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Alina

Tomorrow, I will turn eighteen and will be considered a legal adult. A woman. But I don’t feel like one. I don’t feel ready. I don’t feel any different.

I stand in front of the ornate mirror in my bedroom, running my fingers along the fine lace of my designer dress. The delicate fabric feels thin beneath my fingertips, almost fragile. The dress is pale ivory, stitched with delicate threads of silver. It fits me perfectly—custom-made, of course. Nothing in my life is imperfect.

My long black hair spills down my back in soft waves. My electric blue eyes stare back at me from the mirror, calm and steady. My reflection is measured, composed. Exactly the way it’s supposed to be.

My hand lifts, and I tap the mirror lightly with the tip of my finger. A soft click sounds as my nail meets the glass. The rustle of the dress and the steady tick of the clock above the fireplace fill the quiet.

Eighteen.

I will be an adult. But I don’t feel like it; what does that even mean? I feel exactly the same as I did yesterday. The same as I did a year ago. A little taller, a little sharper maybe—but still the same girl underneath. The same girl who had spent years listening to the whispered conversations in the hallways, the thinly veiled threats exchanged at the dinner table. The same girl who grew up knowing that my future wasn’t truly mine—that it belonged to the Bratva.

A woman’s place in this world, into which I was born, is never her own. My mother’s fate is proof of that. She was married off to my father to secure an alliance. She played the part of the dutiful wife—the perfect Russian queen—until the day she died. I’ve always wondered if she was happy. If she was scared. If she regretted the choices that were made for her.

Maybe tomorrow, I will understand what it truly means to no longer be a girl.

I lift my chin and adjust the neckline of the dress. The smooth fabric brushes against my collarbone. My heart feels tight, like someone is pressing down on my chest from the inside. I take a breath, but it doesn’t help.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Or maybe nothing will change at all.

I have spent my entire life surrounded by luxury and silence.

The marble floors of our Moscow mansion are always polished to perfection, the cold glass windows framing the snow-covered landscape outside. Bodyguards are stationed at every entrance, ensuring that no one comes or leaves without permission. Tutors drill my twin sister, Yelena, and me in languages, history, and the refined etiquette expected of the Makarov name. We live like princesses in a gilded cage—a life of privilege, but one carefully stripped of freedom.

Tomorrow, I turn eighteen.

It’s supposed to be a milestone—a step toward independence. But in the bratva, eighteen isn’t an age of freedom. It’s the age when a woman becomes valuable enough to be used as a pawn. A strategic piece to be placed on the board in whatever way benefits the family. My father hasn’t said it aloud, but I know the signs. The recent visits from other bratva heads, the whispered conversations in the hallways when they think Yelena and I can’t hear them. My future is being decided, and I have no say in it.

But that’s not what weighs on my chest tonight. What I am battling with is that I am turning the same age Viktor had been when he died.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, my fingers trailing over the fine lace of my designer dress. The delicate fabric is soft under my fingertips, but it does nothing to soften the hard edge of my reflection. My long black hair spills down my back, sleek and dark like a raven’s wings. My electric blue eyes—so much like my mother’s—stare back at me, calm and steady. I adjust my posture, lifting my chin a fraction higher, smoothing the slight crease in my dress. Every movement is measured and practiced.

The soft ticking of a distant clock fills the quiet. A sliver of pale morning light filters through the frosted window, casting a faint shimmer across the glass vanity nearby. The subtle glow highlights the delicate features of my face—the sharp cut of my cheekbones, the elegant arch of my brows. My reflection is flawless. Controlled. Exactly as it should be.

But beneath the polished exterior, a heaviness weighs in my chest.

My gaze shifts toward the silver-framed photograph resting on the vanity. A woman with dark hair and haunting blue eyes smiles back at me, her hand resting protectively on the shoulder of a young boy with the same blue eyes. My mother. And Viktor.

Viktor’s eyes stare back at me, sharp even through the soft gloss of the photograph. His smile is small, almost secretive, as if he knows something no one else does. He would have been thirty-one now. The next leader of the bratva. He would have been standing right next to my father now—controlling Moscow’s underworld with the quiet ruthlessness our family is known for.

Instead, he’s gone.

I turn away from the mirror, the echo of my shoes tapping against the marble floor as I cross the room. I open the door quietly, slipping past the ever-watchful eyes of the bodyguards stationed in the hallway. They don’t stop me. They know it is impossible for me to leave the premises on my own.

The family mausoleum stands on the far edge of the estate grounds. The towering stone archways are laced with creeping frost, the cold seeping through the thin soles of my shoes as I step inside. The air is heavy and still, the scent of stone and aged flowers thick in the quiet.

I kneel slowly in front of the shared marble slab that bears the names of both my mother and Viktor. The coldness of the stone bites into my skin through the fabric of my dress. My fingers brush over the smooth engraving, lingering on the curve of Viktor’s name.

“I’m turning eighteen tomorrow,” I whisper. The words barely stir the silence.

I bow my head, pressing my forehead lightly against the marble.

“You were eighteen,” I say softly. “The same age I’ll be tomorrow.”

The weight in my chest sharpens, pressing harder.

I’ve heard the story a thousand times. My father rarely speaks of it, but I’ve pieced together the details over the years. Viktor had just turned eighteen. He was supposed to have one final huge celebration before he was fully integrated into the Makarov organization. My mother had insisted on riding with him. They had been on their way from the estate when their car was attacked. Viktor’s body had been so badly damaged that my father only allowed a few people to see it. He was riddled with bullets and then hacked into parts. At least that is the story Nikolai, my father’s right-hand man, had told my sister and me. My mother had died instantly, too, but her body was spared.

My father never recovered from the loss, and neither had I. Papa had stepped up to fill the void, even with the weight of an empire on his shoulders. He raised us with strength and purpose, shielding us from the worst of our world while preparing us to survive in it.

But growing up in the shadow of Viktor’s absence left questions no one dared to voice. He was the firstborn. The heir. The one everyone said was destined to lead. His name was spoken like a ghost—softly, reverently, always with a sense of what could have been. Not because my father wasn’t enough, but because Viktor had been a young but promising heir.

And I can’t help but wonder… if he had lived, would things have played out the same? Would he have stood beside our father as a shield between us and the path being carved beneath our feet? Would he have challenged the idea that daughters were best used to broker power?

I’ll never know.

But even in that silence, I trust my father. I know he’s doing what he believes is best for the family and for our future.

Still… that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

I sigh and push back to my knees, pressing a kiss to the cold stone before standing.

“I wish I had known you,” I whisper.

My footsteps echo off the marble as I leave the mausoleum. The cold bites at my cheeks, but I don’t bother adjusting my coat.

When I return to my room, Yelena is standing in the doorway, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders in perfect waves. Yelena and I are physically identical, but that is where our similarities end. She is more like our father in character—dark and sharp, her beauty is edged with a ruthless kind of calculation. She raises a brow at the half-packed suitcase sitting on my bed.

“Are you done packing?”

“Almost,” I say, walking toward the bed. I zip the suitcase with a measured click, aligning the edges of the fabric perfectly before stepping back.

Yelena’s gaze sweeps over me, her expression cool. “Jeez, Alina. It’s just a trip. Stop acting as though you're being sent off to join the circus.”

A trip?

Our father has arranged for us to fly to New York with him for our eighteenth birthday. He says it’s a celebration—a chance for us to see the world outside of Moscow. But I know better. My father never does anything without an agenda. I know he’s already started arranging our future; there are whispers of alliances and power moves with other bratva families flying around the mansion already.

“Maybe it’s more than just a trip,” I say carefully.

Yelena’s gaze sharpens, then she shrugs. “Maybe.”

I watch as she crosses the room; her manicured fingers trailing over the sleek edge of the vanity. She lifts a crystal perfume bottle and sprays a delicate mist over her wrist.

“I still think your fears are unfounded,” Yelena says.

“I hope so.”

“But even if Papa is taking us on this trip to show us off to potential suitors, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“What?” I look at her incredulously. “Don’t you want to have a say in the man you marry?”

“I do not really care. So far, he comes from a reputable family.”

“And that’s that?”

Yelena smiles faintly. “Qui.” She replies in French.

I swallow hard, feeling the coldness of that truth settle on my chest. Our lives aren’t truly our own. We were born into this game—and we’ll play it whether we want to or not.

Yelena’s gaze flicks toward the window, where the dark outline of our father’s guards stands at their posts below. Her lips curve faintly.

“Besides,” she says, “it’s New York. The Big Apple. I have been dying to explore it.”

I laugh under my breath, but a chill slides through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I lift my chin and adjust the neckline of the dress. The smooth satin brushes against my collarbone. My heart feels tight, like someone is pressing down on my chest from the inside. I take a breath, but it doesn’t help.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Or maybe nothing will change at all.

The Safehouse in New York is quiet.

It’s a private, heavily guarded building- more like a mansion. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the glittering skyline, with the pale glow of city lights reflecting off the polished marble floors. The air carries a faint scent of expensive leather and aged scotch.

Yelena stands beside me near the fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest. Our father is seated across the room on one of the black leather couches. He swirls the dark amber liquid in his glass slowly, his expression thoughtful.

“There’s something I’ve been waiting to tell the both of you.” He says.

His tone is calm, even—but there’s something beneath it. A weight. A warning. I sit up straighter. Yelena’s gaze sharpens beside me.

“You are adults now,” he continues, his eyes sliding toward us. “And deserve to know the truth.”

My stomach knots. The room feels too quiet, the air too thin. This is it; I was right to be apprehensive about this trip.

“What truth?” Yelena asks.

My father’s eyes darken. “About Viktor.”

The name cuts through the air like a blade. My heart seizes painfully. My hand grips the armrest of the chair. Yelena goes very still beside me.

“Viktor is dead,” I say. “We’ve always known that.”

My father’s mouth curves slightly at the edge. “Have you?”

The door to the room opens with a quiet hiss, and I turn. A figure steps through the doorway. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in black.

My pulse thunders in my ears as he steps into the light. Air freezes in my lungs painfully. The person standing before me is the exact replica of my father.

“No. You...you were dead,' I whisper, my voice shaking.

“No, it’s impossible.” I hear Yelena mutter.

Viktor?

He’s older now. His face is harder and sharper. His dark hair is slicked back, with a faint scar running along his jawline. His eyes—the same piercing blue as mine—are colder than in the pictures I have of him.

He looks different. But the truth is, I don’t remember much about him at all. I was three when he died, or when they said he died. I’ve spent my whole life trying to remember him, but there’s nothing. No voice. No smile. Just the vague outline of a boy who should have been there- a hollow space where a brother should have been.

Yelena’s hand clamps down on my arm. “This isn’t real,” she whispers.

But it is.

Viktor’s eyes sweep over us slowly, his gaze sharp and assessing. His mouth presses into a thin line as if he is trying to control his emotions. His shoulders rise and fall with each steady breath.

“Alina,” he says quietly. His voice is low and rough—colder than I imagined it would be.

My knees buckle. I stumble forward, my hand trembling as I reach for him.

My fingertips skim the fabric of his jacket. Solid. Warm. Real.

A broken sound escapes me. “Viktor?”

His gaze softens. Just slightly.

I throw myself into his chest. My arms circle around his neck as a sob tears free from my throat. Yelena is right behind me, her arms locking around both of us.

Viktor’s arms close around us tightly.

My breath shudders as tears blur my vision. My hands clutch the fabric of his jacket, desperate to hold onto him.

“I thought you were dead,” I choke out.

“I know,” Viktor whispers. His hand slides into my hair, his grip steady. “I know.”

Yelena’s shoulders shake. Her hand fists against Viktor’s back. For once, her composure is gone. She’s crying openly, without shame.

We cling to him for what feels like forever.

Finally, I pull back. My right hand drifts to the side of Viktor’s face, lingering over the faint scar along his jaw. My chest is tight.

“Is… Mama?” I can’t finish the sentence.

Viktor’s gaze hardens.

Our father answers for him. “No.” His voice is cool and steady. “Your mother didn’t survive the attack.”

A wave of grief and relief crashes through me at once. Viktor survived—but my mother is still gone. My head lowers. Viktor’s hand cups the side of my face.

“I’m here now,” he says quietly. “That’s what matters.”

My head lifts toward my father. Anger cuts through the haze of relief. “You made us mourn him,” I say quietly. “You let us grieve for him. For years.”

My father’s gaze sharpens. “It was necessary.”

“Necessary?” Yelena’s voice is sharp. Her eyes are still wet. “We were children.”

My father’s mouth tightens. Viktor’s hand rests on my shoulder, grounding me.

“It’s over now,” Viktor says, and I lean into him, breathing in the warm scent of him.

We sit down for dinner that evening. The long dining table is lined with crystal glasses and silverware. Papa sits at the head of the table, and we all sit to his right because Yelena and I each wanted to sit on either side of Viktor.

Just as we are finishing our meal, the door opens, and two men step inside. The first man is tall, with short, dark hair and a scar that slashes across his cheekbone. His movements are smooth and calculated. He inclines his head toward my father in a respectful manner as he greets his leader in Russian.

The second man is… damn.

My breath catches as I take in his dark hair and green eyes. He should be the same height as Viktor, if not an inch taller. I estimate him to be around six feet five inches. He is exceptionally handsome, which is bothersome because he almost appears beautiful. The tiny scar surrounding his gorgeous lips adds a certain intrigue, suggesting he is more than just a pretty face.

He is dangerous .

“This is Lev,” Viktor says, his gaze flicking toward the man with the green eyes. “And this is Zasha,” he adds as he turns to the other guy. “Guys, meet my sisters: Alina and Yelena.”

Lev’s gaze settles on me. His mouth curves faintly. “Happy birthday,” he says.

My heart skips. Hard.

I don’t understand why I feel this way or why this man, whom I’ve never met, is making my heart race.

I swallow stiffly to push down the lump that suddenly blocks my airway. “Nice to meet you, " I manage to say.

He pulls out two wrapped boxes from the inner pocket of his jacket and hands one to me and the other to Yelena. "I don’t know what you ladies will like, but I've heard that diamonds are a girl's best friend."

Who told him that? Does he have a girlfriend? Or worse, is he married?

My mind is so clouded by these thoughts that I did not notice the beautiful diamond studs that I was absently gazing at until I heard Yelena thanking him.

“Thank you,” I mutter. “They are beautiful.”

As I raise my eyes to his, our gazes lock. A rush of heat washes over me, and in this moment, I suddenly feel like the adult I already am.