(Flashback – One year before the kidnapping. Darya is 16. Mikhail is 18.)
BLACKWELL MANSION – FALL, 14 YEARS AGO (FROM THE PRESENT)
The mansion smells of strong coffee, fresh gunpowder, and my mother's expensive perfume that always lingers in the hallways like a reminder she's nearby, even when she's traveling.
I was in the library—the only place in the house no one enters without an invitation—lying on the Persian rug with a copy of Sun Tzu open on my lap, but not really reading. My eyes wandered the shelves, counting how many times my father Luther had already underlined the same passages in red pen.
That's when I heard the front door open downstairs.
Deep voices.
Heros speaking low, the way he always does when he brings someone new.
Luther laughing that short laugh that means "interesting problem."
And then a voice I didn't recognize. Deeper than a regular teenager's. Rough, like it wasn't used often.
I went down the stairs slowly, barefoot, the banister cold under my fingers.
In the entrance hall, there they were: my five fathers in a semicircle, like a living wall, and in the center, a boy who looked like he'd been dragged through a storm and dropped there without warning.
Too skinny for his height. Messy brown hair falling over his forehead. A black coat three sizes too big, with rips in the sleeves that looked made by a knife, not wear. An old backpack tossed at his feet.
And the eyes.
Burnt amber. Fixed on me before I even reached the last step.
— Darya — Heros said, no preamble. — This is Mikhail Holloway. He'll be staying with us from today.
I crossed my arms.
— Why?
Luther stepped forward, lighting a cigarette without asking permission.
— Because he has skills we need. And because if we leave him out there loose, he'll end up dead… or killing someone he shouldn't.
Mikhail didn't move. Didn't smile. He just held my gaze, like he was measuring me from head to toe.
There was no fear in his eyes.
It was… curiosity. Cold. Calculated.
Yakov and Vasily—my twins, always together like shadows—appeared in the kitchen hallway, arms crossed, identical even in their suspicious expressions.
— How long do you think he lasts? — Yakov asked, voice low.
Vasily laughed.
— I bet he doesn't make it past the first week of training.
Mikhail finally shifted his gaze from me to my brothers.
— I can handle whatever it takes.
His voice was calm. Almost bored.
But when he looked back at me, something changed. A faint glint. Like he'd decided I was the most interesting piece on the board.
Heros clapped once, ending the introduction.
— Show him the house. Teach him the rules. And Mikhail… — He stopped in front of the boy, heavy hand on his shoulder. — Betrayal has a high price in here. Remember that.
Mikhail nodded once.
— Understood.
My fathers dispersed—Luther to the office, Noah to the cleanup basement, Lohan to the shooting yard, Zedekiah already striking a match just to watch the flame—leaving the six of us in the hall.
Yakov stepped forward, circling Mikhail like a predator.
— First floor: bedrooms. Second: gym and armory. Basement: things you don't want to see.
Vasily finished:
— And if you touch any of our stuff… especially Darya's… we kill you slowly.
Mikhail raised an eyebrow.
— Noted.
Then he looked at me again.
— And you? What's your rule?
I smiled slowly. The kind of smile my mother taught me: sweet on the outside, blade on the inside.
— Don't underestimate me. And don't make me wait too long to find out if you're worth the air you breathe here.
He laughed low. A short, almost surprised sound.
— Fair enough.
That night, I found him in the kitchen at three in the morning.
I couldn't sleep—I never can when there's someone new in the house. I went to get water and there he was, leaning against the counter, eating a piece of dry bread like it was the best thing in the world.
— Don't sleep? — I asked, opening the fridge.
— Not much. — He answered without looking at me. — And you?
— I like to know who's walking around my house in the dark.
He finally turned his face. The weak light from the fridge lit half of it—thin scars along his jaw, one I hadn't noticed before.
— Fair enough.
Silence.
Then he spoke, almost casually:
— Your brothers hate me.
— They hate everyone who shows up new. — I grabbed a bottle of water and closed the fridge. — You just have to prove you're not a problem.
He tilted his head.
— And you? Do you hate me?
I took a long sip before answering.
— I haven't decided yet.
He smiled—the first real smile I'd seen on him. Slow. Dangerous.
— Then I'll have to convince you.
He took one step closer. Not invading my space. Just enough for me to catch his scent: old leather, distant smoke, and something warm, masculine, that didn't match an eighteen-year-old boy.
— Good luck with that — I said, but my voice came out lower than I intended.
He didn't reply. Just picked up the rest of the bread, took a bite, and brushed past me, his arm lightly grazing mine.
— Good night, Darya.
He went up the stairs.
I stood there, bottle in hand, feeling my heart beat a little faster than it should.
That night, I knew.
He wasn't just another boy my parents had brought home.
He was a question I still didn't know how to answer.
And worse:
I wanted to find out the answer.