Page 49 of Bratva Prisoner
“He’s different with you,” Cecily observes. “Softer somehow.”
“Maksim? Soft?”
“You should see how he watches you when you’re not looking. Like you might disappear if he blinks too long.”
The observation makes my heart skip. Through the sunroom windows, I can make out the men gathered on a terrace. Their conversation is animated, but Maksim stands slightly apart from his brothers, listening more than talking.
“He’s always been the quiet one,” Diane explains, following my line of sight. “But watch how he interacts with the kids.”
As if summoned by her words, three small children come barreling around the corner of the terrace. Maksim’s face brightens in the blink of an eye, and he crouches down to their level as they fling themselves into his arms.
“Uncle Maksim!” Their voices carry through the glass, high and delighted.
“The triplets,” Bianca explains with obvious pride. “They worship him.”
I watch as Maksim hoists one child onto his shoulders while the other two cling to his legs. The transformation is remarkable—the dangerous man has completely disappeared, replaced by someone who’s clearly devoted to these little people.
“He’ll be a good father someday,” Seraphina comments.
The words make my stomach flutter with possibilities I shouldn’t be entertaining. Children, family, a future that extends beyond just surviving the next crisis—these are luxuries I’ve never allowed myself to want.
“Come on,” Cecily prompts before linking her arm through mine. “Let’s rescue the men from babysitting duty.”
Dinner displays the kind of family bond I’ve only dreamed about. The dining room accommodates everyone easily, from Aleksei at the head of the table to the children in their high chairs. Conversation vacillates between English and what I assume is Russian, punctuated by laughter and gentle arguments about everything from politics to the best pizza in the city.
I find myself relaxing despite every instinct screaming at me to stay guarded. These people have welcomed me without question, and they’re treating me like I belong at their table instead of like an outsider who stumbled into their world by accident.
“So, Alyssa,” Grigor starts during a lull in conversation, “Maksim tells us you’re in marketing.”
“Wasin marketing. Recent career change due to circumstances beyond my control.”
“What kind of circumstances?” Nikolai asks.
“The kind that involve restraining orders and changing phone numbers,” I reply before I can stop myself.
The table goes quiet for exactly three seconds before Akim raises his glass. “Well, here’s to leaving the past behind and finding better company.”
“Here, here,” Dmitri agrees, and suddenly, everyone’s raising their glasses in a toast that feels more like a benediction.
“Anyone important to Maksim is important to us,” Akim announces.
I glance across the table at the man in question, who’s been unusually quiet throughout dinner. He catches my look and smiles, and the private expression makes my stomach flip.
After dinner, the children are herded off to bed while the adults settle into the living room with drinks. I excuse myself for a few minutes to use the bathroom, but really, I need a moment to process everything that’s happened tonight.
The house is massive, and I take a wrong turn somewhere between the powder room and the living room. The hallway I find myself in has family photos covering the walls—candid shots of holidays and birthdays and everyday moments that speak to genuine affection.
One door stands slightly ajar, and curiosity gets the better of me. I push it open, expecting to find another sitting room or maybe an office.
Instead, I find an arsenal.
Guns are hung on the walls in neat rows—handguns, rifles, things I don’t have names for but that look military in nature. Ammunition boxes are stacked, and a workbench in the corner holds cleaning supplies and spare parts.
The sight drags me back to a moment I’ve spent months trying to forget—my apartment, hours after I walked in on Troy and his friends. The first time I told Troy there was nothing he could do to get me back. Troy’s voice went cold and deadly in a way I’d never heard before, and his hand was steady and sure as he pointed that gun at my chest.
“You’re not leaving me, Alyssa. Not ever.”
The memory smashes into me with such force that I stumble backward, clutching the door frame for support. My chest constricts, making breathing impossible, and black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
