Page 6 of A Baby for the BRATVA Boss
I don’t let her.
Sophie shrugs out of the sorry excuse of a coat she has been wearing and I lift the replacement from the woman’s arms. I settle it over Sophia’s shoulders myself. The fur-edged hood, the deep crimson, it makes her look like winter was built around her. My fingers find the edge of the collar and stay there too long, feeling the heat of her neck through the wool.
“It suits you,” I tell her.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
The woman smiles, satisfied. “A beautiful wife, Mr. Dubovich. You chose well. May many beautiful babies follow.” She says the last bit with a flutter of her hands, as though she can’t contain her excitement and Sophia’s face floods with colour that rivals her new coat.
I pay without correcting a single word.
We move through the square. She’s quiet in the way people are when they’re taking stock. Her hands stay tucked into the new pockets; I read the faint tremor in her shoulders anyway. I stop at the little stall that paints snowflakes on their cups every year and order two hot chocolates.
She takes hers with both hands. Steam curls under the hood and warms her cheeks. When she sips, the smallest sound leaves her throat, and I have to restrain myself from touching her.
We stand at the edge of the square where the snow hasn’t been trampled yet. Children run past, a dog shakes frost off its back. The town feels like a life that’s just beyond reach for me, but somehow, she bridges the gap.
“You’re thinking about what you lost,” I say.
She doesn’t hide from it. “There isn’t much to count. He gambled the money first, then the land, then the pieces of himself that made him my father. Until all that was left were my mother’s things. He couldn’t stop touching those either.” She swallows. “I have memories of her now. And the kind of sadness that makes you tired. And her clock, which I think I took out of spite more than anything.”
I let the truth sit. It doesn’t need pity. It needs weight.
“You belong to me now,” I tell her, simple and clean. “When something belongs to me, it doesn’t go without.”
Her eyes lift to mine over the rim of the cup. “And what do you want in return?”
I hold her gaze. “A legacy.”
The truth shows in her face in small shifts: throat tightening, breath slightly sharper, pupils bigger under the hood’s shadow.
“You’re saying you want—”
“Children,” I say. “My name in your mouth. My blood under your skin. A family that doesn’t vanish when men make mistakes.”
Her breath ghosts white between us.
“You brought me here to breed me,” she says. Not a question. Not outrage. The words of a woman who will always meet me head on.
“I brought you here because those were the terms if your father couldn’t pay,” I answer. “And because I want what you can give me.”
“But you knew he would never be able to pay, and you accepted those terms anyway.” She looks down at the cup. A small brown comet of chocolate clings to her upper lip where the wind cooled it too fast. I take my glove off, step in, and swipe my thumb over her mouth. She doesn’t move. When I lower my hand, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the door of her father’s house closed.
“What do you want, Sophia?” My voice comes lower. “Not for him. For you.”
She’s honest, even when it hurts. The words list themselves in a whisper. “I want a value that can’t be gambled away. I want photos on a wall that aren’t old and fading. I want a tree I can decorate and enjoy myself. I want someone to tell the truth even when I don’t like it. And I want—” She breaks off, jaw tight.
“What, Sophia? What else?”
“A life that feels like it’s just mine.”
I nod once. “Done.”
Her mouth curves, disbelieving. “You can’t promise a whole life over a hot chocolate.”
“I can promise what I can give.” I touch the edge of her hood. “You’ll have warmth. Truth. A tree. Photos. And the rest, we can build together.” I hold there, letting the last part land. “My way. In my house. With my rules.”
