Page 69 of Bratva Prince
And I freed her.
No, that wasn’t right. She’d freed herself long ago, when she decided she wouldn’t be controlled by him anymore—she just needed someone to help her exterminate the nasty rodent.
My hand reached for her belly again, despite it being the flat stomach it’d been since I met her. But I couldn’t help it. For the next nine months, I wanted my hand planted in that position.
“So, that really is my son in there?” I asked, my voice sheepish to its typical cynicism.
Willow pulled her hand away to cross her arms. “Son? Maybe it’s a girl, did you think of that?”
“Well, if it is a girl, she’ll be beautiful like her mother.”
Her smile grew, and she rested her head against my shoulder, sighing dreamily.
“As far as names, I think we should name the baby Ivan,” I teased, knowing she’d shoot the idea down immediately.
She shook her head. “As long as the baby isn’t named after their grandfathers, I think we’re good.”
And we were. For once, we were good. Everything felt right, like it had fallen into place, just where it was supposed to be.
Willow had gotten her freedom, and I would have my family. Now, I’m not usually that corny asshole crying out that everything is a miracle, but in a way, it was. Everything we’d wished for had somehow come true.
And for the first time in my life, I was truly happy.
EPILOGUE
Ivan
One Year Later…
Staring at me was my own reflection. My hair was slicked back. Beard was trimmed, but still present. Willow refused to let me shave it completely because she loved the way it made me look like a Viking.
I swear, ever since we’d first met, she’s always called me a Viking, and it turned me on each time more than the last. But what I really loved was the glint in her eyes as she said it, like she wanted me to rip off her clothes and take her then and there.
It’s funny how much life can change in a year. I’ve heard that said in movies countless times, butfuck, it was true. Ask me a year ago where I’d be now, I would’ve assumed I was hustling the same ol’ pricks, smuggling weapons across borders, and all your general bratva nonsense.
But look at me now. I have a beautiful woman by my side and a gorgeous baby boy in my arms.
Am I still in the bratva? Of course. Don’t be a fucking idiot. The bratva is in my blood, it’s a part of who I am. But as Willow so generously pointed out—or rather, demanded—it’s a dangerous lifestyle to lead. Due to her incessant nagging to quit the risky business, we compromised. I stepped into the role of delegation.
Sure, I’d always led my men, told them what to do and who to kill. But I was always on the battlefield with them. Now, I instructed them from afar, allowing the blood to stain their hands and not mine.
A gentle knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.
“Ivan, sweetheart? How’s it coming along?”
I smiled, facing the door. “You can come in, Anya.”
Willow’s mother stepped into the room, tears welling the instant she saw me. “Oh, sweetheart. You look so handsome.”
She’d been living with us since I killed her husband. To my relief, neither her nor Willow resented me for it. In fact, they praised me, and saw me as their savior. Well, maybe savior is a bit strong since they were six shots in the Vodka bottle when they’d said that. But I knew they were grateful, nonetheless.
In a weird way, Anya had taken the role of my mother, as well, ensuring I stayed fed and looking after me like I was her son.
And today, I officially would be.
Well, son-in-law, though the title made no difference to us.
“Well, if I were a few decades younger, Willow would have to watch out,” she teased, stepping behind me and wrapping her arms around my shoulder in a tight hug.
