Page 46

RUTHIE

The city’s all bright lights, honking horns, and chaos, and I’m somewhere in the middle of it, one eye on the traffic and the other smudging half-applied lipstick in the rearview mirror.

The toddler car seat in the back is empty, a backpack half-zipped next to it, and my purse on the passenger seat is full of rolled-up bills from the weekend bar shift. Chaos, yes, but beautiful chaos.

“Green light, asshole,” I mutter, slapping the wheel when the truck ahead doesn’t move fast enough.

As usual, I’m not wearing anything special. Black jeans, the kind that stretch at the belly and my leather jacket with the scuffed sleeve. My hair is still wet from a too-fast shower, already curling where it wants.

But when the sunlight hits the windshield just right, I glance at myself. And for a split second, I smirk. It’s the smirk of a girl who survived grief and violence. Who buried a sister and nearly buried herself. Who clawed her way into the arms of a Bratva warlord and didn’t break.

Never thought I’d live long enough to be late for carpool.

The thought slips in like a joke, but my throat tightens anyway.

I pull up to the school curb fifteen minutes late. Teachers are already shepherding the last few kids to the gate. One of them—Miss Gina, with bright eyes and cropped gray curls—smiles when she sees me stride up the walkway.

“Ruthie! You just missed him. Your husband already picked him up.”

I breathe a sigh of relief even as I blink. That word again.

Husband .

It should feel wrong. But it doesn’t.

Instead, I lift one brow, shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder, and smile. “Oh. Right,” I say smoothly, already pivoting. “It’s his night.”

Of course he came. Responsible, on top of things, competent as fuck. And I love him . I love him so damn much. I see him with Luka, and I just melt into a puddle, thinking this man will be the father of my baby. I couldn’t ask for any better.

I drive home without music. The silence isn’t heavy—just full.

Sometimes, I still expect ghosts in the corner. But this house— our house—is clean. Safe. No bloodstains on the floor. No memory of the night Mariah died. No shadows that reek of old grief.

When I open the front door, the smell of something warm and garlicky curls around me. The nausea has passed, and now I’m ravenous. Eating for two, after all.

Luka gives me a sleepy hug with a yawn before he disappears down the hall—he needs some downtime before early bed. My heart pinches.

But what stops me is the rest of it.

The table.

Lit candles. Not the scented kind either—the real, tall ones, dripping wax into elegant little dishes. The good plates. Actual napkins. Cloth ones, like you’d find in a restaurant.

The house is pristine. The cleaning crew must’ve come today. Everything is gleaming: floors buffed, windows smudge-free, the scent of citrus cleaner in the air. Vadka’s motorcycle jacket is on the hook. His boots are lined up neatly at the door.

I step further in and freeze.

Because he is in the kitchen.

Wearing a dark long-sleeve tee. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair wet from a recent shower, his jaw freshly shaved. He turns toward me with that heavy-lidded look of quiet approval that somehow still manages to make me feel bare.

There are plates on the table. One is covered in grilled salmon and wild rice pilaf, the other piled with things I vaguely recognize from the pregnancy app I downloaded two weeks ago and deleted three days later.

He catches me looking.

“I googled,” he says simply, nodding at the food.

My mouth twitches. “I figured.”

I drop my bag by the bench, shrug out of my jacket, and exhale. For once, I don’t have to be anywhere. Don’t have to watch my back. Don’t have to handle everything alone.

He hands me a water glass. “Hydration’s important.”

I squint at him. “Are you… nesting?”

“No. I’m protecting my baby.” He grins.

My brows lift, and I don’t ask him which of us he means. “ Your baby?”

He’s already pulling out my chair. “Behave yourself, you little brat.”

I laugh, but it’s softer now. My fingers brush the side of the water glass. There’s something in my chest—warm, expanding.

And when he sits beside me instead of across from me, when his thigh presses against mine like it’s meant to, that warmth spreads like fire licking up dry wood.

We eat in silence for a while, save for the occasional clink of silverware. Outside, the streetlights hum to life. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks.

And then—quietly, reverently—he reaches across and rests his hand on my belly .

I freeze. My throat is tight.

His palm is broad, warm, grounding. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me. Just watches his own hand cup over my rounded belly.

I let out a slow sigh. “I just don’t know how I’m going to do this. I’m not sure I can be a good mother…”

His eyes lift to mine. “ I’m sure about you. And you’re not alone.”

That’s all he says.

It’s all I need.

Because this isn’t the man who once drank himself to sleep on the couch. This isn’t the enforcer who puts bullets through skulls with no hesitation. This isn’t even the grieving widower who used to flinch at the sight of me.

This is Vadka.

The man who sets the table and lights candles and researches superfoods while the city sleeps.

The man who rests his hand on my belly with reverence.

And somehow, impossibly, I believe him.

Later that night, when the dishes are done and Luka is fully asleep, I stand in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth. Vadka comes up behind me, arms snaking around my waist, one hand flattening over my stomach again.

I lean back into him.

He meets my eyes in the mirror.

Together, we look like something rebuilt. Something strong .

Something unbroken .

VADKA

The box said Some Assembly Required .

It lied.

The crib is spread out across the nursery floor—planks of pale wood, indecipherable screws, and vague instruction diagrams that look like ancient hieroglyphic writing.

There’s a manual on the floor, bent and abandoned after page four because it was clearly written by someone who’s never touched a wrench in their life.

I kneel in front of the chaos, my brows drawn, one hand steadying a half-assembled side rail while the other tightens a bolt with clinical precision.

The nursery is almost done.

Behind me, Ruthie leans in the doorway with her arms folded across her belly. She’s barefoot, wearing one of my T-shirts knotted at her hip, her hair messy and eyes impossibly soft. She hasn’t said anything for the last few minutes—just watched. Quiet. Thoughtful.

“You’re really doing it,” she murmurs. “Bratva enforcer turned crib builder. We’re in uncharted territory here.”

I grunt but smile .

She steps forward, bare feet soundless on the rug. Her fingers trail along the top rail of the crib, then down to my shoulder.

“You know,” she says, low and teasing, “the baby’s not sleeping in here.”

I blink. “What?”

She smiles like it’s obvious. “We’re not doing separate rooms. I’m not trekking across the house at two a.m. with a screaming infant while you pretend not to hear.”

I raise a brow. “So we’re what… putting the crib in our room?” What the fuck? How are we supposed to have any privacy?

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

A beat. Then, gently, “Baby’s in the room with us. Bassinet.”

I stare at her for a second, then glance at the half-finished crib like it’s betrayed me.

She laughs, her hand covering her mouth.

I growl low in my throat and sit back on my heels. “All that work, and now it’s for show.”

“You’ll thank me later when you’re the one getting up for the three a.m. feeding,” she says sweetly.

I huff out a breath. “We’re taking turns.”

“Sure we are.”

She steps closer and kneels beside me. I just watch her. The way her hand flattens instinctively over the curve of her belly. The way her breathing shifts when I lean in, like she feels me before I touch her.

I lift one hand and curl it around the back of her neck.

Pull her in slow.

No fire this time. No bruising heat or need sharpened by grief.

Just quiet.

My mouth brushes hers with reverence. Like she’s something holy, and I’m unworthy.

Soft. Slow. Like the world can wait.

When I finally pull back, I press my forehead to hers, my voice little more than a rasp.

“Bassinet it is.”

“I love you,” she whispers.

I kiss her mouth, her neck, all the way down to her belly, then back up again. “And I love you.”

ZOYA

Mariah taught me how to slip past the trackers.

No one was better at it than she was—precise, paranoid, and a little brilliant.

She never showed off, never put herself at risk, just quietly made sure she could vanish if she needed to.

She was the only one who really knew how.

Ruthie knows a little now, but not everything. Not like I do.

I took my phone, stuffed it into the hollow back of a teddy bear—one I kept around just for this purpose—and tucked it under the blanket on my bed. Then I grabbed my burner phone, checked the biometric nodules wired into the bracelet around my wrist, and slid the decoy ball into place.

Weapons check: solid.

Rafail might’ve been overprotective and overbearing, but he made damn sure I knew how to wield a gun.

They’re coming.

And it’s going to be a fucking massacre.

The Irish will kill them. Every one of them. And Ruthie’s here. Luka’s here. And tonight—of all fucking nights—Ruthie asked me to pick up a pregnancy test.

We don’t have the firepower to hold them off. I don’t have time to convince my brothers. But if I can disperse the Irish…

So I make a decision and call Rafail.

I hate lying to him. God, I don’t think I’ve ever lied to him before.

But he’s the first I call.

“On my way,” he says, with no hesitation. “Heading to the warehouse. Lock the house down.”

I breathe. Just for a second. Then I call everyone else. Trick them into staying safe. Trick them into not playing the hero and endangering the innocents .

Every call is short. Every answer is instant. They trust me.

I cannot—will not—betray that.

I slide into the car and speed toward the bar. I know what I’m going to see. I already know. And I don’t want to.

But then—there they are. Every last bastard. When they see me, a big, bearded redhead grabs me and yanks me forward, his hand on my arm like a death grip. He’ll kill him for this. He’ll fucking kill him.

I can’t move and open my mouth to scream when a deep, commanding voice cuts through the mayhem.

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

The voice is low, deadly, a rasp of rage and fire.

It’s him.

My heart crashes into my ribs.

The weight of his boots thuds like anvils. He draws his weapon… and down they fall. I knew it was coming, and still, I’m unprepared for the way they scream and beg for their lives, but he pulls the trigger without hesitation.

My god.

One. By. One.

They try to run. They beg. They bleed.

They trusted him. But he executes them—cold, methodical.

“For betraying me.”

Bang.

“For your lies and theft. ”

For the last one—he doesn’t rush it. He takes his time. Deliberate.

“For laying fucking hands on her.”

When the last body falls, the blood puddling like oil around their boots, his phone rings.

He meets my gaze and holds up a single finger—silent, commanding. I sit back against the wall, my knees giving out. My breath catches in my throat, swallowing a scream.

Then he answers. “Yes.”

A voice snarls on the other end. Irish. Raw. Angry.

“What happened?”

“Bad intel,” he replies smoothly. “Handful of Russians here. I couldn’t hold them back.” His voice is thick with emotion, taut. “They’re dead, boss. All of them. All our men. All who attacked.”

The voice of the man on the line is shaking with rage and grief. It’s real—his voice cracking under the weight of what just happened.

“Any survivors? Any witnesses? Anyone see what you did?”

“No.”

He stares at me, and I hold his gaze as the voice carries on, relentless.

“ Anyone feckin' alive?”

Me, I’m alive, and if his boss finds out I’m here, I’m dead .

His eyes lock onto mine, beautiful and devastating.

He crouches in front of me. Brushes his thumb across my cheek. He raises the phone to his mouth, and he answers with the finality of a guillotine.

“No. None.”

THE END