The man underneath all that callousness. The man Mila somehow sees, despite everything.
I press my palm against the cool glass, a strange ache in my chest that has nothing to do with physical pain. For the first time in years, I’m allowing myself to want something beyond revenge or survival, something I have no right to claim but find myself reaching for anyway.
Her. Us. A future.
The realization should terrify me, trigger the retreat I’ve perfected over years of isolation. Instead, I am embracing the uncertainty, the vulnerability, the impossible hope that perhaps redemption isn’t just a fairy tale told to comfort the guilty.
Perhaps it’s a choice made daily, moment by moment, a path walked with someone who believes in the man I could become.
I turn from the window, the decision crystallizing within me with sudden clarity. I don’t know exactly who I am anymore, or who I am becoming in this strange transformation Mila has catalyzed. But for the first time since Ana died, I want to find out.
Not just for her. For myself. That might be the most revolutionary change of all.
30
THE CHOICE
MILA
The café buzzes with midmorning activity, a perfect curtain of white noise to mask our conversation. I trace the rim of my cappuccino, watching the foam dissolve as I struggle to find the right words. There are things I should be discussing with the woman across the table, topics we need to address. Katarina waits with the patience she’s perfected through years of our friendship, her expression open but carefully neutral.
When I texted her yesterday, asking if we could talk, her immediate reply was, “Of course. Where do we meet?”
“You’re stalling,” she finally says, pushing a plate of untouched pastries toward me. “Whatever it is, Mila, just say it. I’ve known you since we were fighting over toys in my parents’ living room. There’s nothing you can’t tell me.”
If only that were true. I take a deep breath, centering myself as I used to advise my patients to do before making difficult disclosures.
“I’ve crossed a line, Kata,” I say quietly. “And I don’t think there’s any going back.”
Recognition dawns immediately; Katarina’s always been quick. “Yakov Gagarin,” she says simply.
I nod, relief and anxiety warring within me at having the truth acknowledged.
“It started as therapy, real therapy,” I explain, needing her to see. “I kept distance. But then…”
“Then what?” she prompts gently when I falter.
“Then he saw me.” The simplicity of this truth catches in my throat. “Not just the therapist, not just the Bratva connection. Me. The parts I hide from everyone. The pieces I’ve learned to disguise under clinical competence.”
Katarina reaches across the table, her fingers warm against mine. “And that frightened you?”
“What frightens me is how much it didn’t frighten me,” I admit. “How natural it felt to be understood by someone who should be terrifying.”
“Because of what he’s done.” Again, not a question.
“Yes. No.” I withdraw my hand to push strands of hair behind my ear, an old nervous habit. “What he’s done should make him a monster in my eyes. I know his crimes, Kata. I know exactly what he’s capable of. But when I’m with him…”
“You feel safe,” she finishes for me.
Her insight startles a nervous laugh from me. “How is that possible? He orchestrated kidnappings, Kata. He nearly tore your family apart. He?—”
“He’s a man shaped by loss and driven by loyalty,” she interrupts. “A man who protected his nephew at any cost. A man capable of transformation.”
I stare at her, bewildered by her unexpected understanding. “You don’t hate me for this?”
Her expression softens. “Mila, do you remember how Nikolai and I began? He literally kidnapped me. Held me captive in a secret room in his house. Threatened everything I cared about.”
“That was different,” I protest weakly.
