Nikolai leaned back against the cool leather of his car seat, letting out a long breath as his phone buzzed on the console beside him. He didn't have to look to know who it was. Only one person texted him on a Sunday afternoon with the kind of authority that demanded obedience—his mother.
Mama: Family lunch. 2PM sharp. Don't make me come drag you by the ears like when you were 10.
He snorted, shaking his head. "Of course," he muttered. Family lunches weren't optional in the Volkov household. Church might have been a suggestion—strongly encouraged but still a suggestion—but Sunday family lunch was practically a military order. And if you dared skip it, well... last time Viktor missed one, their mother locked him out of the house for an entire night. No one even tried to argue with her. Not even their father.
He threw the car into gear and headed toward the Volkov mansion, the tall iron gates swinging open automatically as he approached. The estate was nestled behind high walls and old trees, far from the prying eyes of the city. It was almost idyllic in appearance—white stone walls, arched windows, red-tiled roofs—a perfect picture of opulence and stability. No one looking at it would guess the shadows that lived inside it.
When he pulled into the driveway, several familiar cars were already parked. Great. Everyone was already here. He was exactly two minutes late, which, in his mother's world, was exactly two minutes of unforgivable crime.
The front door was already open. Of course.
He stepped inside and immediately the warmth hit him—cooking spices, roasted meats, the scent of yeast from fresh-baked bread. And voices. Loud ones.
"—I swear if you let her dye her hair pink again, I'm going to shave it all off while she sleeps," Dimitri was grumbling from the dining room.
"That's called child abuse, papa!" came a teenage voice—his little sister, Anya, ever defiant, ever loud.
"Then stop abusing my eyes with that hair!"
Nikolai chuckled under his breath and made his way toward the kitchen.
There she was. His mother. The general of the household. Natalia Volkov stood at the stove, her black hair pulled into a tight bun, apron wrapped around her designer blouse like she had no idea it didn't match. She turned just as he entered, spoon in one hand, dishtowel thrown over her shoulder.
"You're late," she said.
"Two minutes," he said.
"Which is two minutes of your life you could have been helping me."
He raised his hands in surrender. "I'm here now."
She gestured toward the bowl of potatoes. "Mash. And don't pretend you don't remember how."
"Yes, chef."
He rolled up his sleeves and got to work beside her, the easy rhythm of routine settling in. This, strangely enough, was peace. This kitchen, her sarcasm, the scent of homemade food.
She glanced sideways at him. "So. How have you been?"
"Good," he said.
She gave him a look.
"Fine," he corrected.
She paused. "You're not dead, bleeding, or limping. So that's something."
"Also, I went to church today."
She dropped her spoon into the sauce with a clatter.
"You what?"
"Went to church."
She gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her chest. "Did the walls crack? Did the ceiling fall in? Did any demons get up and confess their sins?"
He laughed. "Probably. But they were too scared to speak."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Next thing you'll be telling me is that you're getting baptized."
"Don't push it."
"Why'd you go?"
He hesitated. "No reason."
Which meant one thing.
"A girl," she said knowingly.
He didn't answer.
She didn't need him to.
"Come on. Let's eat before your grandfather starts yelling."
They carried the dishes out together. The long table in the dining room was already set—crystal glasses, linen napkins, more food than any of them could eat in one sitting.
Mikhail Volkov, the patriarch, sat at the head of the table like a retired war general, his cane leaning against his chair. Beside him sat Viktoria, his wife and eternal match in both wisdom and venom. Dimitri, Nikolai's father, was already halfway through a glass of vodka.
"Finally," Dimitri said as they entered. "We were beginning to think you died."
"I was helping mama," Nikolai said.
"Of course. Mama's favorite little soldier."
"Don't start, Dimitri," Natalia snapped, flicking his ear as she passed. "How many glasses of vodka have you had already?"
Dimitri held up three fingers.
His wife stared at him.
He grinned, then lowered one. "Two."
She flicked her middle finger at him and kept walking.
Anya howled with laughter. "Mama!"
"What? He deserves worse."
They all took their seats, and the chaos of Sunday lunch began.
"Pass the potatoes!"
"Anya, for the love of God, use a fork!"
"Viktor, stop texting. You're not married to that phone."
"Babushka, can you make those cheese rolls again next week?"
"No, because none of you appreciate anything."
"Mikhail, stop glaring at everyone like they owe you money."
"I'll stop when they pay up."
Nikolai sat back, watching it all unfold with a smirk. This was his family. Mad, sarcastic, unfiltered. But it was home.
At some point, Viktor kicked him under the table.
"What?" Nikolai asked.
"You went to church?" Viktor whispered.
"Yes."
"Did you combust?"
"No."
"Pity."
Natalia slapped Viktor upside the head with a roll of bread.
"Hey!"
"Respect your brother. At least he knows where the front door of a church is."
"I know where it is. I just avoid it like a plague."
Viktoria poured herself a small glass of wine and smiled at them all. "One day you'll all be old and married and fat, and you'll wish for this kind of noise."
"Don't include me in that 'married' part," Anya said. "Boys are disgusting."
"True," Nikolai said, nodding.
"Traitor," Viktor muttered.
Dimitri raised his glass. "To vodka, and women who tolerate us."
Natalia snatched the glass and downed it herself.
"Hey!" he cried.
"To women who run this damn house," she said.
The rest of the table erupted in laughter.
Lunch stretched on for over an hour, filled with food, sarcasm, and unsolicited stories from Mikhail about the 'good old days' when men were men and women were terrifying. Nikolai couldn't stop watching his mother—how she navigated the chaos, how she kept everyone in line with a flick of her spoon or a sharp word.
The women in his family were the glue. His mother and grandmother kept the Volkov empire from burning from the inside out—and none of the men would ever admit it out loud, but they all knew it.
After dessert, everyone moved to the sitting room, coffee cups in hand.
Nikolai stayed behind to help his mother clear the table.
She glanced over. "That girl from church… pretty?"
He didn't answer.
She grinned. "She must be."
"She's… different," he said quietly.
"Well, different might be what saves you."
He looked at her.
"I mean it. This world... it'll eat you alive. You need someone who reminds you there's something else. Even if it's just for an hour in church."
He nodded slowly.
"Now go sit. And behave. If you sneak out, I'll know."
"I know."
"You always do."
He kissed her temple. "Thanks, mama."
She smiled, swatting him with a dish towel. "Don't thank me. Just don't screw it up."
As he left the kitchen, he thought of Elara. The way she'd smiled at him outside her apartment. The way her voice softened when she talked about church. The way he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her.
Yeah. He'd definitely be texting her soon.
But for now, it was family. Sarcasm, vodka, and enough bread to feed a small army.
Home.
Even for a Bratva prince, there was no place quite like it.
-------------‐-
It was just after midnight, the mansion cloaked in a stillness so deep that even the night seemed to hold its breath. Everyone was asleep, nestled in the comfort of silence. But not Nikolai.
He stirred in his bed, his stomach gnawing with the familiar ache of hunger. It was a habit he could never shake off, one that had stuck with him since he was a child. Midnight snacks were his secret indulgence, a guilty pleasure he allowed himself without fail. Especially when he knew there were leftovers in the fridge—and tonight, there had been dessert.
He climbed out of bed quietly, pulling on a black hoodie to guard against the mansion's chill. The hallway lights were off, their absence casting long, eerie shadows against the marble floors. His bare feet made no sound as he padded across the hallway, descending the grand staircase that led to the kitchen.
But as he reached the bottom, he stopped.
The lights were on.
A soft golden glow spilled out from the kitchen doorway, flickering slightly like a hesitant flame. Nikolai frowned. No one else was supposed to be awake. He slowed his steps, approaching carefully, almost instinctively quiet.
When he turned the corner, he froze.
His mother sat at the kitchen island, her posture slumped, her hair disheveled. In her hand was a bottle of vodka—half-empty—the clear liquid glinting under the light. She didn't notice him at first, her gaze unfocused and distant, staring at something invisible only she could see.
Nikolai exhaled quietly. He knew what this meant.
Either she had seen the files—the ones detailing the transfer of trafficked girls, their names, ages, and fates sealed in cold ink—and she had begged his father to stop it, and he had refused.
Or she was simply tired.
Both possibilities were equally likely. Both were equally heartbreaking.
"Mom?" he said softly.
She blinked, slowly turning her head toward him. For a moment, her eyes looked through him, as if unsure he was really there. Then she smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes.
"What are you doing up this late?" she asked, her voice a little hoarse, frayed around the edges.
Nikolai rubbed the back of his neck, offering a sheepish grin. "Midnight snack," he said. "There's chocolate cake in the fridge."
She rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching upward knowingly. "Of course there is. You and your cake."
He moved to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out the plate wrapped in foil. The scent of rich chocolate filled the room, briefly cutting through the air of melancholy.
He plated a slice and put it in the microwave, the hum of the machine a soft background noise. Then he turned back to her, leaning on the counter across from where she sat.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently.
His mother didn't answer immediately. She took another swig from the bottle, her fingers tightening slightly around the glass neck. Then she set it down with a soft clink and exhaled.
"I love your father," she said. "So much. And he loves me. You know that, right?"
Nikolai nodded slowly, his smile fading.
"But I will never be okay with who he is," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "What he does. What he's part of."
The microwave beeped, and Nikolai retrieved the plate, setting it down beside him. But he didn't eat. He just listened.
She stared into the bottle for a moment, then continued.
"I was nineteen when I met him," she said, a distant softness creeping into her voice. "He was... magnetic. Gentle with me. Nothing like the man he is when he's doing business. He loved me, Nikolai. Deeply. And he still does. That never changed."
Nikolai swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
"Back then," she went on, "I didn't know what he was. He never told me. We were in love for almost a year before I found out. By accident, really. I found a gun in his car. Then I overheard a phone call. After that, it all started unraveling. I begged him to leave it behind. To choose me. To choose a normal life."
She laughed bitterly, not unkindly. "But your father was born into the Bratva. He thrives in it. Power runs through his blood like it was always meant to be there. And as much as he loved me, he couldn't walk away."
Nikolai sat down on the stool across from her, his chest tightening. He had always known pieces of the story, but hearing it now, in her voice, made it more real. More painful.
"I made peace with it," she said. "At least I thought I did. Because he's a good man, Nikolai. You know that. He's a good father. A good husband. He loves this family more than his own life."
Nikolai nodded. He did know that. It was the truth that made everything else harder to bear.
"But every time I see those files," she whispered, her voice cracking, "every time I see the lives being ruined, I wonder what kind of love I'm choosing by staying."
The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn't empty.
Nikolai reached out, gently covering her hand with his. She flinched slightly, then relaxed, her fingers curling around his.
"You chose love, Mom," he said softly. "Even if it's hard."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. She just nodded, her chin trembling.
"And I'll never stop loving him," she said. "But I'll also never stop hurting for the girls I can't save. That's the hardest part, Nikolai. Knowing that I'm part of a family that causes that pain."
Nikolai had no answer to that. Only silence and understanding.
They sat like that for a long time, the hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the kitchen clock the only sounds around them. Eventually, his mother took another drink, then pushed the bottle away.
"I should sleep," she murmured, standing up a little unsteadily.
"Come on," Nikolai said gently, rising to help her. "I'll walk you up."
She leaned on him slightly, the weight of love and sorrow hanging in the air between them. As they climbed the stairs, she paused halfway.
"Promise me something," she said, turning to look at him.
"Anything."
"Don't lose yourself to this world. You have a choice, Nik. Don't forget that."
He nodded, though the promise burned in his chest. He had grown up surrounded by blood and loyalty, trained for it. But her words planted a seed.
Later, as she disappeared into the master bedroom and he stood outside the door, he looked down the hallway, back toward the darkness from which he had come.
He returned to the kitchen alone, the cake forgotten. He sat in the same stool she had just vacated, staring at the vodka bottle, and wondered how many more nights would pass before the silence of the Bratva swallowed them all.
But for now, he sat there in the golden light, her confession still echoing in his heart.