Page 19 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

KATYA

I t takes a full week to finish the painting.

Each morning Isaac kisses me goodbye, then lets me retreat to my old studio so I can keep working.

The place isn’t half as polished as the one he built for me at the mansion, yet the chipped brick and paint-splattered floors feel like home.

He notices, senses how badly I need the distance, and grants it without a single complaint.

Especially since the space is now outfitted with a ridiculous amount of cameras, a retinal scanner for entry, and two guards posted at the door.

For seven straight days I shuttle between the mansion and that battered loft, bleeding every emotion onto the canvas. When I’m finished, the piece is raw, haunting, unlike anything I’ve painted before and yet somehow stunning. Captivating, even.

I could build an entire show around it, certainly a collection. But I don’t want Isaac to see it yet. I don’t want him staring at the finished product and thinking I’m still drowning in agony.

It is exactly that. My worst fears and nightmares captured in color and shape.

Yet there’s beauty in the chaos, a thread of catharsis and love woven through every brushstroke.

And the best part? Now that those emotions live on the canvas, there’s finally space in my chest to breathe. I’m actually okay.

The fear hasn’t vanished. It’s only dulled, its edges blunted. The way Isaac held me in the studio, the way he looked at me as though I were the only thing in his universe, shifted something inside me. It settled a part of me I hadn’t even realized was restless.

We’re not perfect, but we’re trying. His small gestures brighten my life in tiny ways.

I see it in the mug of tea he sets beside me every morning, in the healthy breakfast he makes the staff prepare.

I see it in the check-in texts he sends every few hours, making sure I’ve eaten and had enough water.

Most of all, I feel it in the way he holds me at night all soft, reverent, and intimate without presuming it has to lead to sex.

Now that Isaac and I have come to terms with our forthcoming bundle of joy, it’s time to tell my father.

I’ve dreaded this moment, because I honestly don’t know how he’ll react.

He wants me to bear strong Bratva babies, but did he ever imagine it would happen this quickly?

It rattled Isaac and me to the core, yet part of me believes he’ll be at least a little happy for us.

My biggest fear, of course, is that he won’t be happy at all. Knowing him, he’ll probably accuse me of being a slut, of fooling around before the wedding. Yes, the timing is suspiciously quick, but this baby can only be Isaac’s, and we definitely didn’t sleep together until our wedding night.

We have nothing to be ashamed of, yet I can’t shake the pit in my stomach whenever I imagine telling my father.

I’m the one who brings it up over breakfast. Isaac happily butters his toast, blissfully unaware I’m about to torpedo his day, maybe even his entire week.

“We should tell my father.”

His fork freezes midair, and the color drains from his face. “Tell him what?” he asks. “That you’re pregnant?”

I nod.

He studies me for a moment, then inclines his head in approval. “We might as well rip off the Band-Aid,” he says, slipping his calm, composed mask back into place. “We’ll go today.”

I pretend I’m not terrified. The queasiness churning in my stomach? Just run-of-the-mill morning sickness. Everything will be fine and he’ll be happy for us. How could he not be? Still, I squeeze Isaac’s hand the entire drive to my childhood home.

The house looms ahead, equal parts impressive and foreboding. The lawn is trimmed within an inch of its life, the iron gate groans open on cue. As we cross the threshold, the air itself shifts. I’m not afraid of the house, but I’m afraid of the weight of what we’re about to say.

“Katya,” my father says warmly as we enter the foyer. He crosses the space with open arms. “Isaac.”

He clasps Isaac’s hand as though they’ve always been allies, as though they haven’t spent years tearing at each other’s throats, as though this marriage isn’t still a fragile cease-fire.

Yet Isaac has become so much more than the husband I never wanted. He’s mine now.

We’re escorted to Papa’s office, where I expect the conversation to unfold. But the moment we cross the threshold, I falter.

Oleg is here, perched in the corner like a damn shadow.

He rises as we enter, face unreadable, suit immaculate, hands clasped in front of him.

The way he looks at me, at us, twists something deep in my gut.

I’ve never trusted him, and the protective instinct surges all the fiercer now.

I don’t want him near Isaac, and I definitely don’t want him present when I tell my father about our child.

“I didn’t realize we’d be having company,” I murmur.

Viktor waves off my tone. “Oleg and I were just finishing up a conversation. I thought he might want to stay.”

I can’t imagine why. Nothing I plan to share requires Oleg’s ears. The air thickens, and my stomach coils. Still, I nod, spine straight, chin lifted.

My father motions to the seats opposite his desk. “So, tell me. How’s married life treating you both?”

My throat dries instantly. Before I can speak, Isaac’s hand slips into mine, warm and steady. His thumb sweeps over my knuckles, grounding me.

“Everything’s going great,” he answers for us both, projecting the confidence I lack. “We’re very happy and settling in well.”

Papa beams. “I’m glad to hear it.”

But when I glance at Oleg, I catch a flicker in his expression. It disappears too quickly to name, and I wonder whether I truly saw it or merely projected my own fears.

Even so, something about the way his gaze slides between us feels off. It’s that familiar, calculated look, like he’s taking mental notes to file away for later.

I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. I don’t want him here, cataloging my marriage and forming opinions he has no right to.

Papa clasps his hands together, resting them on the desk. “So, what’s the occasion? You don’t usually stop by unannounced.”

I open my mouth, then close it. Breathe, Katya, I tell myself. You can do this. I square my shoulders. Isaac’s hand never leaves mine.

“I have something to tell you,” I begin, my voice softer than I intended. “Something exciting, something unexpected. We honestly didn’t see it coming.”

I’m rambling now, so afraid to spit out the truth that my sentences pile up and lose meaning. Papa tilts his head, curiosity warming his features, and Isaac squeezes my hand, offering an encouraging smile.

“I’m pregnant,” I finally blurt.

The silence that follows is so thick I can hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. Papa blinks, his mouth opening as though he has words, yet none emerge. Oleg remains statuesque, though I neither expected nor wanted a reaction from him. And I wait.

At last my father rises and rounds the desk, his face unreadable. I brace for disappointment, anger, some cold political lecture about legacy and timing. Instead, he gathers me into his arms.

“My little girl,” he whispers, voice thick. “You’re going to be a mother.”

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and let him hold me. When he pulls back, genuine emotion shines in his eyes. He cups my shoulders, studying me as though trying to reconcile that I’m no longer his little girl.

“You’ll be incredible,” he says, then cuts a glance at Isaac and quickly corrects himself. “Both of you will.”

Isaac nods respectfully. “Thank you, Viktor.”

It should be a moment of relief, a victory, but I can’t shake the feeling that something in the room has shifted.

When I glance toward Oleg again, he’s still watching, calculating and silent. He certainly doesn’t leap up to offer congratulations, merely gives us a cursory smile.

The silence turns awkward, as though my announcement sucked all the oxygen from the room and Papa and Oleg are waiting for us to leave so they can breathe again.

Isaac straightens beside me, his hand still anchoring mine.

“I’ll take good care of her,” he says, gaze warm on my face. “And the baby, of course. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure the pregnancy goes smoothly and Katya feels supported.”

My father’s smile widens, though it still misses his eyes. “Of course you will. I wouldn’t have entrusted her to you otherwise.”

Beside him, Oleg steps forward to offer the bare minimum. “Congratulations,” he says, voice cool. “Both of you.”

Isaac nods politely, but his body tenses beside me. He senses it too, the subtle shift, the undercurrent rippling beneath this meeting. Something we’re not being told.

“Thank you,” I manage.

My father nods again.

“You’ll make a wonderful mother, Katya.”

The words should comfort me, yet they don’t. Even as they leave his mouth, something unreadable flickers in his gaze, something he’s not saying.

The longer I sit here, the more convinced I become that we’ve triggered a chain reaction we can’t yet see. With nothing left to say, Isaac and I offer our goodbyes and carry the room’s heaviness out with us.

As soon as we’re back in the car, I finally exhale the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Once the door clicks shut, I stare out the window and watch the trees blur as we roll away from the estate.

“I don’t think he meant it,” I say softly.

Isaac turns his head toward me. “Who?”

“My father.”

He frowns. “He congratulated us.”

“Did he?” I turn to face him fully. “Did you notice how long it took him to speak? How he kept dodging my eyes? He didn’t ask how I’m feeling, how far along I am, if I need anything. He just went quiet.”

Isaac studies me for a moment, then rests his hand on my knee.

“Katya, your father’s a man who craves control.

This is the first thing that’s happened that he didn’t orchestrate.

I’m sure he’s happy in his own way, but this blindsided all of us.

And let’s not forget, you ran away when you first found out. ”

I fall silent, letting that sink in. He’s not shaming me for bolting but he’s pointing out that my father might need time to process, too. For perhaps the first time, I realize my father is just human. It’s natural for him to need space with something this big.

I press my lips together, glancing at our joined hands. “He’s not happy about it,” I whisper, giving voice to what I feel.

“I don’t think he’s unhappy,” Isaac says carefully. “I think he’s adjusting.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oleg looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.”

“I don’t waste much time worrying about what Oleg thinks.”

Despite myself, I laugh. It’s weak, but real.

Isaac smiles. “Whatever they’re thinking, plotting or not plotting, none of it matters. You and I are a team now. We protect each other.”

I nod slowly, yet the unease remains, settled in my belly like a stone.

“I just wish I could believe it were that simple,” I whisper.