Page 67 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
There are others when it feels too still, too exposed, like a canvas waiting for someone else to leave their mark. On those days, I find myself glancing toward the doorway more often than I should.
Sometimes I almost see him there.
Dimitri never announces himself. He doesn’t belong in a place like this, not with his sharp suits and his sharper eyes, not with the weight of his presence that could crush the fragile quiet I’ve built. Yet somehow, whenever he appears, he fits.
He’ll lean against the far wall, arms folded, blending into the edges of the space as if he owns even this. He’ll watch me move, his gaze steady, unreadable, but fixed entirely on me.
Every time, whether I admit it aloud or not, I breathe easier knowing he’s there.
At the far end of the gallery, near the small office that doubles as my refuge, hangs a single framed photograph. It isn’t part of the exhibit. It’s mine, personal, hung without explanation.
A wedding photo.
The veil catches the light in the image, thin and soft, while his hand rests over mine. We stand together, still and steady, as though the world around us had finally stopped moving for one impossible heartbeat.
It was taken shortly after that night in the library—after the fire and the fury, after secrets had been torn open and we stopped pretending we were anything but bound.
People sometimes pause at the photo, curiosity flickering in their eyes. They don’t know the story behind it. They don’t see the war that brought us there, or the blood that paved the way to a moment of stillness.
I do. When I look at it, when my gaze catches his face captured in the frame, I remember how everything shifted. How survival became love. How chaos found a kind of peace.
Life with Dimitri isn’t simple. It never could be, but ithassteadied. The estate no longer hums with the restless silence that once made every hall feel like a cage.
Now the marble carries smaller, softer sounds—my footsteps echoing as I pace from room to room, my laughter catching against high ceilings, and most of all, our son’s voice, bright and unrestrained, filling spaces that had only ever known discipline.
He doesn’t glance over his shoulder anymore when he runs down the corridors. Fear no longer dogs his heels. Instead,he charges forward, bold and untamed, his little legs carrying him fast across polished floors. His laughter rings out, and behind him comes Dimitri—low, rumbling growls meant to sound fierce, though the warmth in them betrays him. Their chase rattles through the halls, a game only the two of them play, a secret side of him no one else will ever see.
That sound—deep and playful, rolling through the stone like thunder—isn’t for his men, his rivals, his empire. It’s for us. For me.
Dimitri still dresses the same. Sharp suits, black or charcoal, pressed to perfection. He still walks like the floor belongs to him, still carries the weight of every command like a blade sheathed at his side. But when he bends to scoop our boy into his arms, when strong hands cradle small ribs and a delighted squeal bursts free, there is a gentleness that cuts through all the steel. A softness that belongs only to this wing, only to us.
We’ve made the western wing our home. It stretches toward the forest, windows opening onto endless green. The trees stand like sentinels, quiet and certain, their branches whispering in the wind. At night, when the world sinks into stillness, the silence is no longer lonely. It is steady. Safe.
Mornings are ours. Coffee on the balcony has become a ritual, steam curling into the pale light as the forest stirs awake. Dimitri sits beside me, often wordless, his gaze on the horizon. Our son clambers between us, sticky-fingered from stolen pastries, pointing out every bird, every rustle in the trees. And for those moments, there is no Bratva, no enemies, no shadows pressing at the gates. There is only us—Henry’s chatter, Dimitri’s quiet hand resting over mine, the forest shifting like it’s breathing with us.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering how we came here—through blood and fire, through betrayal and choices that nearly broke us. Yet here we are, alive, together. The estate has become more than walls and marble. It has become home. Not because it shelters us, but because within it, I have found what I never thought I could: steadiness. Family. Love forged in the unlikeliest of places.
When I wake to the sound of footsteps that aren’t mine, to laughter that doesn’t belong to ghosts, I know—this is the life I chose. This is the life we built.
There’s a rhythm to it now, a cadence we’ve grown into without realizing it.
Afternoons belong to me at the gallery, my world of light and quiet, while Dimitri spends his buried in meetings, patrolling the grounds with his men, his voice clipped and firm when he gives orders. Sometimes, though, we find the middle. Long drives down winding roads, forest blurring into city, city back into forest. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other steady on my thigh, not saying much but never needing to.
Evenings are ours.
Dinner tonight is simple—roast chicken, potatoes, wine that gleams red under the chandelier. Our son chatters between bites, announcing his victories of the day with the authority of a general.
“I climbed the wall in the garden,” he declares proudly, cheeks flushed. “All the way to the top!”
My fork stills halfway to my mouth. “You did what?”
Dimitri doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even hide the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He leans back in his chair, voice smooth. “He had a spotter.”
I glare. “A spotter?”
“A guard,” Dimitri clarifies, unbothered. “He didn’t fall.”
Our son beams, triumphant. “Papa said I was fast.”
