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Chapter Thirteen

DEMYAN

Jesus, fuck, is the kid small.

He’s chubby and yet so fucking fragile I might actually throw up.

How the hell do you stop something like him from getting hurt? Crushed? Killed? Not even in the grand scheme of things. I mean the day to fucking day. Bumping into things, falling, getting crushed underfoot?

And the baby is… gorgeous.

I rub a spot on my chest that’s both ice and fire at the same time. Impossibly full and empty. I don’t get it. I’m not a fucking baby person. I don’t even think about them.

And yet…

Here he fucking is.

My son.

Looking like me, yeah, but her, too.

He’s what? Two? A fucking breakable baby.

And she kept him from me.

Sasha frowns, scrunching up his face in his sleep as one tiny, chubby hand opens and closes like he’s reaching for something that isn’t there .

But he doesn’t wake. And Olga’s in the corner, watching him, not looking at me, not saying a thing. Good. She knows better.

She did build a little pillow fort for him, so he can’t roll off and hurt himself.

Shit. I need baby crap.

I turn and stalk out because if I stay in here, I might not remember how to breathe.

This place isn’t exactly where I like to spend too much of my time, but it is, for want of a better term, home base. It’s fitted to be a stronghold. All the place needs are turrets, a moat, and my father’s fucked-up vision would be complete.

Funny. It wasn’t a home filled with happiness, love, and memories he wanted, but a fucking kingdom, a fortress no one could penetrate or escape from.

No one, that is, except one fucking female who has no idea of my world.

But instead of my Chicago duplex penthouse, this place is home base, the head of operations, and fills in all the other terms.

As I stand at the base of the stairs and peer up, the soft lighting and polished woods do nothing to warm me. Just like the guards outside and now dotted throughout the house on actual posts do nothing to assuage the thing that won’t settle inside.

This place is usually empty, and now it beats with life. Innocence, pain, and fury, they’re all here. Coming at me through the walls.

My sister with her shattered heart, the small toddler that’s part of me, his mother who no doubt wants my head on a pike. All of it fills and sings and chatters in the air.

As one of the guards posted at the bottom of the stairs risks a glance at me, I turn and stalk off to the downstairs office .

I dial the number, toss my phone now set on speaker onto the sofa, pour myself a Laphroaig, down the fine single malt, and pour another, just as Ilya answers.

“Demyan?”

“First thing, I need you to buy quality clothes—the whole gamut—and toys for Sasha.”

There’s a beat. “Who the fuck is Sasha?”

“Are two-year-olds toilet trained?”

“How the fuck do I know?” Ilya says. “Have you lost your fucking mind, boss, and kidnapped a kid?”

I finish the second glass and throw myself down on the sofa for a moment. “Sasha’s my son.”

There’s absolute silence. And then he says, “Your what?”

“My son.”

“Since when do you have a kid?”

“Since two years ago. And yeah, I just found out.” I switch to Russian. “I’m just as shocked as you, Ilya. That woman, Erin, had my kid and didn’t tell me about it.”

“Do you want a kid?”

“He’s mine,” I snap. “And she didn’t tell me.”

Ilya sighs. “A child is big, Demyan.”

“I know.”

“Is this something you want?”

“He’s mine.”

That ends the conversation, and Ilya knows. And I know him. It’s only over for now.

I breathe out and run a hand over my face.

Ilya’s right to ask if this is what I want. I’ve never been a man who gets soft about children. When traitors use their offspring to plead out of a beating, punishment, death, it only annoyed, never swayed me.

To me, it just seemed like they were convenient to the guy who’d fucked up, a thing to trot out as their saving grace.

I shudder .

My never giving in to the coward who told me of his pregnant wife or the young one at home helped earn me some of my nicknames; most of them I forget as nothing has stuck, but the sentiments? They have. I’m carved of ice and rock. I have no heart. I’m a demon. I hate children.

I don’t. But they’re a gift, not a right, and even for a man like me, I’m not opposed to them. But my life story never had room for a child, not how I wrote it.

Maybe I should just say kids were never on my radar, because the last person I ever want to be is my rotting in hell father.

I’ve been too focused on proving that bastard wrong in his assessment of me.

Too focused on turning the tides to prove I was good enough to run the bratva.

And now I’m running it better than he ever did, ever could.

Because I can see how the future changes and the bratva must change too. Or die out.

Thinking about it, I guess I always had a vague notion that one day in an unmapped future there’d be kids when my position was more than cemented, after I married someone to further the bratva.

But like this? Now? I’m not…

It’s a fucking lot to wrap my head around.

With a sigh, I get up, restless inside. Ilya can’t do anything until first thing in the morning. I go up and check on Alina, easing her door open when she doesn’t respond to my knock.

She’s fast asleep, still in the wedding dress, curled up, tears still damp on her skin. Hundreds of balled-up tissues litter the floor and bed.

I pull the covers up over her, brushing the ones on the bed to the floor. My heart breaks, the ache bone-deep. I fucking hate that my baby sister’s in pain and there’s not a thing I can do.

Short of bringing Max back or turning back the clock, it doesn’t matter what I say or do. Nothing will make this better. Nothing.

I tuck her in, smooth her hair from her face, and kiss her forehead. Then I creep back out, closing the door softly.

Above me, a certain room calls, but I close that down.

I’m not ready to face her.

The anger in me, the latent threads of lust—because that thing that drew me to her three years ago is still there, alive and well—are things I’m not interested in exploring.

So I head back down, crossing the foyer and going down the hall to the living room. I take a breath before I open the door.

“Take a break,” I say to Olga.

She nods and leaves.

After she goes, I stand, the golden low light of the lamps warm and inviting, something a small child might find comforting.

I stare at the toddler, curled up, his chubby little hand fisted on the pillow Olga got from who knows where. For a moment anger flares at her leaving him alone, but I don’t think she did. There’s enough staff here to do her bidding on my behalf.

The cushions are now scattered that previously formed a fort, he is wedged in with actual pillows, and his blanket neatly tucked around him. Something inside goes tight, twists, and I’m flooded by a pure warmth that prickles.

I’m heavy and light at the same time. Sasha is so peaceful in his sleep, like he belongs, like he’s always been here. He fills the space so solidly I can’t imagine it without him.

Shit. My throat goes tight and I walk over to him, crouching down, and I gently touch his forehead as I brush a strand of silky hair from his skin. He’s like warmth itself. A tiny angel of joy and now my heart is swollen and I blink hard .

How the fuck do I even feel this fierce love for him, a kid I don’t even know? But I do, and there’s a connection so strong I can’t breathe.

With it comes fucking fear. What if I mess this up? What if he’s hurt somehow because of me? Terror rips through me.

I stand and stumble back, rubbing my chest. With deep breaths, I manage to sit on the armchair next to him, and I watch him. He’s perfect, real, and mine.

But I’ve no idea where to start with this kid. Sasha’s two, and I’m a stranger. He’s going to be very attached to his mother. That’s a given. She’s all he knows. And she clearly loves him and cares for him with the utmost reverence. I’m guessing they’re each other’s worlds.

And I’m…

Nothing.

A fucking stranger. One who burst in and made him and his mom cry.

A monster.

The bad man.

Christ, this kid’s gonna be hysterical when he wakes to me and not his mom. Worse when he discovers she’s gone. He might reject me.

I clench my fist.

There’s no way I’m punishing a small child for not knowing me, for not wanting me. But I am, I guess, going to punish him by proxy by keeping her from him. Because I sure as fuck am going to punish Erin. She has to fucking pay for keeping my child from me. Essentially stealing him.

I’m aware this line is completely unreasonable, but I really don’t care. It’s how I feel.

Because how fucking dare she do this? He’s mine. Mine .

A soft sound draws my attention and I look up. Sasha’s awake. He lets out a small grizzle. “Mama.” And then, “Goat.”

He looks about and his mouth quivers .

“Mama?” He starts to cry. “Mama!”

He sees me and starts screaming.

“Hey Sasha,” I say as soothingly as I can as I go to him.

The boy shrinks back and his screams and sobs get louder. “Mama! Mama! I want Mama!”

He’s scared of me.

I reach for him and his hysteria reaches such heights I’m worried for his safety. His face is brick red and his screams and sobs are full of water and snot. I’m not even sure he’s breathing.

What the fuck do I do? His screams get worse and panic sets in.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” And I just stand there because if I move toward him, he’ll just get worse.

“What the hell…” Alina says above the noise.

I turn and for a moment I can’t breathe either. She’s blotchy, her face swollen, and she and Sasha could take their act on the road, they’re both so grief-stricken, though his is more tantrum and fear than grief.

“Mama!” Sasha’s eyes latch on Alina and there’s a flash of something like recognition, and he holds out his arms.

She shoots me a look and then scoops up the toddler. “Hi, Sasha. It’s okay, it’s okay. Mama’s asleep. I’m Alina, I’m here…”

“Dino,” he says between sobs. “I want Mama.”

“How are you feeling?” I ask her.

But she ignores me as she rocks and hugs Sasha, murmuring things to him until he slowly calms finally, like a fucking miracle, he’s calm enough to hook a handful of her hair and stare up at her with a smile. “Dino.”

Dino? He’s calling her Dino? Or maybe he has a dino somewhere. But he’s looking at her with adoration, like she’s a perfect mama substitution until his own mama wakes up .

My jaw tenses as they talk, and she nuzzles him, blowing raspberries on him until he giggles.

And instead of happiness or relief, my chest gets tight.

I know I should be happy he’s responding to one of us and he’s stopped trying to bring the mansion down by screams alone.

But I wanted it to be me, his father. Instead, my son prefers his aunt, whom he’s never met.

Shit, maybe they did as Alina knew Erin had a kid, but it would have been once and briefly.

It doesn’t matter, I’m a failure. My son hates me.

Fuck.

Sasha finally falls back asleep, and she carefully puts him back on the little bed made up on the sofa. My sister spends a while stroking his hair until her shoulders rise and fall and she gets to her feet.

“I’m glad you found them, Demyan. I’d hate to think of Erin and this sweet little boy out there.

Whoever took me probably thinks she’s part of our family since they tried to kidnap her, too.

” She’s speaking Russian, her pain and anger and despair more pronounced.

“Where is Erin? I told him she was sleeping but…” Her eyes go wide.

“She’s fine,” I say. “She…” I nod. “She’s sleeping.”

“Okay.”

I look at my son. “He hates me; he thinks I’m a monster.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s a little boy and you’re a big man, Demyan. I think it’s just been Erin and her son, no father or boyfriend, just them. So…” She offers a sad, tired smile. “He woke with strangers in a strange place. It’ll take time, but he’ll come around.”

I have to tell her. “Alina, you don’t understand. I… I met Erin once before. In New York. Three years ago.”

“So she should…” she trails off, her gaze locking on mine. “Demyan?”

“He’s my son. ”

My sister closes her eyes. “I don’t have the bandwidth right now, but… you didn’t rescue them to protect them?”

“She kept my son from me. I never knew, Alina. He’s mine, and she hid my son from me.”

“Demyan?”

“She’s here, upstairs. She’s not going to see him. Right now, how I’m feeling, she won’t see him before he’s twenty-one.”

“That’s going to win his favor.”

I give her a sharp look. “Alina.”

“This is… this is complicated. I’m going to bed. I can’t… I’m sorry.” She squeezes my hand. “It’ll take time. He doesn’t hate you; he’s just scared. He’ll come around.”

She leaves, head low, and I hate I dumped all that on her.

“He’ll come around,” I whisper.

I hope so, and deep down, intellectually, I know that. But it doesn’t make it better. And it doesn’t stop how I feel inside.

The failure that my father accused me of being.