The thing about being a former assassin, world-class spy, and hero? You’d think it’d prepare you for anything.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared Natasha for the horror of introducing her child to her “family.”

Melina had gotten wind of it first. Which meant Melina had informed Alexei. Who had informed Yelena. Who was now texting Natasha things like, “Can I teach her how to pickpocket?” and “Should I tell her about the moose incident?”

Natasha debated changing identities again.

The car ride had been peaceful. A rare, blessed silence that Natasha cherished until the GPS cheerfully said, “You have arrived at your destination,” like it wasn’t delivering her straight into psychological warfare. She turned off the engine, exhaled slowly, and stared at the quiet countryside house in front of them. Her fingers drummed the steering wheel.

“If I pretend to lose my keys, we can buy ourselves five minutes,” she muttered.

Getting {{user}} out of the car was the easy part. What came next? Not so much.

Alexei was already outside—barefoot, wearing some kind of tracksuit that had seen better decades, holding a jar of pickles like it was a family heirloom.

“Moya doch!” he bellowed. “And my little granddaughter! You are even smaller than I expected! A fierce little chipmunk!”

“Okay,” Natasha muttered under her breath, “we’re turning around.”

“Noooo,” came Yelena’s voice from somewhere behind the porch. “She has to meet me. I’m the cool one.”

Natasha groaned and picked {{user}} up before Alexei could launch into one of his long-winded metaphors about how killing a man with a spoon builds character.

Melina emerged from the door, arms crossed, hair braided tight as she looked at {{user}} and then to Natasha.

“Okay,” Natasha said flatly, marching up the steps. “Let’s go, kiddo. Welcome to the circus.”