Page 40 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

Maksim nods like this admission doesn’t surprise him. “Emotional safety isn’t about control, Nikandr. It’s about trust, and trust requires vulnerability from both parties.”

I instinctively protest. “Vulnerability gets people killed.”

“So does isolation.” He stands and moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. “You asked me what I suggest you do. Here’s my advice—stop watching her through cameras and start spending time with her as a person. Learnwhat she needs beyond physical security. Give her some agency in her own life, even if it’s just small choices.”

“And if that puts her at risk?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Life is risk. You’ll deal with those risks as they arise. Right now, the biggest risk to her emotional stability is you.”

After he leaves, I sit alone in the study, staring at the monitor where Sabrina remains curled on her bed like a beautiful, wounded bird in a gilded cage. I’ve clipped her wings in the name of protecting her, but protection without choice is just another form of captivity.

I think about what Maksim said about vulnerability and trust. The concepts feel foreign and dangerous in my world. Everything I’ve learned about survival has been built on the foundation that showing weakness invites attack, control equals safety, and the only way to protect what matters is to eliminate every possible threat before it can materialize.

Sabrina isn’t a business asset or a strategic advantage. She’s a woman carrying my child, and she deserves better than to feel like a prisoner in what should be her refuge.

I close the laptop and push back from the desk, decision crystallizing in my mind. Maybe I can’t undo the circumstances that brought her here, but I can try to make her time here less miserable. I can start treating her like a person instead of a problem to be managed. The leather chair creaks as I lean back, and I catch my reflection in the dark window, seeing a man who looks older than his years, wearing exhaustion like an expensive suit. I’ve aged in the days since the attack.

I can make her feel safer and wanted here. I just have to figure out how to do that without compromising her safety or revealing more of myself than I’m prepared to share.

The file Maksim left catches my attention, and I flip it open to distract myself from thoughts that lead nowhere productive. Inside are surveillance photos and intelligence reports about recent activity in the city, updates on various business operations, and background checks on several individuals who’ve been flagged as potential security concerns.

“Any update on Morozov?” I ask when Maksim returns an hour later, not looking up from the reports.

“We’re keeping an eye out,” he says, settling back into his chair. “His people might be watching too, but there’s been no movement near the estate so far that we’ve detected.”

That comes as a relief, though I know better than to assume it will stay that way indefinitely. Vadim Morozov is patient and methodical, the kind of enemy who prefers to study his targets thoroughly before making his move. That he hasn’t acted yet doesn’t mean he won’t act eventually.

“What about the club? Any developments with the investigation into the attack?”

“Local police are treating it as a random assault. The man—Carl Morrison—claims he doesn’t remember anything about that afternoon, which is convenient for us. That leaves no connection to larger criminal activity.”

“Good. And the roommate?”

“Jessica Witman is secure in the safe house downtown. She’s asking questions about when she can return to her normal life, but she’s cooperating with the protection detail.”

I nod, satisfied the immediate loose ends are being handled properly, but as I close the file and look back at the monitor, the larger problem remains unchanged. Sabrina sits alone in her beautiful room, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. She shouldn’t feel alone here with me.

The thought comes unbidden, followed immediately by the uncomfortable recognition that I want her to be happy here. Not just safe or comfortable, but genuinely content in a way that has nothing to do with luxury or security measures. I want her to choose to stay, even when the immediate danger has passed.

The admission scares me more than any physical threat I’ve ever faced, because it means I’m already more invested in this woman than I ever intended to be. She’s become more than just the mother of my child or a person under my protection. She’s become someone whose happiness matters to me in ways I don’t fully understand.

That level of emotional investment is exactly the kind of weakness I’ve spent my entire adult life learning to avoid, but as I watch her on the screen, curled alone on that enormous bed with one hand resting protectively over our child, I realize some kinds of weakness might be worth the risk, especially if the alternative is watching the mother of my child slowly wither away in a prison of my making.

15

Sabrina

Five days into my stay at the estate, Nikandr surprises me by joining me for lunch in the sunroom. It’s a beautiful space with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the gardens, filled with natural light and comfortable furniture that actually feels lived-in rather than staged for a magazine shoot. I’ve taken to eating here when the formal dining room feels too overwhelming, which is most of the time.

He appears in the doorway carrying a plate of his own, wearing dark jeans and a gray sweater that makes his eyes look almost silver in the afternoon light. “Mind if I join you?”

I gesture to the empty chair across from me, surprised by the request. Over the past few days, our interactions have been limited to brief encounters in hallways and polite inquiries about my health. This feels different and more intentional.

“How are you settling in?” he asks as he sits down, cutting into what appears to be some kind of gourmet sandwich that makes my simple salad look inadequate by comparison.

“Fine. The house is beautiful.” The response comes automatically and is the style of polite deflection I’ve perfected over years of waitressing. Something in his expression tells me he’s looking for more than surface pleasantries.

“But?” he prompts gently.

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