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Chapter 2 - CHAPTER 2

Nova pulled up to the towering iron gates of the Volkov mansion, their blackened metal curling into an intricate design of thorns and roses. The gates opened slowly, almost dramatically, revealing the long cobblestone driveway lined with cypress trees that swayed ever so slightly under the summer breeze.

The mansion stood like a monument to legacy and power, its grand facade a blend of baroque architecture and modern Russian wealth—white stone pillars, balconies with wrought-iron railings, and wide arched windows that reflected the golden hue of the afternoon sun. It was less a house and more a fortress of memories, silence, and heavy names.

Nova shifted the car into park and looked into the rearview mirror. "Alright, we're here, Sidekick," she said, glancing at Andrei who was still buckled into his car seat, legs kicking with uncontainable excitement.

"Yayy!" he shouted, arms raised like a victorious superhero.

Nova chuckled, reaching back to unbuckle him. "Remember, no running inside. Grandpa Dimitri gets mad when you touch his books, and Grandpa Mikhail doesn't like screaming—unless he's the one doing it."

Andrei nodded solemnly, his serious little face so much like Nikolai's that it made Nova grin.

Hand in hand, they approached the heavy mahogany doors. Before Nova could even reach for the doorbell, the doors swung open with the quiet grace of someone always watching from the inside.

The butler, Sergei, nodded in greeting. "Miss Nova. Master Andrei."

"Hey, butler." she said. "Still scaring away housekeepers with your stare?"

"I find it effective," he said without a trace of humor.

Nova rolled her eyes fondly and stepped into the grand foyer. The marble floor gleamed beneath the crystal chandelier, casting fractured light over the family portraits that lined the walls. The scent of old books, lemon polish, and fresh flowers hung in the air.

In the living room, the massive flat-screen TV was playing a crime documentary at full volume. On the velvet couch sat Natalia Volkov, elegant in her gray silk robe, one leg crossed over the other, sipping tea like a queen with blood on her hands.

"Grandma!" Andrei yelled the moment he spotted her.

Natalia's head turned, her expression instantly warming. "Darling!" she said, setting down her tea. Her arms opened just in time for Andrei to leap onto the couch and into her embrace.

Nova followed at a slower pace, taking in the familiar surroundings. "Still obsessed with serial killers, I see."

Natalia patted her hand. "Don't worry. You're still my favorite Volkov. I am more obsessed with you."

"I better be. I'm the one who gave you a painting for your birthday."

"You also painted a knife stabbing a rose."

"Symbolism, Grandma."

They shared a smirk before Nova stood and looked around. "Where's Grandpa Dimitri?"

"In his study," Natalia said, sipping her tea again. "Buried in files. You know how he is. Ever since Mikhail stepped down, the empire's weight shifted to his shoulders."

Nova nodded and kissed her grandmother's cheek. "I'll check in on him later. Gonna go see the original Don."

---

The east wing of the mansion was quieter, the kind of silence that pressed into your skin. Nova walked down the corridor lined with faded family photos and antique sconces. At the end of the hall, sunlight spilled through tall windows into the sitting room—warm, golden, and soft.

There, by the window, sat Mikhail Volkov.

Once the most feared man in the Eastern Bratva, Mikhail was now a shadow of that legacy. His back hunched slightly in the wheelchair, one hand resting on the armrest, the other gently holding a worn photo frame. In it was a picture of Viktoria, his wife, her smile frozen in time, eyes bright with a mischief that Nova had inherited.

"Still in love?" Nova asked softly, stepping into the light.

Mikhail didn't look up immediately. He just smiled, still staring at the photo. "You never fall out of love with a storm like Viktoria. You just learn to live in the calm that follows."

Nova came closer and knelt beside him, resting her chin on his knee. "I miss her too. She would've yelled at me for crying over spilled paint this morning."

Mikhail laughed, low and rough. "She'd have told you to paint over it and call it art."

"She kind of did, in my head." Nova smiled. "I finished it. It's not what I planned, but it's alive."

Mikhail finally turned his gaze to her. His eyes, though older, still held the piercing sharpness of a man who once ran an empire with nothing but a look. "You're more like her than you know."

Nova leaned against his wheelchair. "You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

They sat in silence for a moment, bathed in afternoon sun. Andrei came into the room then, dragging his favorite plush lion.

"Hi Grandpa!" he said, running to Mikhail's other side.

Mikhail's stern face softened immediately. "Come here, cub."

Andrei climbed onto his lap carefully, hugging his grandfather's waist.

Nova watched them quietly, her chest full.

This was the Volkov legacy. Not just the empire. Not just the name. But this—moments stitched between generations, in light and silence, in love that never died.

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the golden afternoon light stretch across the polished wooden floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, and the chirping of birds from the garden just beyond the tall windows filled the room with a sense of peace. Nova's eyes drifted outside, where roses, hydrangeas, and marigolds bloomed in neat, intricate rows—Viktoria's garden.

The soil still carried her memory.

Nova smiled faintly. That garden had been Viktoria's sanctuary, her canvas of color and calm in a world soaked with blood and duty. She had taught Nova how to plant tulips and lavender, how to speak to the soil gently as if it could feel your gratitude. Viktoria always said flowers bloomed better when loved.

"She taught me everything about that garden," Nova murmured. "Even how to trim roses without getting stabbed. Not that I ever mastered that part."

Mikhail's hand tensed ever so slightly around the photo frame. He followed her gaze, his lips twitching with a memory.

"She said you were the only great-granddaughter she'd ever need," he said gruffly. "Viktor still hasn't given us any kids. At least none that the family knows of."

Nova snorted. "Yeah, Uncle Viktor's probably hiding a lovechild or three in Monaco."

Mikhail chuckled, deep and gravelly. "And still refuses to settle down. Man's pushing forty and still thinks he's twenty-five."

"Midlife crisis with a Rolex and a yacht."

"Exactly."

A beat passed.

"And Anya?" Mikhail asked. "She still playing rebel?"

Nova leaned back, stretching her legs out under the wide window bench. "Well... she's still dating women in secret."

Mikhail raised a bushy white brow.

"Don't worry," Nova added quickly. "I won't say a word to Dimitri. She's terrified he'll have a heart attack if he ever finds out. But he's proud of her, you know. Even if he won't admit it out loud. Her clothing line is killing it. She's already doing better than most of the Volkov men."

Mikhail's eyes twinkled with amusement. "That's because she got her business sense from Natalia. Not from your grandfather."

Nova grinned. "No arguments here."

He sighed, leaning back slightly in his chair, the creak of the leather echoing through the room. "So… how are Elara and that idiotic grandson of mine? Your father still breathing?"

Nova laughed. "Barely. Mom is five months pregnant and still insists that she needs to file a lawsuit against Dad's sperm."

Mikhail let out a startled laugh. "That woman always had fire."

"She was certain she had an IUD in place. Turns out, Dad's swimmers launched a full-on siege."

He grinned. "Let me guess—your father was hoping for twins?"

"Got crushed when the first ultrasound showed one baby. Now he's crossing his fingers for a boy. He's already picked out names. Mom says she's naming the baby herself, regardless of the gender."

"And you?" Mikhail asked. "What are you hoping for?"

Nova leaned her head against his leg. "Not another Andrei."

Mikhail laughed again, the sound loud and unfiltered. "He's a little terror, isn't he?"

"The worst. But he's cute, so he gets away with it." She paused, then added, "Still... I hope the baby is a girl. The Volkov legacy needs more women. We're smarter."

"I won't argue with that," Mikhail said, squeezing her shoulder. "You, Elara, Natalia—hell, even Viktoria was the one running the show half the time. I was just the muscle."

Nova smiled, her eyes drifting back to the garden.

"I met someone today," she said suddenly.

Mikhail raised an eyebrow. "Someone?"

Nova nodded. "A guy. Works at a café. A barista, actually. Really awkward. Like... so awkward it was kind of adorable. He stammered when I ordered a cappuccino."

"Did you tease him?"

"Of course. It's my love language."

Mikhail shook his head fondly. "And what makes this boy special?"

Nova shrugged, but there was a quiet smile playing at the corner of her lips. "He didn't recognize me as a Volkov. He recognized me as Elara's daughter."

Mikhail tilted his head.

"He said Mom was his role model. That he wants to be like her one day. He's studying interior design, and he knew all about her work. He looked at me like I was connected to something good. Something beautiful."

"And how did that make you feel?"

Nova considered the question. "Weird," she admitted. "But in a good way. I don't usually get that. People look at me and see power. Or money. Or trouble. He just saw... a person."

"What's his name?"

She smirked. "Andrew."

Mikhail blinked, then let out another laugh. "You're joking."

"Nope. Andrew. So close to Andrei it made me twitch."

"God help you if you fall in love with him."

"I already told him I can't handle two of them."

They laughed together, the sound carrying softly into the room as the sun began to dip lower in the sky. The garden outside shimmered with the golden hues of late afternoon, and for a brief moment, time felt slow—suspended in warmth, in family, in the fragile beauty of a life still unfolding.

Nova leaned her head on Mikhail's knee again, feeling safe.

In a world built on danger, this—these rare, quiet moments—were the only kind of peace she ever really knew.

And for now, it was enough.

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