Page 104 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

Again, I can’t help bristling. But it’s an automatic reaction, the behavior of an immature boy who doesn’t want his daddy’s advice.

I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a man. A don. I can face the truth without flinching.

“She has a child. My child. And he’s been taken. By Astra Tyrannis.”

There’s a second of ponderous silence. Then: “If you need me—”

I appreciate that more than he knows. “Thank you, but extra manpower won’t help. It’s… tricky. I was going to attack today, but I’ve decided to hold off until I have more information.”

“I can have my team dig up what they can,” he offers.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

“Papa,” I say, falling back on the title I used as a young boy, “don’t tell Mama about any of this.”

“I won’t. Of course not.”

“I’ll get him back.”

“I know that.”

“I have to,” I say. “I… I don’t think I can survive losing another child.”

“You can survive anything,” Papa says with conviction. “You are a Kovalyov, and we can handle the worst this world has to offer. But you won’t have to. You’re sure the child is yours?”

I stop short at that one. For a second, I consider telling him the truth. But then I realize something. The kind of answer that’s so obvious it slices right through the tangled knot of your problems.

The truth is what we make it. The truth is what we choose to believe.

“Yes,” I reply, matching my father’s conviction. “The child is mine.”

“Then you do what must be done. If you need anything…”

“I’ll let you know,” I finish.

“Oh, and Phoenix?”

“Yes?”

“Congratulations,” he says. “Having a child was the single greatest accomplishment of my life.”

I take a deep breath. “Goodnight, Father.”

I hang up and stare out at the horizon. I feel lighter than I did a few minutes ago. That weight isn’t as crushing.

But I’m far from better. Not everything is so easily resolved. Why does it feel so fucking lonely when she’s not with me?

I turn in the direction of the house and spot her step out onto the deck. She’s changed into a simple white summer dress. But fuck, she looks angelic in it. Her hair flutters freely around her shoulders and even free of makeup, she’s an absolute vision.

A vision with dark circles underneath her eyes and hollowed-in cheeks. Her neck and arms are too gaunt, too thin. Like the pain is eating away at her ounce by ounce by ounce.

She hesitates for a second as she gazes at me. We’re too far away for proper facial expressions. But when I hold out my hand and beckon, she slips off her shoes and emerges onto the sand.

I watch her as she walks. Every part of me hurts so fucking bad—but goddamn, she makes it better.

“Phoenix,” she murmurs when she’s close enough to be heard over the crashing waves.

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