Page 24 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

KATYA

B efore I got pregnant, dinner with my father was nothing special.

Most nights I scrambled for any excuse to bail.

Tonight, though, with it being his first invitation in months, my stomach flutters with nerves.

Maybe it’s because Isaac is working late and I’m going alone.

He insists it’ll be good for me to spend time with Papa before the baby arrives. I’m not convinced.

I shift in the cushioned chair, hunting for an angle that won’t grind my belly against the table’s edge. At nearly thirty-seven weeks, comfort feels like a fairy tale, but tonight the discomfort is downright vicious.

I wish Isaac were here. He’d know exactly how to peel the tension from my shoulders, slide his hand under the table, and let me lean into him. Damn his late-night work.

Papa finally steps into the dining room in a crisp charcoal button-up and slacks. His hair is slicked back, jaw tight, yet his eyes soften when they land on me.

“Katya,” he says, nodding as he makes his way to his seat across from me.

“Papa,” I murmur, offering a small smile.

A maid sets two steaming plates in front of us. For a moment, silence is broken only by the soft clink of cutlery as we focus on eating.

After a few bites I look up. He seems thinner, more weathered, a new tightness bracketing his eyes. He must be busy as it’s the only explanation I have for why he’s vanished since I announced the baby. Still, the thought needles me.

He finally breaks the silence.

“How’s Isaac? I’m sorry he couldn’t be here tonight.”

I chew slowly, then swallow. “He’s good. He sends his regrets and promises to be here next time.”

If there is a next time, I can’t help thinking.

He watches me for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable. “And the baby?”

I settle a hand over my belly. The baby shifts as if it knows we’re talking about it.

“He or she could arrive any day,” I say, beaming. “Technically, I’m not due for another three and a half weeks, but the doctor told us to be ready for our little miracle whenever it decides to show.”

“You still haven’t found out the sex?” he asks, sounding distracted.

“We chose to wait until delivery,” I say, bristling for reasons I can’t quite name.

A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips, visible only to someone who knows him as well as I do. “You look healthy.”

“Thanks,” I say, still unsure whether it’s meant as a compliment.

My ankles are swollen, my back aches nonstop, and I cry if I so much as spill juice. Maybe “healthy” is code for “fat,” but I refuse to dwell on it. One more tear trigger is the last thing I need.

Damn Isaac for not being here.

The next course arrives, and he slices into his chicken with slow, deliberate strokes.

“How’s everything at the Kozlov house?”

I hesitate.

It’s not the question that bothers me but the weight behind it. I’ve learned to hear the layers in his voice, the subtle probing. Maybe I’m just hormonal, maybe my mind is spinning scenarios where none exist, but it feels like more than idle curiosity.

“Everyone there is amazing,” I say. “The staff is so caring. And Isaac is such a wonderful husband. I couldn’t be happier.”

Papa nods again, slow and deliberate. “And his business is going well?”

My eyes narrow a fraction. “Why are you really asking?”

He looks at me, really looks at me. His eyes soften, yet something unsettling lingers. “Because I worry, that’s all.”

“I’m about to have a baby, and it’s my husband’s business you’re so worried about?” I ask tightly.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Katya,” he says, backtracking. “I was just making conversation.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” I push. “You’ve said barely ten words to me for nearly seven months. It’s like you’ve forgotten how to talk to me.”

“Katya…” he begins, but I’m too far gone to let him finish.

“I wish Mama were here,” I say, blinking against the burn behind my eyes.

“I’m terrified of labor, of raising a child, of making a million mistakes.

If she were here, she’d comfort me, tell me it’s going to be okay.

Instead, I have an absent father who apparently couldn’t care less about what I’m going through. ”

That shuts him up. He stares at his plate, chastened, and I might feel guilty if I weren’t so angry.

“She would have loved seeing you like this,” he says at last, his whole demeanor softening. “You really are glowing, Katya. You’re strong and unshakable, even inside your fear. She was the same way when she carried you, brave, stubborn, always happy to put me in my place.”

A tear escapes and I swipe it away, hating how fragile I feel. Papa stands, circles the table, and stands beside me.

He takes my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says softly. “For not being more present the past few months.”

He offers no excuse, and I choose to let it go. As Oleg’s second-in-command, he’s always carried heavy responsibilities, but I’d hoped my pregnancy would rank higher than a cursory text every few weeks.

“I miss our talks,” he says after a moment, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “We used to check in every few days.”

“You asked a lot of questions about Isaac’s dealings,” I answer defensively. “And as I’ve told you before, I don’t get involved in Isaac’s business. That’s never been part of our relationship.”

Papa leans back, one brow arched as though I’ve said something outrageous.

“You’re his wife, Katya. You’re carrying his heir. You’re part of his business whether you like it or not.”

“I’m part of the family, yes,” I answer slowly, watching him carefully. “But I made it clear to Isaac that I didn’t want to be involved in his business. I don’t ask questions, and he doesn’t offer answers. We respect that boundary.”

He says nothing at first. His jaw flexes, eyes narrowing just enough to make me question whether I’ve disappointed him again. It’s an expression I know too well. But he recovers quickly, masking it behind a thin smile.

“You always were a stubborn one,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his wine.

“I just want a different kind of life,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “If I’m not with Evie, I’m in the studio. My focus is on my art, the baby, and our future. His day-to-day dealings aren’t my business any more than my artwork is his.”

He taps a finger against the side of his glass.

“You’re not na?ve, Katya. You know your future is directly tied to the business. It affects your finances and the safety of your family. Closing your eyes to it won’t change what you married into.”

“What you forced me to marry into,” I seethe. “And it’s not about closing my eyes. It’s about not letting it consume me. Maybe you don’t remember, because Mama died so long ago, but a husband and wife don’t have to share every single second of each other’s lives.”

His gaze sharpens. “Well, I’m certainly glad that your five minutes of marriage have made you into an expert,” he answers dryly. “I just think you’d be a little more interested in what your husband gets up to. But far be it from me to tell you how you should conduct your marriage.”

I study him, noting how his hands curl into fists and his expression tightens.

Is he really angry that I fell in love with the husband he chose for me?

Whatever’s wrong with him hovers just below the surface, unreachable.

There’s an insurmountable distance between us, and I’m not sure anymore that I want to cross it.

He exhales slowly and sets his wineglass down. “I don’t want to live in that kind of energy,” I say, honest yet firm. “It isn’t healthy for a marriage, and I have enough to worry about with this baby. If that’s not what you envisioned when you sold me to the highest bidder, that’s on you, not me.”

I take a deep breath and steady myself. If Isaac were here, he’d want me to keep my blood pressure down. He’d squeeze my hand and give me a sympathetic smile and remind me to try to make peace.

“I’m not angry about the marriage anymore,” I say softly. “And I love the life I have with Isaac. But I can’t be your spy. I won’t.”

His expression hardens at that, but just as quickly, he forces a smile. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Isn’t it? I don’t press the point. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones. Maybe I’m just tired. But something about this whole conversation sits wrong in my gut, and I’m not ready to dissect it.

I retrieve my coat from the chair, moving slowly. Papa rises with me, ever the gentleman, yet stiffness clings to his posture, something unreadable shadowing his eyes.

“What are you doing this weekend?” he asks as I sling my purse over my shoulder.

I pause, caught off guard. “Evie and I are hanging out,” I tell him. “We’ll probably go shopping and grab lunch.”

He nods, and for the first time all evening he seems genuinely at ease.

“That’s good. You need time with your friends.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He walks me to the door and opens it with a quiet flourish. Cool, crisp night air wraps around me the moment I step onto the stoop.

“Stay safe, sweetheart,” he says, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder.

Something in his tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise, more warning than farewell, maybe even a plea.

I glance up, searching his eyes. “You too.”

He nods, and the door clicks shut behind me.