Page 53 of Bride of Vengeance
She sees Mikhail and freezes. Unlike Alexei, something flickers in her expression—not quite recognition, but something nagging at her memory. The baby makes a small sound, reaching for her mother's suddenly slack face.
Alexei still hasn’t taken his eyes off Mikhail, but Mikhail turns to face her fully, and that's when I see it happen—the moment she sees something familiar in the angles of his face, the set of his shoulders.
"Uncle Misha?" The nickname comes out as barely a whisper.
"Hello, Mila."
The silence stretches so tight I can barely breathe. Then Anya fusses, breaking the spell, and Mila hands her to Alexei with movements that look automatic.
She walks down the steps slowly, deliberately, until she's standing directly in front of Mikhail. Studies his face like she's confirming he is real, that she’s not seeing a real ghost.
Her hand comes up like she might touch him, then drops. Her eyes fill with tears that she refuses to let fall.
"So many years," she whispers, her voice shaking. "I lit candles every week. For you, my hero when I was little. The uncle who'd swing me around until I was dizzy, who'd sneak me candy whenMom said no." Her voice breaks. "I cried for months after they told me you died. And you were just... alive? This whole time?"
She takes a step back, then another, wrapping her arms around herself like she's physically holding herself together. Tears finally spill over. "I've carried everywhere for years that photo from when I was four, sitting on your shoulders; the only photo of you that I had left. I showed it to my babies. Told them about their brave great-uncle who died in Chernobyl. How he was a hero. How I wished they could have met you."
"Mila, please—"
"Youknew?" Her voice rises, fury mixing with devastation. "You knew I was here? That I got married? Had children?"
"Milochka—"
"No! You don't get to 'Milochka' me. Do you have any idea what it was like? I was five years old, and my hero was just gone. The one person who made me feel special, who made me feel safe even when everything was scary and new in America."
"It was safer for you," Mikhail says, his voice rough with emotion. "Everyone who knew I was alive became a target. I couldn't—I couldn't risk you."
"And all these years? In all these years, you still couldn't find me and let me know you were alive?" The tears are flowing freely now. "I had the right to know you were alive!"
Alexei steps forward then, still holding Anya. "Perhaps we should continue this inside. The children..."
Mila nods shakily, wiping her face. She looks at Mikhail one more time, then turns and walks into the house without another word.
We follow them inside, and the house is impeccable as always—Irina's work, no doubt. The elegant living room with its perfect furniture and fresh flowers makes this surreal moment even stranger. Baby Anya is in her playpen, babbling happily at a stuffed bear while soft classical music plays in the background.
Mikhail stops dead when he sees her, and something in his expression cracks. "Anya," he whispers. "That name…"
Mila's face softens slightly. "I remember Aunt Anya. How she used to braid my hair before bed, how she'd sing those old Russian lullabies—her voice was soft and she was like an angel." Her voice catches. "She was so young when she... when we lost her. So I wanted her name to be carried forward, for her to have the chance to live the life she never got."
Mikhail has to turn away for a moment, his shoulders tight with emotion.
"May I?" His voice is rough.
Mila nods tightly, and he lifts baby Anya with the careful reverence of someone handling spun glass. The babyimmediately grabs his finger, babbling something that sounds like "up up up."
Something clenches in my chest watching them. This man who's killed several people, who's lived as a ghost for fifteen years, cradling this tiny girl who carries his sister's name. Baby Anya laughs, and Mikhail's face does something I've never seen—pure, uncomplicated joy mixed with grief.
"We need to focus," Alexei says, though his voice has lost some of its edge watching Mikhail with his daughter. "You said this was about Harrison. About Mariana's situation."
"And about my Anya," Mikhail says, still holding the baby. "My sister. Harrison killed her too twenty-three years ago."
While Mila pulls up the data on her laptop and Alexei examines the files, I still can't stop watching Mikhail with baby Anya. He's shifted her to rest against his chest, her tiny head tucked under his chin, and he's swaying slightly—an unconscious soothing motion that speaks of instinct rather than practice.
The contrast destroys me. This killer, this ghost who's haunted criminal nightmares for fifteen years, looking like he was born to hold babies. His large hand spans her entire back, protective and gentle. When she fusses, he murmurs something in Russian—probably nonsense words, but his voice goes soft in a way I've never heard.
God, he looks good like this.
Too good. Dangerously good. The kind of good that makes my ovaries stand up and take notice, whispering traitorous things about what our children would look like. Dark hair or silver? My stubbornness or his intensity?
