Page 128 of Unbroken

I let out a slow sigh. “I just don’t know how I’m going to do this. I’m not sure I can be a good mother…”

His eyes lift to mine. “I’msure about you. And you’re not alone.”

That’s all he says.

It’s all I need.

Because this isn’t the man who once drank himself to sleep on the couch. This isn’t the enforcer who puts bullets through skulls with no hesitation. This isn’t even the grieving widower who used to flinch at the sight of me.

This is Vadka.

The man who sets the table and lights candles and researches superfoods while the city sleeps.

The man who rests his hand on my belly with reverence.

And somehow, impossibly, I believe him.

Later that night, when the dishes are done and Luka is fully asleep, I stand in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth. Vadka comes up behind me, arms snaking around my waist, one hand flattening over my stomach again.

I lean back into him.

He meets my eyes in the mirror.

Together, we look like something rebuilt. Something strong.

Somethingunbroken.

VADKA

The box saidSome Assembly Required.

It lied.

The crib is spread out across the nursery floor—planks of pale wood, indecipherable screws, and vague instruction diagrams that look like ancient hieroglyphic writing. There’s a manual on the floor, bent and abandoned after page four because it was clearly written by someone who’s never touched a wrench in their life.

I kneel in front of the chaos, my brows drawn, one hand steadying a half-assembled side rail while the other tightens a bolt with clinical precision.

The nursery is almost done.

Behind me, Ruthie leans in the doorway with her arms folded across her belly. She’s barefoot, wearing one of my T-shirts knotted at her hip, her hair messy and eyes impossibly soft. She hasn’t said anything for the last few minutes—just watched. Quiet. Thoughtful.

“You’re really doing it,” she murmurs. “Bratva enforcer turned crib builder. We’re in uncharted territory here.”

I grunt but smile.

She steps forward, bare feet soundless on the rug. Her fingers trail along the top rail of the crib, then down to my shoulder.

“You know,” she says, low and teasing, “the baby’s not sleeping in here.”

I blink. “What?”

She smiles like it’s obvious. “We’re not doing separate rooms. I’m not trekking across the house at two a.m. with a screaming infant while you pretend not to hear.”

I raise a brow. “So we’re what… putting the crib in our room?” What the fuck? How are we supposed to have any privacy?

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

A beat. Then, gently, “Baby’s in the roomwithus. Bassinet.”