forward with my elbows pressing into my knees.

“This is where you grew up?” She turns the page, more photos of the farm my parents worked.

“Yes.”

“Your parents had a farm.” A small smile touches her lips, but then she turns the page, and it slips.

When she looks up at me, it’s with confusion and surprise.

“My parents worked on a farm. We lived in that cabin.” I reach over and tap the photo of my parents sitting in the front yard of the five-hundred-square-foot cottage we lived in.

“All five of you?”

“Yes.” I nod. “The cabin was part of their wages.”

She continues to look through the photos.

“There’re so many pictures.” Her eyes roam over the page.

“My mother wanted us to have photos of our family, soshe saved up enough money for a camera one year. My father complained endlessly about it, but you see he’s in most of them.”

She continues to turn the pages, watching the years go by as I grew stronger, taller, more confident.

“Are they still back in Russia? I know you said your parents passed away, but your brother and sister?” She stares at the last photograph.

A color photo of the cabin, or what was left of it.

“No.” I get to my feet and take the album from her, closing it and laying it on the table.

“They’re here in the States?” She questions.

“No.” I sit back down, pick up my drink. “They’re dead.”

Her cheeks pale a little.

“The family my parents worked for owed money, and when they didn’t pay, their farm was burned to the ground.” I down the rest of my drink. “My family was asleep in their beds the night the cabin was set on fire. The doors had been nailed shut.”

“And you?” The question is quiet and full of worry.

“I’d been sent to another farm the day before to help with the shearing of their flock of sheep. When I returned home, there was nothing left.”

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. For my family, this woman has tears in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Rurik.” She climbs into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck and hugs me tight.

“It was a long time ago.” I hold her tight, letting her warmth seep into me.

“What happened after you got home? You were only fifteen. Did you have other family?”

My expression hardens. “I went looking for those responsible for my family’s murder. Vladimir Volkov heard about it and found me. The family that owned the farm were distant relatives of his. He helped me track down everyone involved.”

“You killed them.”

I meet her gaze, bracing for the sting of repulsion. Or worse, fear. But instead, I find something else—acceptance, unwavering and raw. A pride so fierce, it steals the breath from my lungs.