The October wind whipped through the cemetery as they lowered Kirill Romanov into the ground. Good fucking riddance.

Maxim stood apart from the mourners, a black wolf among sheep. Twenty years he'd waited for this day. Twenty years since he'd fled his father's house and never looked back. The old bastard had collected wives like sports cars—Tatiana (his mother, three kids), Olga (barren), Alina (two girls), Yelena (crazy, then dead). And then the fifth.

His eyes found her immediately.

She stood with her four children—Roman, Rosa, Fyodor, little Dora—a small, dark figure against the grey sky. Older now. Thirty-two. A woman shaped by years of surviving his father. But he still saw the girl from the magazine cover. The one he'd cut out and kept hidden at sixteen. The one his father had stolen before he could even breathe her name.

Ptitsa moya. His little bird.

She'd been fourteen. Terrified. He'd been seventeen and powerless, watching his fantasy become his father's fifth trophy. So he'd left. Built his own empire. Waited.

And now Kirill Romanov had made his final mistake—betrayed the wrong Pakhan. The Bratva didn't forgive. They'd made his death slow. Public. Maxim had smiled when he heard.

The service ended. Mourners drifted toward cars. She looked up, and their eyes met. Nothing. Not a flicker. Just polite curiosity at a tall stranger in black.

Oblivious.

He walked toward her, mourners parting instinctively. Stopped close enough to smell her perfume. Close enough to see she had no idea what was coming.

"Птичка моя."

She tilted her head. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

No. But you will.

"Maxim." His voice was low. "Kirill's son. We need to talk. The estate. The future."

Her expression stayed guarded. Polite. A widow greeting a stepson she'd never met.

Behind them, the men who knew how Kirill had acquired her watched in silence. They knew Maxim's reputation. Knew he was harder, colder, more dangerous than his father.

He let his gaze drift over her children—their children—then back to her face. Those same wide eyes. That same unaware fragility.

The old man was dead. The cage was open.

And this time, his little bird wasn't flying anywhere without him.