Page 42 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Anton

T he autumn air carries the scent of woodsmoke and fallen leaves as I watch Lena move through our garden, six-month-old Alexei strapped to her chest in a carrier.

She's pointing out the last tomatoes of the season to our son, her voice soft and melodic as she explains colors and textures he's still too young to understand.

But he listens anyway, his bright blue eyes—my eyes—tracking her movements with the intense focus that seems to be his trademark.

Lena always says he’s wise beyond his years. As soon as the boy starts talking, he’s going to have a lot to say.

He’s watchful.

Always observing.

It reminds me I need to watch what I say.

I am creating the next generation. I have the power to shape him through my actions.

"Your mama is teaching you about vegetables," I call out from where I'm setting up our lunch on the patio table. "Wait until she starts on the flowers. We'll be here all day."

Lena shoots me a mock glare over her shoulder. "He needs to learn these things. Don't you, little one?" She drops a kiss on Alexei's dark hair—hair that's already showing signs of being as unruly as mine was at that age.

"Daddy doesn't appreciate the finer points of horticulture."

"Daddy appreciates that Mama's garden keeps us fed," I reply, spreading the checkered tablecloth Elena bought us last month.

She insisted we needed "picnic supplies" for outdoor meals with the baby.

The domesticity of it all still catches me off guard sometimes.

A year ago, I was deciding whether to seize control of the Orlov empire or disappear entirely.

Now I'm debating whether the pumpkins are ready for harvest and wondering if Alexei's getting enough tummy time.

I made my choice six months ago, the day our son was born.

Lena settles into the chair across from me, carefully maneuvering Alexei out of the carrier.

He immediately starts fussing, his tiny fists waving in the air with indignation at being moved.

"Someone's hungry," she observes, lifting her shirt to nurse him. The sight of my wife feeding our child still fills me with a primal satisfaction I can't quite name.

Mine. Both of them. Safe and content and utterly perfect.

"He gets that from me," I say, unwrapping the sandwiches she prepared this morning. "The Malikov appetite is legendary."

"The Malikov stubbornness is more accurate," Lena counters, but she's smiling as Alexei latches on and immediately settles.

"He spent an hour this morning refusing his bottle when I tried to pump.

Wouldn't take it from Mom, wouldn't take it from me.

Just screamed until I gave in and nursed him directly. "

"Smart boy. He knows what he wants."

"Just like his father."

I reach across to stroke Alexei's cheek with my finger.

His skin is impossibly soft, unmarked by violence or fear.

He has no idea that his parents once killed for each other, once stood in warehouses surrounded by bodies and blood.

To him, we're just Mama and Papa—the people who feed him and change his diapers and sing lullabies in the middle of the night.

It's exactly how I want it to stay.

The sound of an approaching car draws my attention. A sleek black sedan winds up our long driveway.

I recognize the driver immediately.

Dmitri, right on time for our weekly lunch.

"Uncle Dmitri's here," Lena announces to Alexei, who's too busy eating to care. "He probably brought you something completely inappropriate for a six-month-old."

She's not wrong.

Last week it was a toy gun that shot foam darts.

The week before, a leather jacket sized for a toddler.

Dmitri seems determined to turn our son into a miniature version of himself.

Lena adjusts the blanket to cover herself.

The car door slams and Dmitri emerges, looking every inch the successful businessman in his tailored suit and polished shoes.

To anyone watching, he could be a banker or a lawyer coming to visit friends in the country.

They'd never guess he's the most feared enforcer in Moscow's underworld.

"Where's my nephew?" he calls out as he approaches, a wrapped gift tucked under his arm.

"Eating lunch," I reply. "And before you ask, no, he's not ready for solid food yet. Stop bringing him steaks."

"That was one time," Dmitri protests, settling into the third chair. "And it was a very small steak."

Lena shakes her head in amusement. "What did you bring him today?"

Dmitri's grin is sheepish as he unwraps the gift to reveal a tiny leather holster, sized for a baby. "It's empty," he says quickly when he sees our expressions. "Just for show. He needs to look the part."

"The part of what?" I ask.

"Future Pakhan of the Malikov family."

The words hang in the air between us. It's the first time Dmitri has used the title so casually, so openly. For the past year, we've maintained the fiction that I walked away from the Bratva entirely. That I chose family over power, peace over violence.

The truth is more complicated.

"Dmitri," Lena warns, glancing down at Alexei as if our six-month-old might somehow understand and be traumatized.

"What? He should know his heritage." Dmitri reaches over to tickle Alexei's feet, earning a gurgle that might be laughter. "Besides, it's not like we're hiding it from him. Half of Moscow knows who his father really is."

“I lean back in my chair, studying my oldest friend. "How bad is it this week?"

"The Kozlov situation is handled," Dmitri reports, his tone shifting to business. "Permanently. The territory disputes in the south are resolved. And the Petrov family has agreed to the new terms for their shipping operations."

Lena looks between us, her expression resigned.

She knows this conversation was inevitable.

We've been dancing around it for months, pretending I could somehow run the most powerful criminal organization in Russia from our peaceful cottage in the countryside.

"And the Chechens?" I ask.

"Neutralized. They won't be a problem again." Dmitri's smile is sharp. "Turns out they weren't as tough as they thought once they realized who they were actually dealing with."

The satisfaction in his voice reminds me why I chose him as my second-in-command.

Dmitri doesn't just follow orders—he anticipates needs, eliminates threats before they become problems, and handles the dirty work so I can stay here with my family.

"Good," I say simply.

"Anton," Lena's voice is quiet. "We agreed?—"

"We agreed I wouldn't put our family at risk," I interrupt gently. "We agreed I wouldn't become like Vadim. But we never agreed I would let chaos consume everything while I played house in the country."

She's quiet for a long moment, adjusting Alexei to burp him.

Our son obliges with a satisfied sound that makes all three of us smile despite the tension.

"If your father could see you now,” she says with a small laugh. “Running the Bratva from a distance while pretending to be a retired farmer."

"This is what works," I shrug. "Dmitri handles day-to-day operations. I make the big decisions. The violence stays away from our door, but I maintain enough control to ensure our safety. He would be jealous that I figured out how to balance my worlds."

How do I explain to my son that his father is a killer? That the peaceful life we've built is paid for with blood and fear?

Dmitri clears his throat. "We need to discuss the Volkov meeting next week. They're requesting face-to-face negotiations, and they won't accept anyone but you."

I nod.

It's inevitable that some situations require my personal attention.

The Pakhan can't remain completely invisible, no matter how much I would prefer it.

"Where and when?"

"Moscow. Thursday evening. I've arranged security, and Elena has agreed to stay with Lena and the baby while you're gone."

"I can take care of myself," Lena interjects, but there's no heat in it. She knows as well as I do that my enemies would love nothing more than to hurt her to get to me.

"You can," I agree. "But humor me anyway."

She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue further.

Alexei has finished eating and is now making contented baby noises as he looks around the garden with curiosity.

Everything is new to him, worth investigating with those serious blue eyes.

"He's going to be tall," Dmitri observes. "Look at those legs."

"He gets that from Anton," Lena says. "Everything good comes from Anton. The stubbornness and the appetite—those are Rostova traits."

"The intelligence comes from you," I counter. "And the beauty."

"The protective instincts come from both of you," Dmitri adds. "I swear he glares at strangers just like his father."

As if summoned by our conversation, another car appears on the driveway.

This one I recognize immediately—Elena's modest sedan, which she drives whenever she visits from her new apartment in the city.

"Grandmother's here," Lena announces to Alexei, who responds by blowing a spit bubble.

Elena emerges from her car carrying what appears to be another care package.

She's never been happier than she has this past year.

She spoils Alexei shamelessly and has appointed herself chief advisor on all things baby-related.

This will likely be her last visit before winter sets in.

Spain has been good for her.

She’s slowly spending more time in Russia, but we all understand how difficult it is for her.

"There's my grandson," she calls out, her face lighting up as she spots Alexei in Lena's arms. "And there's my beautiful daughter. Anton, you look like you need more food. Are you eating enough?"

"Hello, Elena," I say dryly. "Yes, I'm eating plenty. Lena makes sure of that."

"Good." Elena settles into the fourth chair, immediately reaching for Alexei, who goes to her willingly. "This little one is getting so big. Are you ready to start him on solids yet?"

"The pediatrician says another month or two," Lena replies. "Though Dmitri keeps trying to speed up the process."

"Baby steps," Elena says firmly, shooting Dmitri a look. "Literally. Let him be a baby."

"He needs to toughen up eventually," Dmitri protests.