Page 187 of The Lazarov Bratva

Kristof leans up and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “I can see the worry in your eyes, but you needn’t be. Those who are loyal to me will be loyal to you.”

He says that with such confidence, but it does nothing to quell the doubt rising in my chest. The Irish and August? They are loyal to Kristof, and there’s nothing concrete to say that loyalty will extend to me after the death of my father.

My life, as turbulent as it is, is facing two incredible changes—becoming a mother, and possibly the leader of the Russian Bratva. Each of those has one glaring question that sings in my mind even as Kristof takes me in his arms for sleep.

What if, even after everything, I’m just not good enough?

24

KRISTOF

Between calls with August as we work out the finer details of the plan against Aleksander and Katja’s arrival, the days are slipping past like water. Katja seems to be settling in well, although she does appear to have some trouble with shaking off the fact that she’s not a maid anymore. Here, she’s Alena’s friend.

Alena’s pregnancy is processing smoothly, but I can barely take my eyes off her for fear that something will happen to her or that a snake will have slipped through my tightening net and threaten her.

Her decision to become more involved with things warms me, though. The Alena I first snatched away from the Orlova mansion wouldn’t have cared about the inner workings of the Family. All she wanted was freedom. Now, though, she wants to know everything, and her insight into her father has helped August narrow down which communications can be trusted and which ones are fake to throw off any unwanted listening.

The sun beats down against my bare back, and I grit my teeth, focusing on the burn weaving through my muscles as I rise into my next push-up. Alena sits nearby on the patio with a chilled drink in one hand and a color brochure in the other, deep in conversation with Katja about possible colors for the nursery.

“Peach is perfect for any child,” Katja says, holding up one pamphlet with more shades of peach than I even knew could exist.

Alena rolls her eyes. “But peach is so sickening in the wrong light. I want something beautiful and vibrant.”

“The green?” Katja holds up another palette full of greens, and again, Alena shakes her head. Then, her attention shifts to me.

“Wait. Kristof. Where will the nursery be?”

Half focused on my workout, it takes me a second to click what she’s asking. “I’m assuming you don’t want me to say it’ll be in the house.”

“No, you ass.” Alena chuckles. “But we haven’t even decided where we’re going to have the baby, so how can I plan a nursery if I don’t know where it will be?”

“Do you think green will look different in America compared to Russia?” I joke, puffing out my cheeks as I work. Suddenly, several cold droplets land like shards of ice on my back as Alena flicks some of the chilled drink toward me.

“You know what I mean. Rooms are different sizes, and I mean…” She pauses, and I focus on the slab beneath me, waiting for her to work out exactly what she wants to say.

“I’d love it if we got our own house together, y’know? A place that’s ours, and all ours and not filled with guns and terrible memories.” Her tone dips slightly while Katja chuckles.

“That rules out America.”

My past push-up has my shoulders complaining, then I hop upright and watch Alena as she toys with the corner of a brochure, tipping her drink back and forth.

“Okay, how about this?” I say.

Both of them glance up at me while I walk to the nearest chair and grab the towel.

“This is my house here, and I have no plans of getting rid of it despite the guns and the memories. But… in the States, you can pick where we live. Find a house that matches your dreams and has everything you could ever want, minus the guns and without any memories.” Pummeling my face with the towel to wipe away the sweat, when I drop my hand to wipe my arms, Alena is beaming. “You can have everything you desire in that house.”

“Two nurseries!” Katja squeals, and just like that, excitement injects into the conversation.

“You mean it?” Alena squints up at me, lifting one hand to protect her eyes against the sun, so I move closer to her so she’s in my shadow.

“I do. Given everything we’ve discussed, it makes sense to have a place here and a place there. And fuck the old house. I never want to set foot in the Orlova mansion ever again. So, choose a new place.”

“Oh, my God!” Alena darts up and throws her arms around me, peppering kisses all over my face until she registers the sweat, and then she darts backward. “I love you, but God, are you sweaty.”

“Are you only complaining because we have company?” I smirk, swatting her ass on the way to the drinks cart, where a large jug of iced water awaits me.

Alena giggles, then retakes her seat, and the conversation about nurseries and colors becomes animated. Ideas flow like an uninterrupted river between them, and I sit nearby with a chilled glass in hand.

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