Page 32 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva (Yezhov Bratva #8)

A Few Weeks Later

I wasn’t jumping or kneeling by Zoella’s bedside with tears in my eyes, but standing here by the door and watching her scream and push from a distance was already intense enough as it was.

There she was, in sweat and tears, fighting to bring our baby into this bloodstained, tainted world of ours, while I reminded myself to breathe and stand still.

She’ll be fine , I repeated in my head. She’ll be fine.

If anything happened to her or our baby, I knew I wouldn’t hesitate to send the midwives to early graves.

The countdowns started again, right before they urged Zoella to push with all her might.

And in the middle of it, out of nowhere, came this flash from years ago.

I was maybe sixteen. Still green, still trying to grow into the steel the men around me carried in their bones.

I was at one of the aunt’s houses, dragged there after a job by orders nobody ever dared question.

I was with a bunch of the younger cousins, and the girls were watching some corny American movie; I sat there, pretending not to care.

But I watched with them.

I remembered the scene with the woman screaming on a hospital bed, the father holding her hand, crying when he saw the baby lifted in the nurse’s hands.

I’d laughed, snorted something stupid about him being soft.

But secretly? I didn’t understand it then, not the crying or the father’s joy.

I certainly didn’t understand the kind of love that cracked a person open and made him fall to his knees.

Until now.

A tiny but sharp cry pierced through everything else in the room and carved straight into my chest, almost like the cry came straight from inside me.

I saw Zoella lying there, pale as snow and shaking with exhaustion, but Christ …she was beautiful.

Radiant, even, as if all the pain she’d just endured had only carved her deeper into the depths of my soul.

The midwives moved with urgency to wrap the tiny thing in soft white cloth.

All the while, I struggled to find my breath.

Then they placed our daughter onto her mother’s chest, and this time, the rest of the room blurred around them.

Zoella looked up at me, and I swore I nearly fell to my knees like that man in the movie. Her eyes were glassy with tears, her lips trembling like she couldn’t believe it either.

And that look undid a twisted knot inside me.

Uncertain, I stepped closer, my boots heavy on the rugged floor. I’d faced death a dozen times and never once felt this…afraid. Afraid to touch something so small and pure.

But Zoella nodded, encouraging me with a smile while one of the midwives guided the bundle into my arms.

This girl— my beautiful girl— weighed nothing. And yet, she weighed everything.

A soft sigh came from her lips, and it wrecked me. My heart tightened. Something alien, sharp, and painful rose in my throat.

Tears.

But I didn’t let them fall.

I held her closer, like the world might try to take her from me if I didn’t.

In this precious moment, the Bratva didn’t exist. The countless body bags and blood on my hands, Rurik’s betrayal, Yulia’s death—everything disappeared. All that remained was my wife and this heartbeat against my chest, curling her tiny finger, not larger than a matchstick, around my thumb.

I couldn’t stop staring.

She was impossibly small, and she held on like she knew me before now, like she trusted me and I deserved that trust.

Zoella’s voice broke through the fog. “Let’s call her Anya,” she said gently. “I did a lot of research on Russian baby names, and I think Anya stuck with me. What do you think?”

I didn’t answer.

The name was lovely and delicate. At first glance, it seemed like it suited her, but it wasn’t the best.

“No…” I murmured, still watching our baby’s face.

I traced the shape of her cheeks with my eyes and stroked the softness of her cheek with the tip of my finger.

“Mira.”

It slipped out before I even knew I’d decided.

Zoella was quiet for a second. “Mira,” she repeated slowly, as if she was testing it out. “Why Mira? I mean, I like it, but you said it like it means something more.”

Yes, it meant something more.

I swallowed hard, but I didn’t look at her. I needed to believe something good could still come from me. Because if this world ever touched her, I’d tear it apart with my bare hands.

“Because it means peace,” I finally said, surprised at the roughness of my voice. “And maybe she can have the kind I never did.”

Zoella didn’t speak again. Her hand found mine and squeezed it gently, but I couldn’t stop looking at our daughter, my Mira.

I should’ve handed her back. Maybe walked out and reminded myself who I was. But I stayed with my little one and allowed myself to feel all the love she offered, even with her bubbly coos and faint smiles.

This kind of love was not the kind in fairytales or fake promises; it crept in without warning, the kind that gutted you from the inside, and in my world, where mercy got you killed, where weakness meant war, that kind of love wasn’t a gift. It was a fucking curse.

But this was one curse I was willing to endure.

***

The house had been loud for hours, buzzing with life and mild celebration.

Some of the workers moved in and out like bees, carrying trays heavy with roast duck, sweet rice cakes, and bottles of aged cognac from the cellar I didn’t even know we still had.

The scent of saffron and garlic drifted through the halls and up the stairs to the rooms.

My men were downstairs, and their voices boomed over one another as they drank and laughed, possibly slapping each other on the backs like proud uncles.

They were celebrating my Mira.

In all my years, I’d never seen the compound like that before. Guards had loosened their ties. The kitchen staff, usually quiet, hummed and chattered as they worked. Even the floors felt warmer, as though they too had caught the fever of new life.

A cheer rose from downstairs. The men were toasting again, shouting Mira’s name like we’d won something.

Later that night, the house was finally quiet.

The excitement of the day had melted into a quiet serenity. Mira slept soundly in the crib, and I stood in the doorway, watching mother and child.

Zoella sat beside the crib, gently smoothing over Mira’s baby hair.

Exhaustion showed on her features, with her eyes half-shut from the kind of tired that lived in her bones. But underneath the eye bags and teary eyes was a radiant glow that filled me with pride.

Zoella looked up, and for a heartbeat, our eyes locked.

“Is it strange that she looks like you when you’re not pretending to be made of stone?” she whispered.

I took a slow step into the room. “I never pretend. I am made of stone.”

“And yet, you bawled your eyes out when Mira held your finger.”

Zoella was smiling now, eyes bright and gleaming with something that looked like admiration.

My hands clenched into fists. I didn’t know how to do this—how to be this. A father or a good husband.

“She’s small,” I said, voice low. “All I can think about is how dangerous it is for her to be in a world like ours. She shouldn’t be in a world like this.”

Zoella blinked slowly, then turned back to Mira. “But we can’t send her back now, or can we?”

I sighed. “Zoella….”

“What do you want me to say?” She looked sad.

“You know you’re right. I’ve known it even before today.

But stating the obvious right now won’t change anything.

What we can do is make it better. Create a better environment for her, so she won’t have to go through half the shit we’ve both been through. ”

I dropped to my haunches beside her, not sure when my legs gave out. When I stole a glimpse at our sleeping daughter, I ached.

“I don’t know if I can,” I confessed.

Zoella leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder. “You don’t have to know right now. We can figure it out together. All I need is for you to just try.”

Outside, mild thunder rolled far away, though much softer now, but I wanted to believe that the worst of the storm had passed.

Right here, with Zoella fast asleep in my arms, and Mira in the crib beside the bed, a new day had begun.