Page 25 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

ISAAC

I glance at the clock. It’s barely past noon, yet I’m already halfway through the stack of files Mikhail dumped on my desk this morning.

Everything has run smoothly lately. For once there is no urgent fire to stamp out.

Even so, an itch crawls beneath my skin, a gut-deep certainty that this is only the calm before the storm.

It has to be self-sabotage. The baby will be here any day, stirring equal parts joy and panic. I’m convincing myself something will go wrong simply because I’m overwhelmed. That’s all.

A soft knock cuts through my thoughts. I look up, expecting Maude or one of my men, but the door creaks open and Katya slips inside, her loose hair spilling over her shoulders. A rosy flush warms her cheeks, proof she has just come in from the cold.

My brow furrows. “What are you doing here? I thought you and Evie had plans.”

She shrugs and steps deeper into the room, a soft smile curving her lips. “Evie woke up with a stomach bug,” she says. “She texted me this morning and didn’t want to risk getting me sick.”

“That was thoughtful of her,” I murmur.

I set my pen aside and push back from the desk, letting my gaze sweep over her. She’s wearing one of those flowing maternity dresses that hug her belly in the most distracting way, a living countdown to the moment everything changes.

“So I figured I’d spend the day here,” she says, her voice light. “Maybe catch up on some reading or steal a nap.”

I stand and close the distance in three long strides. My hands bracket her waist as I lean in and kiss her, soft at first, then lingering until her fingers curl against my chest. When I pull back she’s smiling, but a flicker of weariness swims behind her jade eyes, tender and tired at once.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into a quickie,” I joke.

“You’re insatiable,” she says around a yawn. “I thought you would have gotten your fill last night.”

Her eyes flash as we are both picturing last night’s wild, all-night sex.

She has reached the stage where she will try anything, including marathon lovemaking, to jump-start labor and finally coax the baby out.

We spent hours testing every surface in the house, but her water stayed stubbornly intact.

“So.” Her tone sharpens with mock irritation as she has caught me fantasizing. “I’m going to lie down.”

“You could lie down in here,” I offer, aching to keep her close.

With the due date looming, I crave every second alone with her. Soon we won’t even remember what privacy feels like, so I’m determined to savor it while we can.

I guide her to the leather sofa tucked against the far wall of my office and ease her down. Then I fetch a throw blanket from the armchair. She leans back, wedges a small cushion behind her lower back, and sighs with contentment when I drape the blanket over her lap.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask, crouching in front of her. “You looked a little pale when you walked in.”

“I’m fine,” she insists, threading her fingers through my hair. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep well. Your son was practicing karate at two in the morning.”

I chuckle and rest my palm over the curve of her belly. “Maybe your daughter was practicing her gymnastics.”

It’s a standing joke now. We chose to wait until birth to learn the baby’s sex, so we bicker over it whenever we can. Katya rolls her eyes but leaves my hand exactly where it is.

“I don’t think I want our daughter in gymnastics,” she says. “She’ll have enough bossy men in her life without adding a coach to the list.”

“I am not bossy,” I protest, feigning offense. “I am commanding and intimidating.”

“And bossy,” she retorts.

“Point taken.”

“I can’t nap on this couch,” she says after shifting for a few minutes. “It’s too stiff. I’m going to lie on the bed.”

“Is that an invitation?” I ask, pupils dilated.

“It might be,” she murmurs, leaning in for another kiss.

Our mouths are inches from meeting when the door swings open. We spring apart, scrambling to look innocent.

Mikhail stands in the doorway, looking mildly traumatized.

“Is this a bad time?” he asks. “I can come back in… two minutes?”

I sigh and roll my eyes. “It’s fine,” I say, exasperated.

“I’m actually just leaving,” Katya says sweetly.

I help her up and watch as she heads for the door. “For the record, we’d need at least half an hour.”

Even without seeing her face, I know she just winked at Mikhail. His jaw drops, then he shakes his head and laughs.

Once she is gone, he shuts the door and drops into the chair across from me, spreading out the files we were working on earlier.

We do not speak for a while as the silence is easy and familiar.

Mikhail and I have logged thousands of hours like this, poring over Bratva paperwork.

I used to be a lot more focused, though.

My attention keeps drifting toward the hallway, ears tuned for any sign of Katya. I don’t know when I became so attuned to her presence, but it’s constant now, as if my whole body recalibrated the moment I learned she was pregnant.

“You’re distracted,” Mikhail mutters without looking up.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

I smirk and slide one of the reports back toward him. “Then read faster.”

We settle into a steady rhythm, flipping pages, trading notes, recalculating next week’s shipment schedule to account for the new security upgrades. Business has been steady and the past few months have been oddly smooth considering the chaos that came before. Peace in our world never lasts.

The sun is just beginning to sink behind the skyline, bathing the office in molten amber, when a gunshot cracks through the house. I’ve heard that sound hundreds of times. Instinct kicks in. I reach under the desk for my own firearm even as confusion twists in my chest.

I’m out of my chair before I even realize I’ve moved. The reports scatter like dead leaves as I throw open the office door and scan the hall. Mikhail is already on his feet, gun drawn, face stone-cold and alert.

We see nothing, and then another burst of gunfire erupts near the entryway, and we both duck instinctively. I am ready to charge forward and defend my home, then I remember what I am really defending. Katya.

The last time I saw her, she was heading to our bedroom for a nap, on the opposite side of the house and beyond the gunfire. My blood runs cold.

“I need you to get to Katya,” I bark at Mikhail. “Get her out of the house. Now.”

He’s about to argue, but one look at my face shuts him up. He slips into the hallway, every step deliberate and silent. I watch him disappear around the corner and send up a silent prayer that he reaches her in time.

When he’s gone, I close the door and back toward my desk, bracing my spine against the bookshelf. My men should be able to neutralize the threat before it goes too far. We’ve trained for this.

Yet whoever is shooting has already breached my outer gates and the inner perimeter. What good are my men if an enemy can get this far into the house?

The thought barely forms before the door explodes inward. I’m ready to tear into Mikhail for failing to get Katya clear, prepared to rip him apart.

But it isn’t Mikhail standing there. Oleg Grinkov and Viktor Belov stride in with their guns leveled at my chest.

I bare my teeth. “What the hell are you doing here?”