Page 19 of Bound By the Bratva

"Is this a hotel?" he asks, glancing at my home. His fingers flex on the strap of his bag. When he looks up at me, still seeming in shock, I also crouch next to him.

"Something similar," I murmur. My God, this is my son, standing in the flesh in front of me. Five years old, so full of life and curiosity. I've missed so much of it, and she kept him from me. Not anymore.

He glances up again and straightens as he says, "Hi."

It catches me off guard. His voice is steady and clear, not the trembling sound I expected from a boy his age. He meets my eyes without flinching.

"Hello," I say. I watch how he lifts his chin and doesn’t back down.

His eyes match mine—pale gray and unblinking. He studies my face as if trying to decide whether I’m the enemy or a friend.

"Is this your house?" he asks, tilting his head.

I stand and look up at the old place, my parents' former estate before mybatyahanded it to me. He lives in a new home now, farther from the chaos of our world, and I hold the keys to the kingdom. "Yes," I tell him, turning back to him. "Do you like it?"

"It's like a castle," he says matter-of-factly. "Mamochkawill like it." His nose scrunches up. "She's coming here?'

I nod at him and reach for his hand, and he takes it. "Yes, Nikolai, she's coming here soon. Don't you worry." Giving Stepan a curt expression, I turn with the boy and we walk toward the doors. We enter together into the main hall which stretcheswide with marble and brass. His sneakers squeak across the floor, and the sound echoes.

"Have you ever been to a castle?" My home is far from being worthy to be called a castle, but it's a term he understands.

Nikolai shakes his head no, and I lead him down the west corridor to the room I had my staff prepare for him. Mara is still here, flitting about with a duster, but everything else looks in place.

The suite is arranged carefully with his age in mind. A low bed sits against the wall, and a small reading chair rests beside it. Bins of toys are tucked neatly under the window, while one shelf holds picture books and another displays a row of brightly colored toy cars. A forest-themed rug spans most of the floor, with soft sunlight falling across it from tall, narrow windows on the far side of the room.

He steps inside cautiously, his shoes hesitating on the threshold. One hand skims the wall for balance as his eyes move across the floor. He stops in front of the rug and stares at the winding paths and tiny trees like he’s trying to decode a map.

He moves toward the bed carefully. His fingers press into the blanket and stay there. His lips part, but whatever he wants to say doesn’t make it out. He swallows it instead and keeps looking around.

"When will Mommy come?" he asks. He keeps his gaze down, but now his voice is calm.

"Soon," I say. I move into the room and take it all in. It's perfect for my son, the best, safest place for him to grow up, and now he's here. This was always inevitable from the moment I learned I had a son, though the circumstances Pyotr instigated moved it up in my timeline.

"Will she stay too?" He turns toward me, and his voice drops to a whisper. I sense the uncertainty in his tone, and I want to reassure him. It's a strange sensation—one I've never felt. I'ma man of many, many things, but nurturing isn't one of them. Never have I been accused of being soft or parental in any way. And yet, I find myself stooping to his level once again.

I meet his gaze and see the fear there. "We'll see," I tell him, "but why don't you settle in and see if you like the toys and books I've picked for you?"

Nikolai climbs onto the bed and looks around. He's a quiet little fellow, seems a bit withdrawn, but that will change when he adjusts.

Standing, I smooth my suit and think of the next thing I have to do—deal with Anya's outburst, because there is not a single fucking doubt in my mind that she'll have one.

"Someone will bring you dinner," I say. "If you need anything, press the button by the bed." I point to the call button near the lamp, a small red button on a white switch there I had installed to make sure I was no more than a touch away from him.

"Okay." He nods and studies the button. He seems to understand.

I wait another moment, then I close the door and signal the guard to stand by this door. He does as I've told him to do and I head down the hall.

I barely make it back to my office before the call comes in. The fireplace still burns hot, casting uneven light across the floor, and her name lights up my phone before I’ve even sat down.

"Where the hell is he?" Anya's voice is frantic. I hear traffic behind her, horns honking and someone shouting.

"He’s safe," I say calmly as I stare at my reflection in the dark window.

"What the fuck does that mean? Where is my son? Where is Nikolai?" Her voice cracks and she chokes back a sob. "You can't do this, Rolan. He's a child."

I turn toward the garden where the sun glints off the carved stone sculptures. The shadows still cling to the bases of the trees, long and cool in the angled light. Nothing moves out in my line of sight besides a few birds flying past.

"He’s here," I tell her, "at my home, where he's safe."

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