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I was out of the car before Yuriy even unbuckled. My boots hit the paved driveway, and then she was running—albeit she looked like she was moving in slow motion—down the steps toward me. She threw herself into my arms, and for a second, the years fell away.

She smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. Warmth hit me where the world had been ice for so long. She pressed her face into my chest, small and solid, and for a stupid second, I forgot how to be a pakhan. I was only a father catching up on five years at once.

“Dochen’ka,” I rasped, voice breaking. I held her tight, patting her back. “Bozhe moi. It’s been too long.”

She clung to me, shoulders shaking. “I missed you so much, Papa. I can’t believe you’re finally here.”

“Every day, I thought of you. Every damn day.” I pulled back enough to look at her beautiful face. A face I’d thought I’d never get to see again.

Her eyes shimmered. She swiped at her cheeks, trying to smile through the tears. “Well, you’re here now. That’s what matters. Thank you for doing this for me. I know it wasn’t easy, but Zasha and I appreciate it more than you know.”

Behind us, a throat cleared. Yuriy had finally hauled himself out of the car. Her smile dipped for a second, but she smoothed it quickly and turned toward him as if practice had taught her how to be polite in impossible moments. She was still as graceful as her mother.

“Yuriy,” she said politely. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

I tightened my hands into fists. Was it? The last time they’d seen each other, he’d held a gun to her head. I’d had a noose around his brother’s neck, but how could we ever be even? She was my daughter.

I watched Yuriy’s face closely in case he made any untoward gesture I didn’t like, but he merely glanced beyond her shoulders. “Thanks for inviting me, Yelena. Where’s Zasha?”

“I’m sorry, but he isn’t home right now, though he should be back soon. He’s directing the school play and had to run off to rehearsals.” She stepped back toward the steps. “Come on in. Don’t worry about your bags. Arty will bring them up for you. He’s been amazing and like family.”

Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and pine. A garland wound down the banister, glittery ribbon looped through it. The living room glowed with the lights of a tall tree in the corner, ornaments hanging haphazardly. Stockings dangled from the mantel, names stitched across in red thread.

I stopped when I saw all the names. Yelena, Zasha, and mine next to Yuriy. My throat went tight all over again.

My first Christmas holiday with my daughter and her husband.

And Yuriy.

Yelena took our coats and hung them on a peg by the door. “I’m so happy you’re both here. This is a special Christmas for Zasha and me.” She rubbed her round belly and smiled.

“When are you due?” I followed her down the hall. Yuriy trailed after us in silence.

“The twenty-ninth, but the doctor says it can be two weeks earlier or later.”

Yuriy was no longer at my heels. He’d stopped to gaze at the wall of photographs, family portraits in frames of all sizes. My daughter, smiling with Zasha, and other photos of them alone. And me, from years ago, holding Yelena as a little girl.

But not a single picture of Yuriy.

I waited for the surge of victory, the chance to gloat, to remind him who mattered more. Instead, I caught the way his shoulders dropped, how his eyes dimmed. For the first time in a long time, I felt something close to pity for him.

Not quite, though.

My daughter seemed to notice. She stepped closer, brightening her tone. “We’ll have to take lots of pictures before you leave. I want a proper family portrait this year of everyone.”

Yuriy nodded stiffly, saying nothing.

“You must be tired,” she went on quickly. “Come, let me show you your rooms where you can rest and freshen up.”

She led us upstairs, one hand braced on her back, down the hall, and stopped at the second-to-last door on the left. She nudged the door open. “Yuriy, this is your room. If you need anything at all, let me know, or help yourself. For the two weeks you’ll be here, I want this to feel like your home.”

I snorted. Loud. It wasn’t intentional, but I couldn’t see this place being Orlov’s house. From what I’d heard about him, he wouldn’t be comfortable anywhere that didn’t have all sorts of people lined up to fill his bed. I had it on good authority that one or two weren’t even enough to satisfy his depravity.

“What’s that sound supposed to mean?” he snapped, chin raised.

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.” He forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Yelena, thank you. You have a beautiful home. I think I’ll take a shower and rest a bit before Zasha gets back.”