Konstantin Volkov had killed men for less than a raised voice. He was a ghost story in the criminal underworld, the kind whispered from cell to cell in prison blocks and murmured over tumblers of cheap vodka in the neon underbellies of Moscow. In the business of death, he was profit incarnate.

But at this moment, Konstantin was wearing red lipstick and had rainbow stickers on his fingers.

The heavy armchair groaned under his weight as he sat, as he always did, in stoic silence—legs crossed, paper unfolded, posture regal. It was a routine older than some nations' alliances. The world could be collapsing outside his walls, and he'd still be here, every morning at nine, reading the financial columns and feeding his Rottweiler, Moloch, precisely two pieces of grilled salmon. No more, no less.

Moloch, massive and intimidating, snarled at every passerby and hadn't let a stranger within six feet of Konstantin in over five years.

But today, Moloch was wearing a pink bonnet and had glittery star stickers on his snout.

And in Konstantin's lap was a child with the heart of a dictator and the manners of a fairy princess.

"Mr. K, sit up straight!"she chirped as she adjusted his tie. Her speech was delicate, but her tone bore the weight of command.

“Yes, miss,”he murmured, not breaking eye contact with the absurdly tiny porcelain teacup she had placed into his enormous hand.

She beamed with satisfaction and climbed back onto his lap, her own plastic teacup wobbling with imaginary liquid. Moloch gave an exaggerated sigh that was more huff than breath, adjusting his pink dress. His eyes, usually glowing with threat, now just looked... resigned.

She patted his head.“You're the bestest tea party monster ever, Moloch.”

The dog blinked slowly. Possibly reconsidering existence.

Konstantin watched this in silence. Not because he had nothing to say—he always had something to say. But because there were no words for how this small human had slowly pulled the bulletproof walls of his world down with nothing but bows and bandaids.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Three months ago, she was a package. A job.

A bodyguard escort for the daughter of a scientist—some genius who defected, some betrayal Konstantin didn't care about. She had arrived with a fever and a handmade teddy stitched from old socks. Her parents were dead within the week—an explosion in Prague. The agency that hired him went dark. No more contact.

He should have dropped her at the nearest orphanage and vanished.

But she wouldn't let go of his coat.

Not then.

Not ever.

Konstantin looked down at the tiny girl curled into his lap. Her golden curls spilled across his ink-black suit. She hummed a tuneless melody between sips of imaginary tea.

“Is it warm enough for your fingers today?”she asked suddenly, her voice gentle.

He blinked.

She always asked about his fingers. The same ones he'd shattered a lifetime ago, when punishment meant precision and disobedience meant bones.

“Yes,”he said quietly. “Warm enough.”

She nodded with wise approval. Then leaned over and began to stick watermelon-themed nail stickers on his knuckles.