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“I haven’t told her.” The admission feels like confessing weakness. “I’m not sure she’s ready to hear it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to say it.”
He seems like he might smile for a moment. “But you’re willing to give up everything for her.”
I give him a repressive look. “I’m willing to give up everything for them and the family we’re building together.” I pick up the ultrasound photo again, tracing the outline of our daughter’s profile with my finger. “Love isn’t just about words, Maksim. It’s about choices, and I choose them over everything else.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.”
I smile briefly. “That’s worth a lot more than you might believe, Maksim.”
That night,after dinner and a movie that Sabrina picked—some romantic comedy that would normally make me reach for my phone—I actually pay attention to the story. Not because the plot is particularly compelling, but because watching Sabrina react to it is fascinating.
She laughs at the funny parts, rolls her eyes at the ridiculous romantic gestures, and tears up during the emotional scenes in a way that makes my chest ache with tenderness. Somewhere during the second act, she curls up against my side, her headfinding the spot between my shoulder and chest that seems designed for her.
“This is nice,” she whispers sleepily, resting her hand on the curve of her belly.
“What is?”
“This. Being normal. Watching terrible movies and eating too much popcorn and not thinking about anything complicated.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “You deserve normal.”
“We deserve normal,” she corrects, and the way she includes me in that statement does something to my chest I don’t want to examine too closely. By the time the credits roll, she’s asleep against me, breathing deeply in a way that tells me she feels safe. I should wake her to suggest we move to the bedroom, where she’ll be more comfortable.
Instead, I reach for my phone and send a carefully worded text to Maksim that commits to the plan we’ve designed:Start liquidating non-essential assets. Move offshore accounts to secure locations. Timeline is 6 months max.
His response comes within minutes:Understood. Will have preliminary plans ready by tomorrow.
I set aside the phone and settle back into the couch, careful not to disturb Sabrina’s peaceful sleep. Tomorrow I’ll begin the process of systematically destroying everything I’ve spent years building. I’ll make enemies of former allies and burn bridges that can never be rebuilt.
Tonight, holding the woman I love, and the child we created together, I can’t bring myself to regret any of it. Some things areworth burning the world down for, and my family is at the top of that very short list.
These will be my final months in theBratva. Once Vadim is eliminated and the immediate threats are neutralized, I want nothing left of this life to return to—no territory to reclaim, no operations to restart, and no reason for anyone to come looking for the man I used to be.
I’ll become someone new, who’s worthy of the family I’m determined to protect, and can teach his daughter about honor and loyalty without having to explain why those lessons came written in blood.
The transformation won’t be easy, and it won’t be without cost, but as I watch Sabrina sleep, one hand unconsciously protective over our child, it’s the only choice with which I can live.
My daughter will never know the sound of gunfire. She’ll never see her father’s hands stained with blood. She’ll grow up believing the world is fundamentally good because I’ll make sure the darkness never touches her. That’s a promise I intend to keep, no matter what it costs me.
21
Sabrina
The afternoon sun through the tall windows of the sunroom creates geometric patterns across the plush carpet where I’ve spread out baby clothes in careful piles after they’ve all been washed. Eugenie removed them from the dressers where we’d put them to handle the task, which hadn’t occurred to me the day we came home from the baby boutique.
Sorting through onesies and tiny socks all over again should feel overwhelming but instead, it brings a strange sense of peace. Each miniature garment represents the possibility this could all work out, and we can become the family I’m starting to believe we might be.
I hold up a pale yellow sleeper with little ducks embroidered across the chest, imagining our daughter wearing it during those first precious weeks. The fabric is impossibly soft, and I can almost picture Nikandr’s large hands struggling with the tiny snaps, his usually demeanor cracking into something tender and uncertain.
The image makes my chest ache with longing and possibility.
Things between us have shifted over the past few weeks in ways I’m still trying to understand. He’s been more present and thoughtful. Not just protective—though that instinct runs so deeply in him I doubt it’ll ever fade—but genuinely attentive to what I need and want. He brings me coffee exactly how I like it without being asked. He listens when I talk about the baby, both my fears and excitement, without trying to fix everything or take control.
Yesterday, he spent an hour assembling a rocking chair for the nursery, reading the instructions twice before starting and refusing my offer to help. When he finished, he tested it carefully, rocking back and forth with a concentration that made my heart flutter.
“It’s perfect,” I told him, settling into the chair to test the smooth motion.
He stood there watching me, hands shoved into his pockets, and for a moment, his expression was so tender I almost convinced myself I saw love there.