Page 25 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter twenty-three

The Present

M ila

The baby clothes arrive on a Tuesday morning, delivered in an elegant white box tied with pink and blue ribbons.

There's no return address, no delivery company logo, no indication of where they came from. Just a beautiful package sitting on our doorstep like a gift from a doting relative.

Except all our relatives know we haven't announced the pregnancy publicly yet.

"Boris," I call, my voice carefully controlled as I stare at the box from the safety of the foyer. "Can you come here, please?"

He appears within seconds, takes one look at my face and the mysterious package, and immediately shifts into high alert.

"Has anyone touched it?" he asks.

"No. I saw it from the window and knew something was wrong."

"Good instincts."

He approaches the box with the kind of caution reserved for potential explosives, using his phone to photograph it from every angle before carefully lifting the lid.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper like precious treasures, are the most beautiful baby clothes I've ever seen. Tiny onesies in soft pastels, miniature sweaters with intricate embroidery, little shoes that could fit in the palm of my hand.

And underneath it all, a note written in elegant script: Congratulations on the heir. —A friend.

"Alexei needs to see this," Boris says grimly.

"Already here." My husband's voice comes from behind me, deadly calm in the way that means someone is about to have a very bad day. "I heard Mila call for you."

He reads the note over Boris's shoulder, and I watch his face transform into something cold and predatory.

"How did they know?" I ask.

"That's exactly what we're going to find out."

The next hour is a blur of security protocols and damage assessment. The box is taken away for forensic analysis, the staff is questioned about any unusual deliveries or visitors, and our communication lines are swept for surveillance devices.

The conclusion is as disturbing as it is clear: someone has been watching us closely enough to know about the pregnancy, sophisticated enough to breach our delivery security, and bold enough to send a message directly to our door.

"Roman's dead," I say as we gather in Alexei's study. "His organization was scattered. Who else would—"

"Roman had allies," Dmitri explains, his weathered face grim. "Other families who saw him as useful, business partners who profited from his operations. Not everyone was happy about his elimination."

"So this is revenge?"

"This is a probe," Alexei corrects. "Someone testing our defenses, seeing how we react to a subtle threat."

"Subtle?" I gesture toward where the box had been. "They know about our baby. They know where we live. They can get packages past our security. How is that subtle?"

"Because they didn't send a bomb or poison or an actual threat. They sent baby clothes and congratulations. Plausible deniability if we try to retaliate."

"But the message is clear," Boris adds. "They can reach your family whenever they want."

The implications make my blood run cold. Our child—our precious, wanted, planned-for child—is already being used as leverage by people who want to hurt us.

"Options?" Alexei asks, his voice carrying the authority that makes dangerous men pay attention.

"Increase security, limit public appearances, investigate the source," Dmitri lists. "Standard protection protocols."

"That's defensive thinking. What about offensive options?"

"Without knowing who sent it? Risky. We could end up starting a war with the wrong people."

"Or we could wait for them to escalate and find ourselves reacting to a real threat instead of a implied one."

I listen to them discuss strategy and countermeasures, but my mind is focused on something else entirely. The careful script on that note, the expensive baby clothes, the timing of the delivery—there's something familiar about the whole thing.

"The handwriting," I say suddenly.

All three men turn to look at me.

"The note. The handwriting looked familiar."

"Familiar how?" Alexei asks.

"I've seen it before. Recently." I close my eyes, trying to remember where. "Business documents, maybe? Or..."

The memory hits me like lightning.

"The catering contract," I breathe. "For the charity gala last month. The one we decided not to attend because of morning sickness."

Alexei's expression sharpens. "Viktor's files mentioned a catering company with ties to Roman's network."

"Elena Volkov," Dmitri says grimly. "Roman's sister. She runs several legitimate businesses as fronts, including—"

"Including the catering company that was supposed to serve our charity event."

"She's been watching us," I realize. "Planning this since before Roman died. Maybe even coordinating with him."

"Which means she knows everything he knew about our operations, our security, our vulnerabilities."

"And she has the resources to act on that information."

Alexei stands abruptly, moving to the window that overlooks our gardens. "Elena Volkov is more dangerous than her brother ever was. Roman was emotional, reactive. Elena is patient, methodical. She plans."

"What's her endgame?" I ask.

"Revenge for Roman. Restoration of the Volkov name. And probably expansion into our territory while we're distracted."

"Using our baby as leverage."

"Using our baby as her opening move."

The room falls silent as we process the implications. This isn't just about past grievances or territorial disputes. This is about a woman who's willing to threaten an unborn child to achieve her goals.

"So what do we do?" I ask.

"We eliminate the threat," Alexei says simply.

"Alexei—"

"No. Absolutely not. I will not spend the next seven months wondering when Elena Volkov is going to escalate, what she's planning next, whether our child is safe. We end this now."

"And if we're wrong? If it wasn't Elena?"

"Then we find out who it really was and eliminate them too."

The cold finality in his voice reminds me that beneath the loving husband and expectant father is a man who's built his life on calculated violence. When someone threatens his family, moral complexity becomes irrelevant.

"I want to help," I say.

"Absolutely not."

"Alexei—"

"No, Mila. You're pregnant. You're not going anywhere near Elena Volkov or anyone else who might pose a threat."

"I'm the best person to investigate her business connections. My technical skills—"

"Can be used from here, from safety, while other people handle the dangerous work."

"That's not how partnerships work."

"That's exactly how partnerships work when one partner is carrying the other partner's child."

We stare at each other across the study, and I can see the battle lines being drawn. His protective instincts versus my need to be useful. His fear for our baby versus my refusal to be sidelined.

"Compromise," Dmitri suggests quietly.

"I'm listening," I say.

"Mrs. Morozov handles intelligence gathering from a secure location. Technical analysis, financial investigation, pattern recognition. No fieldwork, no direct contact with threats, but full access to information and planning."

"And Elena?" Alexei asks.

"We find her, confirm she's the source, and eliminate the threat before it can escalate."

"Eliminate meaning kill?"

"Eliminate meaning whatever is necessary to protect your family."

Alexei nods grimly. "How long do we need?"

"Seventy-two hours to locate her current base of operations. Another twenty-four to plan and execute."

"Do it."

The meeting breaks up with assignments distributed and timelines established. Dmitri and Boris head out to coordinate surveillance teams, leaving Alexei and me alone with the weight of this new threat.

"I hate this," I say.

"Which part?"

"All of it. The fact that someone is threatening our baby before it's even born. The fact that Roman's death didn't end our problems. The fact that you're planning to kill someone else to keep us safe."

"I hate it too."

"Do you? Really? Or is this just another business problem to solve?"

He crosses the room and pulls me into his arms, and I can feel the tension radiating from his body.

"You think I enjoy this?" he asks. "You think I want to spend our pregnancy planning wars instead of decorating nurseries?"

"I think you're good at it. The planning, the violence, the cold calculation."

"I am good at it. That's what makes me capable of protecting you."

"And what makes you dangerous to be married to."

"Yes."

The simple honesty in his admission makes my chest ache. He's not trying to minimize the reality of our situation or pretend that loving him comes without costs.

"I'm scared," I admit.

"Of Elena?"

"Of what this life is going to do to our child. Of raising a baby in a world where people send threatening gifts and we solve problems with murder."

"Our child will be loved and protected and given every advantage possible."

"Our child will grow up thinking this is normal."

"Maybe. Or maybe they'll grow up strong enough to choose something different."

"And if they choose your world?"

"Then we'll make sure they're better at it than I am."

"Better how?"

"Smarter. More strategic. Less willing to let emotion drive decisions."

"Less human?"

"More careful about who they love and how much they're willing to sacrifice to protect those people."

I pull back to look at him, and I can see the pain behind his calm expression. He knows what our world costs, knows what it demands, knows what it might require from our children.

"Do you ever regret it?" I ask. "This life, this business, the choices that led us here?"

"I regret that you have to live with the consequences of my choices. I regret that our child will inherit enemies they didn't create. But I don't regret the life that brought me to you."

"Even if it means Elena Volkov can threaten our family?"

"Even then. Because the alternative is a world where I never met you, never fell in love with you, never got the chance to build a future with you."

"A safer world."

"A emptier world."

He cups my face in his hands, and I can see all the love and fear and desperate protectiveness in his pale green eyes.

"I will keep you safe," he promises. "I will keep our baby safe. Whatever it costs, whatever I have to do, whatever I have to become—I will protect my family."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I believe him. Despite the fear and the uncertainty and the knowledge that our lives will never be simple or safe, I believe him.

"What do we do now?" I ask.

"Now we let Dmitri and Boris handle the investigation while we focus on more important things."

"Such as?"

"Such as making sure you eat lunch and take your prenatal vitamins and rest like Dr. Petrov ordered."

"That's not exactly riveting."

"And such as letting me remind you why this life—dangerous and complicated as it is—is worth fighting for."

The heat in his voice makes my pulse quicken. "Is that a proposition?"

"That's a guarantee."

He leads me out of the study and up to our bedroom, where the morning light streams through windows that will soon need bulletproof glass. Where our bed holds memories of love and passion and the future we're building together.

"Alexei," I say as he begins unbuttoning my blouse with careful precision. "Are you trying to distract me from the Elena situation?"

"I'm trying to remind us both what we're protecting."

"And what are we protecting?"

"This." He presses a soft kiss to my throat. "Us. The love that makes everything else worthwhile."

"Even the danger?"

"Especially the danger."

When he makes love to me this time, it's with an intensity that speaks of desperation and determination in equal measure. Like he's trying to memorize every touch, every response, every moment of connection between us.

"I love you," he murmurs against my skin as he maps my body with reverent hands. "I love you and our baby and the future we're going to have together."

"Even if that future includes people like Elena?"

"Especially because it includes people like Elena. They remind me what I'm fighting for."

"And what are you fighting for?"

"You. Our family. The right to build something beautiful in an ugly world."

The climax builds slowly, sweetly, like a promise that better things are possible even in the midst of chaos. When I come apart in his arms, it's with his name on my lips and hope in my heart that somehow, someway, we'll find a way through this latest threat.

Afterward, we lie tangled together while he traces lazy patterns on my still-flat stomach.

"Elena won't hurt our baby," he says quietly.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I won't let her. Because Dmitri won't let her. Because we have an entire organization dedicated to protecting what matters most."

"And if that's not enough?"

"Then I'll burn the world down before I let anyone hurt our family."

The words should scare me. Instead, they make me feel safe.

Because I know he means every single one.

He’s proven it time and time again.