The footsteps are too soft for a guard. Too hesitant for Mila. Whoever it is, they pause—three seconds of uncertainty—then knock like they’re not entirely sure they’re welcome.
Then the voice.
“Uncle Yakov?”
My spine straightens before I can stop it.
Damien.
It’s a name I’ve said only in silence, a ghost I’ve held at a distance. I cross the room in four strides, pulling my face into something passable before I open the door.
He’s smaller than I imagined. Slight for his age, with pressed navy slacks and a school crest embroidered neatly over his blazer pocket. His shoes are polished. His hair carefully combed. He clutches a chess set under one arm.
Behind him, a tall man stands watch, one of Alex Sokolov’s people, judging by the stance and the subtle bulge under his jacket. He gives me a stiff nod, more obligation than respect.
“You have two hours,” the guard says, not moving from the door.
I don’t respond. My attention is on the boy.
“Damien,” I say. The name tastes strange out loud. “This is unexpected.”
He studies me with cautious curiosity. There’s no fear in him, just quiet evaluation. He doesn’t look like a boy meeting a monster. He looks like someone trying to decide whether the stories were true.
“Father said I could come,” he says. “He said you’re not dangerous anymore.”
I huff out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “Did he, now?”
“He also said you might play chess with me. If I brought my own board.” He lifts it slightly. “He said…you’d be a good teacher.”
Of course he did. Igor never does anything without calculation. This is a test. Of me. Of the boy. Of the story they want to write next.
I step back, holding the door wider. “Come in.”
Damien walks past me with that open, self-possessed confidence kids have when they haven’t learned to be afraid of the wrong things yet. His eyes sweep the room. Something his father would do. But the shape of them, that’s Ana. Same shade, same soul.
The guard takes position just inside the door, silent and still.
I motion to the sitting area. “Shall we?”
Damien nods and kneels to unpack the chess set—the one I sent for his seventh birthday. Custom-made, just like I’d requested. He handles the marble pieces carefully, arranging them with exact precision. It’s unsettling how much of her is in him.
“Grandpa says I’m meticulous,” he whispers without looking up. “He said that’s how Mother was.”
My throat tightens. I cross the room and take the seat across from him.
“She was,” I manage. “She used to rearrange the entire bookshelf if one title was out of place. Drove me insane.”
Damien glances up, surprised by the detail. Hungry for it. Of course he is. Igor didn’t know Anastasiya well enough to tell stories like this. They were a quick fling that cost my sister her life.
That left a child without a mother.
“What else do you remember?”
Too much. Everything. What do I tell him first?
“She was smart,” I say. “She loved patterns. Shapes. She could see how things fit together before anyone else did. Always three steps ahead. Like chess…only faster.”
He smiles at that and moves a pawn. “I always start with this one.”
