Page 68 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
“Papa,” I mutter, shaking my head, “is encouraging reckless behavior.”
Henry giggles, hiding behind his glass of juice. Dimitri raises his wine, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Reckless men build empires,malyshka. Perhaps he takes after me.”
“God help us all,” I murmur, but I can’t keep the smile off my face.
The meal winds down, plates cleared by quiet staff. Henry slips away toward his room, already planning tomorrow’s adventures, and silence folds in over us. Not the brittle silence that once stretched sharp and thin, but a soft one, comfortable. I sip my wine; he studies me across the table, and that’s enough.
He still doesn’t say the words often. I love you. They live on his tongue like a foreign language. But I hear them anyway.
I hear them when his lips brush my temple before he leaves the estate at dawn. In the warm weight of his palm against the small of my back when we enter crowded rooms together. In the way he waits outside the gallery each evening, leaning against the car, smoke curling from a half-burned cigarette, patient until I’m ready to come home.
Shadows linger. They always do. Whispers of rivals in the city, remnants of enemies long thought dead. Dimitri—he still wakes sometimes in the middle of the night, breaths harsh, scars of memory written in the tension of his body. I don’t always ask. Some truths still claw too deep.
I’ve learned to live in the in-between. To take peace when it’s offered, even if it’s fragile.
He’s learned too—slowly, painfully—that softness isn’t weakness. That family isn’t liability. That love, once chosen, canbe as ruthless as vengeance. Only warmer. Fiercer. Impossible to break.
***
The storm has returned, pressing hard against the estate walls, but inside the world is still.
Our son sleeps curled against Dimitri’s side on the couch, his small hand resting over his father’s chest, rising and falling with each breath. Dimitri sits perfectly still, one arm draped protectively around Henry, as if any movement might shatter the fragile perfection of the moment. His face, usually carved in stone, carries something I rarely see—something almost reverent.
I sink down beside them, the cushions dipping beneath my weight. Without hesitation, my head finds his shoulder. The lamp glows low, golden light brushing the sharp lines of his jaw, softening them into something I want to memorize.
For the first time in years, I feel the rarest thing of all: safety.
The words slip out before I can stop them, quiet, almost disbelieving. “We made it.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He turns his head slightly, watching me in the dim light. The silence stretches, not heavy, not sharp, but grounding. Then he threads his fingers through mine, his grip steady, anchoring me.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low, certain, carrying the weight of a vow. “No. We’re just getting started.”
Something inside me loosens, a knot I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying. His words settle deep, not as promise but as truth.
For once, I believe it. Wholeheartedly. Without fear.
Not because the shadows are gone—they never will be. His past is too full of ghosts, and my blood too marked by the same world that made him. But because what we’ve built here isn’t survival anymore. It’s more.
It’s life. Fierce, fragile, imperfect.
Entirely ours.
I press my forehead into his shoulder, closing my eyes, breathing in the quiet of the room, the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart under our son’s hand. Dimitri’s arm tightens around me, not to cage, not to claim, but to hold.
The storm mutters against the windows, steady as breath. Our son shifts once in his sleep, murmuring nonsense before sinking deeper into Dimitri’s chest. Dimitri’s hand strokes his back absentmindedly, the gesture so gentle it makes my throat ache.
I turn my face toward him. “You’re different with him.”
His gaze flicks down to me, sharp at first, then softer. “Different how?”
“Gentler,” I say, brushing my thumb over the back of his hand. “Softer than I ever thought you could be.”
He huffs, the sound almost a laugh. “Don’t tell my men. They’d lose all respect.”
“They’d never believe me,” I murmur. “You still look terrifying half the time.”
“Only half?” His brow arches.
