Page 28 of Sinful Union

Everything about this part of Manhattan screams wealth. Glass-and-steel skyscrapers, luxury storefronts, the scent of espresso coming from the boutique cafes. The sidewalks are always clean, the streets always patrolled. It’s the kind of place where money moves silently, where power hums just beneath the surface. It’s beautiful.

And it’s suffocating.

As I slip into the back of one of our cars, the driver looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Going to visit your brothers today, Mrs. Fetisova?”

“Yes, Maxim, thank you.” We pull away from the towering skyline of Lower Manhattan, heading northwest, weaving through the streets until we reach Carroll Gardens. Then, the shift is instantaneous. Carroll Gardens is old New York: brick townhouses, tree-lined streets, brownstones that have stood the test of time. It’s charming in a way that Tribeca will never be. Warm, familiar, lived-in.

We slow in front of a modest but well-kept brownstone, its windows lined with flower boxes, its red front door slightly faded from the sun. Big hedges block the windows from view—Vlad’s way of keeping prying eyes from seeing inside.

My heart clenches.Thisis home.

I slip out of the town car and make my way up the stone steps. My fingers hover over the brass handle for just a second before pushing the door open. The driver and guard wait for me in the car, just as they have done on previous visits.

The warmth and nostalgia of the house wraps around me instantly. The faint smell of vanilla and sugar lingers in the air, a scent I’ve missed more than I realized. I barely have time to close the door behind me before I hear the sound of small feet padding against the wooden floor, followed by a squeal of joy.

"Mama!"

She’s in my arms within seconds. A blur of dark curls and pink crashes into me, tiny arms wrapping around my waist.Ana nearly knocks me off my feet with the force of her hug. I love it, but it’s a reminder of how quickly she’s growing up, how every day I spend away from her is a day I miss seeing it happen.

I exhale sharply, my heart clenching as I scoop her up, burying my face in her hair.

“I missed you,” she says, her voice muffled against my neck.

I hold her tighter. “I missed you more, baby.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me, her big brown eyes filled with a question I already know is coming. “When are you coming home for good?”

A lump forms in my throat. How am I supposed to answer that? I smooth a hand over her curls, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Soon, my love.”

But I know that might not be true.

I hear the sound of heels clicking against the hardwood. I look up to see Camille Barbier watching us from the doorway. Camille is poised, polished, and effortlessly chic, like every French woman seems to be. She wears tailored slacks and a silk blouse. Her dark hair is swept into a simple, but elegant twist. She’s in her mid-thirties and has an air of effortless sophistication, but there’s warmth beneath it, a genuine fondness for Ana.

Camille has been with us since the day Ana was born. She’s a little bit of everything—a tutor, a nanny, a guardian when I can’t be here. She homeschools Ana, gives her structure, and keeps her safe. Camille, along with Vlad and Piotr, have been looking after Ana since I married Pavel.

“Mommy!” Ana says. “I want to show you something I drew!” With that, she’s off, leaving me and Camille alone.

“Kat,” she says in greeting, her French accent apparent. “Ça va?”

Ça vameans “How’s it going?” in French. She already knows the answer to that.

“Same,” I reply. “I’m only a couple of miles away, but it feels like I’m in another state. How’s she been?”

Camille shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “She’s been asking for you every day. I don’t think she knows quite what to make of hermamannot being around as much as she used to.”

“I know,” I say, a sadness in my voice. I think about how Ana hugged me when I first walked in. She held on for dear life, like she would never let me go.The guilt feels overwhelming, threatening to consume me.

Camille’s lips press together, as if weighing her words before speaking. She doesn’t approve of this arrangement—of me being gone while Ana stays here with Piotr and Vlad. But she never speaks against it outright. She knows better than to question the Bratva’s decisions.

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” I say.

“Hopefully not. A girl needs her mother.”

With that, Ana returns, a picture in her hands. “Look, Mommy!”

Camille walks forward, gently smoothing the bow on Ana’s dress. “You two have a lot to catch up on. I’ll let you be.”

“Merci, Camille,” I say.

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