Page 114 of Twisted Pact

“How do we prevent it? How do we protect a child from violence that’s built into every aspect of our families?”

The question is heavy and real in ways I haven’t let myself consider. What kind of father can I be when my world revolves around threats and retaliation? What kind of life can I offer a child who deserves better than constant fear?

“We make different choices,” I tell her. “We don’t repeat the mistakes our parents made.”

“That’s a nice sentiment. But what does it mean?”

“It means we prioritize differently. We create boundaries between business and family. We teach our child that they have options beyond this life.”

“Like the doctorate that I’ll never finish?”

The bitterness in her voice cuts through me. “You’ll finish it. When this is over and the threats are eliminated, you’ll go back to school.”

“When will that be, Alexei? When will iteverbe over? There’s always another enemy, another threat, or another reason to keep me locked away for my protection.”

She’s right. The cycle never ends. One threat gets neutralized only for another to emerge. That’s the nature of this world. Constant competition for territory and influence that requires perpetual vigilance.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I know I won’t let you sacrifice everything for my world.”

“You might not have a choice. Being pregnant means I’m permanently vulnerable. Anyone who wants to hurt you can use me and this baby to get to you. That doesn’t end when Novikov is dealt with.”

I pull her onto my lap, and she settles against me with her head tucked under my chin.

“Tell me something,” she prompts after several moments of quiet. “If you could go back to that wedding, knowing everything that would happen, would you still approach me in the garden?”

The question deserves honesty. “Yes.”

“Even knowing it would put me in danger? That it would lead to all of this?”

“Having you in my life is worth the complications.”

“That’s selfish.”

“Probably. But I’ve never claimed to be selfless where you’re concerned.”

She traces the patterns on my shirt with her fingertip. “My mother emailed me last week. I deleted it without reading.”

“What made you think of that?”

“Papa. He said she’s been trying to reach me for months, but I keep blocking her attempts. That maybe I should at least hear what she has to say before deciding whether to cut her off permanently.”

“Do you want to hear what she has to say?”

“I think I need to. Even if I’m still angry afterward, at least I’ll know I tried.”

“Then find the email in your trash and read it. See what she wrote. Give yourself permission to feel whatever comes up without judgment.”

She lifts her head to look at me. “You’re going to be a good father.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you care. You’re willing to question yourself instead of just assuming you know best. That’s more than most men in this world manage.”

I want to believe her. I want to think I can be the kind of father who protects without controlling, guides without dominating, and loves without destroying.

But I also know my nature. I know how easily protection becomes possession when fear drives my decisions.

My phone vibrates again, but I ignore it.