Nova stepped out of her car, the soft crunch of gravel beneath her heels echoing in the driveway. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, casting long amber shadows over the Volkov estate. She pressed the button on her keys, locking the vehicle with a soft beep before making her way toward the front door. The air was cool and crisp, brushing through her hair and ruffling the hem of her coat.
She entered the house to the gentle hum of domestic peace. The familiar scent of spiced candles lingered in the air. Elara was curled up on the couch with a book in hand, glasses perched at the tip of her nose. Her bare feet rested on a velvet ottoman. Outside the large window, Nova could see her younger brother Andrei running around the garden with Pavel—the new bratva dog. The German shepherd barked gleefully, chasing after a rubber toy. Misha, the old family dog, had passed away recently due to age, and while they missed him dearly, Pavel had brought back the noise and chaos that only a dog could.
"Hey, Mom," Nova greeted, dropping her bag beside the couch and sinking into the cushions next to Elara.
Elara looked up, smiling over the rim of her book. "Hey, baby. How did it go?"
Nova leaned her head back against the cushion, sighing. "It went well. Almost went horribly, but it went well." She smirked. "And guess what?"
Elara raised a brow. "What?"
"Godfather was a barista today."
Elara blinked, lowering her book. "You mean Sergei?"
Nova grinned. "I only have one godfather, so yeah. Sergei. He was really good at it too. The espresso machine held up just fine."
"How... Sergei? Our Sergei? The same man who once broke someone's wrist with a spoon? That Sergei?" Elara asked, her tone halfway between disbelief and amusement.
Nova laughed. "The very same. He wore the apron and everything. Looked like he wanted to strangle someone the entire time, but he did it."
Elara covered her mouth to suppress a laugh. "I can't believe this. How did you even get him to agree?"
"By being his favorite and only goddaughter. And also by swearing him to secrecy. Please don't tell Dad."
"Don't worry," Elara said with a conspiratorial smile. "Your father would probably lose his mind if he found out Sergei was brewing coffee and not breaking bones."
They shared a laugh, and the warm, familiar scent of roasted garlic wafted from the kitchen. A few minutes later, they were gathered around the long dining table. The dining room, bathed in warm light from the chandelier, buzzed with quiet conversation. Andrei had come in with Pavel, who now lay under the table, tail wagging lazily.
Nikolai carved slices of roasted chicken, placing them onto plates. Lunch was served with mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, and a light citrus salad. Nova reached for the gravy just as her father cleared his throat.
"Nova," Nikolai began, setting down his fork, "I got an email from your manager today."
Nova paused, spoon mid-air. "Okay...?"
"Apparently, a rather influential man—Ben Dawn, the senator—is requesting a painting. For his daughter. She's turning sixteen, and he says she's a huge fan of your work."
Nova raised a brow. "Ben Dawn? As in the 'fat-cat, smiles-for-cameras' politician?"
"That's the one," Nikolai said.
Nova rolled her eyes and put the spoon down. "No thanks. I don't paint for fat cats."
Elara raised a brow at her. "Nova."
"What? I mean it. I get that he's powerful or whatever, but I'm not about to turn my art into some political gift. If his daughter's a fan, he can buy a painting from the gallery like everyone else."
"You know this could open doors, right?" Nikolai asked, carefully watching her reaction.
Nova shrugged. "I'll open my own doors. I'm not about to be some show pony for rich men who think they can buy sentiment."
Elara smirked behind her glass of lemonade. "You're just like your father."
Nikolai gave her a sideways glance. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not. It's terrifying, but not bad," Elara said, giving Nova a fond look.
Nova chuckled, returning to her meal. Even with the strange requests, awkward moments, and mafia-adjacent drama that came with being a Volkov, there was something grounding about this—about being surrounded by the people who let her be her.
Even when she turned down senators and made gangsters pour coffee.
---------------
Nova walked into her art room, shutting the door behind her with a sigh. The scent of oils, varnish, and fresh canvas wrapped around her like a familiar, calming blanket. She kicked off her shoes and crossed the room, stepping onto the soft rug that was speckled with years of paint stains. Her gaze wandered over the half-finished canvases, dried palettes, and dozens of brushes lined up like soldiers in a jar by the window.
A fat cat. That's who she was painting for. Or rather, for his daughter. She scoffed softly at herself.
"I said I wouldn't do it," she muttered as she pulled her stool toward a fresh canvas. "But here I am."
Her fingers worked with muscle memory as she clipped her apron on and tied her curls back into a messy bun. She dipped her brush into a deep rose hue and began sketching rough strokes across the white. Each line brought purpose. Each color gave her a sense of grounding.
The truth was—she knew better. She didn't get here on talent alone. Her name had opened doors. Her father had pulled strings in the shadows, placed her art where the world could see it, made calls that ensured her paintings were displayed in the right rooms. And though her art had value, she couldn't deny that privilege had set the table. She could at least bring joy to someone who genuinely appreciated her work.
Ben Dawn's daughter was a fan. A real fan. Nova had seen the email her manager forwarded, seen the gushing words the girl had written about how much her art meant to her. That wasn't just politics. That was admiration.
And Nova would never be too proud to appreciate that.
She worked in silence for a while, painting with her whole body—her back curved toward the canvas, brush flying across the surface with swift, graceful strokes. A gentle knock went ignored, and the door creaked open.
"You're painting it?" Nikolai asked from the doorway.
Nova didn't even turn. "Clearly."
He stepped inside, his boots quiet against the hardwood floor, hands tucked in his pockets. He watched her for a moment, brow raised. "You told me you weren't going to. That you don't paint for fat cats."
Nova exhaled. She turned slightly to glance at him over her shoulder. "I still don't. But his daughter's a fan. And I love my fans."
Nikolai gave a small, amused huff and leaned against the doorframe. "Of course you do."
He watched in silence as she layered color upon color, gradually breathing life into what looked like a dreamscape—soft clouds, twinkling stars, and a girl in midair, wings unfolding behind her.
"Do you remember the first day I caught you secretly painting on your mom's favorite wall?" he asked suddenly, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.
Nova paused. A crooked smile lifted her lips. "I still don't get how it was her favorite wall. I mean, they're all the same."
"Trust me, you don't want to know," he said, smirking.
Nova squinted at him suspiciously. "Wait. Why would it be her favorite—" She stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes widened. "Ew. Dad. No. That was the hallway wall. You guys have a bedroom. Oh my God."
"It's not like we've ever done anything while you were around," Nikolai said defensively. "Besides, it's been a long time since we used that wall. Her back hurts now."
Nova dropped her brush and buried her face in her hands. "Dad, come on. Stop. Just stop."
He shrugged innocently. "What? I didn't say anything inappropriate. I'm just being honest."
"I need bleach for my brain. And a really good therapist. Possibly two."
He laughed—really laughed—and it was one of those rare, unguarded moments where the Don in him disappeared and only her father remained.
"I love this." he said after a while, stepping closer and looking down at the canvas. "You, here. Creating something only you can."
Nova's expression softened, the humor melting into something warmer. She picked up her brush again, returning to her work.
"I'm always here, Dad. Even when I pretend I'm not."
He nodded, reached out, and gently ruffled her hair—careful not to touch the paint. Then he turned and walked out of the room, leaving her to the art, the silence, and the stars she was weaving with every stroke.
And this time, Nova didn't feel like she was just painting for someone else. She was painting for herself too—for the girl who once got caught with a crayon in her hand and a masterpiece on the wrong wall.