Page 65 of Arranged Mafia Marriage

Felicity looks up at me with obvious happiness. “I love you too, Kiril, and I mean that.”

The words are even more gratifying than the sounds of passion I draw from her for the rest of the night.

28

Felicity

Iwake up to a wave of nausea that hits me like a freight train. Groaning, I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before emptying the contents of my stomach. The cold tile floor offers little comfort as I slump against it, waiting for the next bout of sickness to pass.

“Felicity?” Kiril’s voice calls from the bedroom. “Are you all right?”

I try to respond, but another wave of nausea overtakes me. The sound of retching is apparently answer enough, as I hear Kiril’s footsteps approaching.

He appears in the doorway, his expression softened with concern. “Morning sickness again?”

I nod weakly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “It’s getting worse, but that’s to be expected until it peaks around ten weeks according to the doctor.”

Kiril kneels beside me, his large hand gently rubbing circles on my back. The gesture is surprisingly tender, coming from a man who’s usually so stoic and reserved. “Let’s get you back to bed,” he says, helping me to my feet once I’m sure I’m done vomiting.

I pause long enough to brush my teeth then lean against him as we make our way back to the bedroom. The world spins slightly, and I’m grateful for his steady presence. Once I’m settled in bed, he disappears for a moment, returning with a glass of water and some crackers.

“Small sips,” he instructs, handing me the water. “And try to eat a few crackers. It might help settle your stomach.”

I take a tentative sip of water, relieved when it stays down. “Thank you.” Despite my illness, I’m secretly amused. He does this routine every time, including giving me the instructions repeatedly. I humor him, sensing he needs to feel involved in the process, and I’m glad to have him take care of me.

Kiril sits on the edge of the bed, studying me intently. “Perhaps we should call Dr. Petrov. This seems more severe than usual.”

I shake my head. “I already did a couple of days ago, remember? It’s just morning sickness. It’ll pass. I only have to worry if I can’t keep down anything, or if it’s prolonged past ten weeks, which will pass in a few days.” I’m pinning all my hopes on that magical number.

“I don’t like seeing you this way.” He scowls, looking somewhat helpless and flustered by that. “Is there anything I can do?”

The question catches me off-guard. It’s not like Kiril to be so powerless, which translate to him becoming nurturing. I’m used to his commanding presence, but this softer side he’s shown overthe past few weeks is new, and I’ve come to appreciate it. “Could you stay with me for a while?” I ask hesitantly.

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “Of course.”

He settles in beside me, draping his arm over my waist. I rest against him, feeling better despite the lingering nausea.

“Tell me more about your childhood,” I say, wanting to focus on something other than my churning stomach, and it’s a topic he hasn’t discussed much. What he’s shared has painted a sad picture, but I’m compelled to know what makes him tick. “What was it like growing up in the Bratva?”

Kiril is quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped, but then he speaks, sounding distant, but with old pain underscoring his words. “It wasn’t easy. As you know, my father was a hard man, even by Bratva standards. He believed in toughening us up from an early age.”

I turn slightly to face him, curious. “Us? You and your brother?” He’s mentioned him a few times.

“Yes, Nikolai was a year older. We were close in the beginning, despite our father’s attempts to pit us against each other. For a while.”

“What happened to make you and Nikolai drift apart?” I ask cautiously.

Kiril’s expression darkens. “Power. Ambition. The very things our father instilled in us. Father made us fight for the right to be his heir, uncaring if it was to the death. I vanquished Nikolai and forced him to yield without killing him. He couldn’t accept that I was chosen to lead and had humiliated him by denying him death. I did it because I loved him, not because I wanted to hurthim. I wanted him to live to share the burden with me, but he thought I wanted to shame him, I guess.”

I place my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating erratically beneath my palm. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

He swallows audibly and looks haunted. “He was young and foolish and challenged my leadership several times. He wanted to take my place with bloodshed, and I finally had no choice but to grant his request for a rematch. My refusal was causing dissent, some thought I was torturing him to be cruel, while others thought I was afraid to face him again. When we faced off a second time, he lost.” He closes his eyes.

The stark way he says that lets me know it wasn’t just a simple defeat. “This challenge ended differently?”

“Again, I hesitated when I’d bested him, love and weakness stilling my hand, and he slashed his throat against my knife when he realized he’d lost once more.” Pain laces his words. “He preferred death to living as my second and in my shadow. Foolish boy was my father’s man through and through.”

I rub small circles over his chest with my palm. “I’m so sorry. It must have been difficult.”

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