Page 82 of Sin Wager
"A better one than either of us had," he promises. "Protected, privileged, educated to handle whatever challenges emerge. Strong enough to defend what belongs to him, smart enough to avoid unnecessary conflicts, wealthy enough to buy solutions to problems that can't be solved through force."
The vision he paints appeals to maternal instincts I didn't know I possessed. A child who grows up secure in his identity and protected from the desperate circumstances that drove both his parents into dangerous choices. The kind of stability thatmoney and power can provide when applied with sufficient wisdom and restraint.
"And us?" I continue. "What kind of marriage can we have when your work involves killing people?"
"The same kind of marriage my parents had, and their parents before them. Built on respect, loyalty, and the understanding that some things are more important than individual comfort or moral purity."
His response doesn't entirely satisfy me, but I recognize the honesty behind it. This world operates by different rules than the conventional society I knew before, and surviving within it requires adaptations that might seem impossible from the outside.
The office window reflects our image back to us, two figures embracing in the aftermath of violence and victory. We look like survivors, marked by the experiences that brought us together but not broken by them. There's something beautiful in that reflection, a promise of resilience that gives me hope for whatever comes next.
"I want to try," I tell him, making the commitment despite my remaining fears. "I want to build a life with you, raise our child together, see if we can make this work."
"We can make it work," he assures me, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "I'll protect you both with everything I have. No one will ever threaten our family again."
The promise carries weight because I've seen what he's capable of when protecting the people he cares about. The cold determination that turns him into a killing machine when circumstances require it. That same lethal focus will now be dedicated to our safety and happiness.
"When?" I ask.
"Soon. We'll need to observe certain formalities for the family's sake, but nothing elaborate or public. A simpleceremony that makes our commitment official without drawing unnecessary attention."
The practicality of his approach appeals to me. Grand romantic gestures seem inappropriate given the circumstances that brought us together, and I have no desire to be the center of attention in a world where visibility often equals vulnerability.
The extraordinary events of this night will fade into family legend, another chapter in the ongoing story of survival and success that defines the Vetrov organization. But for me, it represents the beginning of something entirely new.
A life with the man I love, despite the danger that comes with loving him. A child who will grow up protected and privileged in ways I never was. A future that seemed impossible when I first walked into this office months ago, desperate for any solution to my brother's medical bills.
"I'm exactly where I belong," I whisper against his chest, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice.
"Yes," he agrees, his arms tightening around me possessively. "You are. And no one will ever take you away from me."
The vow resonates through his chest into mine, a promise sealed in blood but rooted in love deeper than either of us expected to find. We've both traveled dark paths to reach this moment, but the destination justifies whatever prices we've paid along the way.
I finally understand what home feels like. It's not a place, but a person. Not safety, but the certainty that whatever dangers come, we'll face them together.
The future remains uncertain, filled with challenges I can't yet imagine. But for the first time in months, I'm not afraid of what tomorrow might bring. Because tomorrow will find me in Misha's arms, protected by his love and surrounded by the family we're building together.
That's enough.
32
MISHA
The drive to Vera's family home takes us through working-class districts where honest people navigate the corruption that permeates every level of society. I guide the Mercedes through narrow streets lined with aging apartment buildings and small businesses that survive carefully.
Vera sits beside me with her hands folded in her lap as she stares through the windshield at the familiar territory. The tension in her shoulders isn't unwarranted. I know how anxious she is about letting her father know she's pregnant with my child.
"They're going to be suspicious," she says quietly as we approach the residential complex. "Batya has never trusted people in your line of work, and Elvin will want to know why you're helping us."
"Let them be suspicious," I reply, turning into the parking area behind a building that has seen better decades. "Healthy skepticism keeps people alive in this world."
The Soviet-era building shows its age, but the windows are clean and the entryway well-kept. These residents take pride in their homes despite economic limitations.
We climb the stairs to the third floor, entering her family's small apartment. It's just as musty as it was the first time I was here, like they never open the windows for fresh air.
Anatoly Kovalenko rises from a chair near the window where winter light illuminates a newspaper folded to the sports section. He's a wiry man with weathered hands from decades of physical labor. But his eyes are sharp as they assess me, and before he even speaks, I know he understands why we're here. Last time, he had so many questions. This time, he will have protests.
"Batya," Vera says, moving to embrace her father with obvious affection. She lets him hold her for a while as I shut the door behind us, and when she pulls away, he kisses her cheek.
