Page 42 of Reign of Four

He cuts me off abruptly, venom dripping from his tone. “A child would be a blessing. They would be loved and cared for endlessly, because they won’t have only two parents, but four. You realize that, don’t you? It’s not just you and me, Valentina, but it’s Ezra and Mikhail too. You can’t decide for all four of us if we’re going to have kids or not. It needs to be a discussion, and one decided not because of what it means for the Bratva, but because of what it means for us.” He releases my hand and narrows his gaze as he searches mine. “If you have objections to having children, we need to talk now. As I’m sure you’ve realized, we’re not keen on pulling out. You’re at risk every time we so much as look in your direction, Valentina. We’re ravenous for you all the time.” His nostrils flare, and I can feel the hard point of his cock poking my stomach.

An angry boner, no doubt, but still a boner.

He screws his eyes shut on an exhale. “Mikhail made breakfast.”

My stomach churns. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.” Turning the doorknob, Andrei pushes the door open to reveal both Mikhail and Ezra waiting—and listening—close by. “We need to talk. All four of us.”

Ezra may still be naked, but his expression is unreadable as he stares at me. Mikhail, on the other hand, is red-faced and jumpy. The plate of eggs in his hand bounces up and down as he taps his foot, a vein in his neck throbbing as he swallows whatever is on his mind.

Being with them again after a week apart has been a soothing balm on all our wounds. If anything is going to disturb the peace, I guess I’m grateful that it’s only me this time, and not a threat from the outside.

Just me, and the one thing that could tear us all apart.

The truth.

Chapter 15

Ezra

Any time I’ve been around babies, their tiny eyes have watered and their little voices have wailed. Whether it’s my blank stare that sets them off, or the fresh bruises on my knuckles, or the way their mothers clutch them tighter to their chests as I walk past, I can’t say.

I just know that after one look at me, they cry.

I’ve seen people coo at babies or sing to them to put an end to their tears. Sometimes, I get the urge to try. Maybe I can make a baby laugh, and their parent won’t curl their lip as they walk away from me. Maybe, one laughing baby at a time, things will change. But by the time I remember to smile, the family has moved on. I’m standing alone on the sidewalk.

The only way I might spend time with a baby, then, is if I either steal one—which won’t win me any points with my future wife—or if I have my own.

Creating a child is laughably easy for most men. It’s unplanned, or it’s instinctual, or it could actually be a beautiful moment that’s been planned and prayed for night after night upon every wishing star in the sky.

But for many of us, that simply isn’t the case. Andrei’s father is nameless. Mikhail’s stuck around until things got tough. My own father decided to have as many sons as possible so that he could strengthen the numbers of the Russian Bratva by merit of his cock, instead of his fists. Thankfully, he only had one child—a son he had no interest in raising. He tossed me into the Bratva and let the vors raise me with harsh words and even harsher fists, but even then, I can’t say that the Bratva ever treated me like a proper son.

I was a dog to train for the fighting pits.

The most experience I have with flesh and blood fathers doing their actual jobs is from watching the ones within the Baranova Bratva raise their sons and spoil their daughters. It’s not often that I see the children in our sector—my line of work lends itself more to brawls and blood than toys and toddlers—but when I catch a glimpse of parenthood, I get a sense that the job is difficult sometimes, but no less important.

Maybe even rewarding.

As Valentina plays with the cold eggs and limp toast on her plate, I wonder how she would look with a baby—my baby—in her arms. Raven-colored hair, like mine. Curled, like hers. Tiny dimples when she smiles. A laugh that lights up the room.

I’ve never pictured myself as a father. I’ve never wanted to be a father. How could I, after the failings of my own? Of Andrei’s and Mikhail’s? But Valentina brings a layer of peace and comfort to our lives that makes me wonder if I could step away from the blood and bone, and give parenthood a try.

I quickly scan Valentina’s body for signs of pregnancy. I don’t actually know much about how it works, other than the basics. Is it too soon to know? Would she be able to feel a change in her body, or would we need a test to find out? A dozen questions zip through my mind too fast for me to latch onto, but the most important ones ring clear as a bell.

Could I be a father?

Would I be any good at it?

Once Valentina threw on one of Mikhail’s t-shirts and boxers after her shower, she joined the three of us in the kitchen. Mikhail’s beach house is his personal retreat—no one is allowed inside without his express permission. I’ve only been here twice before. Judging by the lack of women’s clothing and toiletries I’ve failed to locate on both of my previous surveys of the house, I suspect that he’s never brought a woman here before, which makes Valentina the first. She may not realize how privileged a position that is.

I doubt he’ll ever tell her.

Valentina flicks her eyes between each of us and sits at the place Mikhail set out for her at the breakfast table. Two fried eggs and toast, with a glass of orange juice. A true bachelor’s breakfast. She eyes the food warily. “I don’t know what more you want me to say. You heard everything.”

Andrei leans closer, resting his elbows along the table’s edge. “Say it again, so that we all hear it. Directly. From. You.”

Mikhail hovers behind us, a scowl etched across his features. If anyone should be kneeling at Valentina’s feet to give her anything and everything she wants, it should be Mr. Obsessed himself. So, she doesn’t want kids? Ply her with jewels and expensive dinners and trips to Venice. He’s never expressed wanting to have kids before; falling for Valentina shouldn’t be a big deal. It shouldn’t change his mind about how he wants to live his life—or with whom.

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