❄️The private Gulfstream G700 cleaved through the Moscow sky like a silver dagger. Outside, the world was a monochrome blur of snow-laden clouds and the bruised twilight of a Russian winter. Inside the pressurized cabin, the silence hummed with the taut energy of a soldier returning to a battlefield he'd vowed never to revisit – except this soldier carried his beating heart, swaddled in cashmere, in his arms.
Misha, electrified by the roar of engines and the strange pressure shifts, was wide-eyed. Bundled in a miniature black velvet dress that mirrored Viktor's own severe elegance, she was a paradox: delicate fabric against fierce spirit. Her riot of dark curls, already a perfect echo of Viktor's untamed mane, framed a face alive with curiosity. She kicked sturdy legs against his thigh, a steady drumbeat of infant energy. Her storm-grey eyes, mirrors of his own detached scrutiny, tracked the sprawling cityscape emerging below – a glittering, frozen kingdom built on ice and hidden blades.
"Tired, malyshka?" Viktor murmured, his voice a low vibration in the cabin's stillness. He reached out, the pad of his thumb brushing the plush curve of her cheek.
Her response was immediate and unequivocal. Tiny fingers shot out, capturing his index finger. With surprising strength, she hauled it towards her mouth, clamping down with toothless gums on his knuckle. A fierce, wet pressure.
A ghost of amusement touched Viktor's lips, there and gone like a shadow. "Might actually hurt if you had teeth," he observed drily.
Misha released his finger with a wet pop, fixing him with a glare that managed to convey profound indignation despite her lack of vocabulary. A torrent of babble followed, a guttural, rhythmic stream punctuated by emphatic hand gestures. Viktor watched, his expression impassive, yet somehow understanding the unspoken tirade: Mock me? I am six months of concentrated fury, Aba. Remember that.
The smirk vanished, replaced by the familiar, glacial mask as he turned his gaze fully to the window. Moscow. The city of his birth, his gilded cage, his personal labyrinth of ghosts. Home. Hell. The lights below weren't welcoming; they were watchful eyes.
The jet touched down at Vnukovo with a hiss of hydraulics and the dying whine of engines settling into silence. Viktor didn't wait for the stairs to fully deploy or the ground crew's signal. He stood, a fluid, decisive movement, securing Misha firmly against his chest. He descended the steps into the biting Moscow air like a man walking into a kill zone, shoulders squared, gaze sweeping the tarmac with detached vigilance. Snowflakes caught in his dark hair and the wool of his coat.
Yuri materialized beside him, adjusting his own tie with a grimace. "Seriously, Vitya? Not even a detour to the ancestral pile? Just straight to the bunker?" His breath fogged in the frigid air.
"No." The single word was final, colder than the wind slicing across the tarmac. He hadn't set foot in the Mikhailov compound since the night he left its suffocating opulence for Harvard. He wouldn't pollute Misha with its poisoned air. Not yet. Not ever, if he could prevent it.
The waiting Maybach, a long, predatory silhouette in matte black, swallowed them whole. It slid away from the airport, a silent shadow navigating the snow-slicked streets. Moscow unfolded outside the tinted windows – broad avenues lined with monolithic Soviet architecture, golden onion domes piercing the gloom, the relentless pulse of a city that never truly slept. Misha, mesmerized by the swirling snow, pressed tiny, mittened palms against the cold glass, leaving smudged constellations of wonder.
Yuri broke the heavy silence, his voice low. "He's going to detonate when he realizes you're bunkered down out here. You know that, right? Full thermonuclear tantrum."
Viktor's gaze remained fixed on Misha, watching the reflection of streetlights dance in her wide, grey eyes. "Good." Let Dmitri rage. Let him spew threats through clenched teeth. Viktor had spent a lifetime conditioned to flinch at that voice. Now? He held the detonator to Dmitri's entire world in the form of the dossier locked in his safe, and the warm weight breathing softly against his heart.
High gates, imposing and sleek, swung open silently. They revealed Viktor's fortress: a stark, modern monolith of steel and glass rising from the snow-dusted pines on the city's outskirts. No gilded flourishes, no faux-imperial grandeur. This was a citadel built by a man who rejected kingship. A sanctuary, or a last stand.
Misha let out a sound – a gasp, a gurgle of pure awe – as the car glided into the courtyard. Her eyes, impossibly wide, took in the geometric frozen fountain, the stark elegance of a winter rose garden blooming with impossible black blooms, the line of household staff standing with respectful silence near the imposing entrance.
"Ensure the nursery is at twenty-two degrees," Viktor instructed Yuri, his voice devoid of inflection as he unbuckled Misha.
"Already humming," Yuri confirmed, stepping out and opening Viktor's door. A grin flickered. "Also, you might notice a small… chandelier addition. Swarovski crystals. Very tasteful. Baby needs ambience."
Viktor ignored him, extracting Misha from her seat. Inside, warmth enveloped them, smelling faintly of cedar and lemon oil. A vast fireplace roared in the minimalist living area, casting flickering light over the polar bear rug (Yuri's inevitable, extravagant contribution). Viktor settled Misha into her sleek, ergonomic high chair – Scandinavian design, naturally. He placed a teething ring in her grasp: a smooth, polished piece of dark wood carved into the unmistakable shape of a miniature dagger (another Yuri flourish).
Then, the phone vibrated in his pocket. Not a ring. A silent, insistent pulse. Dmitri's name glowed on the screen.
Viktor swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. His voice was Arctic calm. "Yes?"
The voice on the other end was a snarl wrapped in the finest Siberian silk, cold enough to burn. "Ty dolzhen byl priyti syuda." You were supposed to come here.
Viktor watched Misha gum her wooden dagger with fierce concentration, tiny brows furrowed. "I am here," he stated, his English precise, deliberate. "Moscow is mine too, Father." He emphasized the title, making it sound like an indictment.
A beat of silence, thick with venom. Then, Dmitri's voice dropped, soft, lethal, the sound of a blade being slowly drawn: "Zavtra. Turandot. Ili ya sam k tebe zaydu." Tomorrow. Turandot. Or I come to you.
The line went dead.
Viktor lowered the phone. His hand, resting on the cool marble countertop, trembled. Not with fear. With a fury so profound, so icy, it threatened to crack the very foundations of his control. It vibrated up his arm, a contained earthquake.
"Aba!" Misha's voice, sharp and demanding. She had dropped the dagger. Both arms were stretched towards him, tiny fingers grasping at the air separating them.
The tremor in Viktor's hand stilled. He turned. In one fluid motion, he lifted her from the high chair, pulling her small, warm body tightly against his own. Her head nestled into the hollow of his throat. He could feel the frantic drumming of his own heart against the fragile cage of her ribs. She sighed, a soft puff of air against his skin, her small fist curling into the fabric of his shirt.
Tomorrow.
The wolves were gathering at the gate. The sanctuary felt less like a fortress, and more like the eye of a storm. He held his daughter, the only warmth in a world rapidly icing over, and braced for the blizzard.