Page 65 of Captured By the Bratva

As I step into the dining room, the soft glow of candlelight makes the room feel inviting and warm. Ivan has laid out an incredible spread on the table, all my favorite dishes and a few new ones he’s introduced me to over the past few weeks.

The aroma of roasted vegetables, tender beef stroganoff, and a plate of pirozhki fills the air, each scent rich and familiar.

I turn to him, my voice a little breathless. “Ivan, this is… amazing. Did you make all of this?”

He gives a slight smirk, pouring wine into our glasses. “I might have had a little help, but yes. I thought we should celebrate properly.”

We sit, and Ivan raises his glass, holding my gaze. “To us, Cathy. To our family and the life we’re building.”

I clink my glass against his, smiling back. “To a future free from shadows.”

We sip, and I take a bite of the stroganoff, savoring the familiar taste of creamy sauce and tender meat. “This is incredible. It’s definitely a new favorite.”

“Better than the lasagna you kept raving about?” he teases, a playful glint in his eye. “Italian food in my house. My grandfather would roll over in his grave.”

I laugh, savoring another bite. “Alright, maybe they’re tied for first. But I never thought I’d love Russian food as much as I do now. Especially pirozhki.” I point to the plate piled high with the stuffed buns. “These are dangerous—I can eat about a dozen of them.”

“Good thing I made extra, then,” he says, his tone light. “In case there are cravings later.”

“Is that going to be your thing?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Spoiling me with food?”

He shrugs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Making sure you have everything you need, that’s all.”

Our conversation naturally shifts to the future, and before I know it, we’re discussing names, each suggestion laced with humor and a little bit of hope.

“What about Nikita?” he suggests, his face serious but eyes gleaming. “Make up for him losing an arm?”

“Nikita?” I laugh. “I know it’s strong and very Russian, but I don’t want them sounding like a bodyguard straight out of a spy movie!”

He chuckles, setting his glass down. “Alright, fair point. What’s your suggestion?”

“I was thinking something a bit softer,” I say, leaning in. “Like Nadia or Alexei.”

He nods, thoughtfully. “Nadia. It means ‘hope.’”

“That’s exactly why I like it,” I say, touched by how seriously he’s considering my suggestion. “Or Alexei—it’s close to Alex, which was your grandfather’s name, right?”

“Then Alexei it is.” He reaches across the table, taking my hand in his. “Strong, like their mother.”

A warmth fills my chest as he speaks, his fingers lacing through mine. “I think they’ll need a mix of both of us,” I say softly. “Strength, sure, but also a place to feel safe.”

His gaze grows serious. “They will have that, Cathy. I’ll make sure of it. They’ll have everything we never had.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, but I can see the weight of those words on his face. His past still lingers in his expression, but tonight, he looks at me with something lighter, almost hopeful.

“You know,” I start, breaking the silence, “we’ll have to decorate the nursery soon. It’s not going to be much of a baby’s room if it’s as dark and intense as the rest of this place.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want to paint the walls pastel? Maybe throw in some stuffed bears?”

“Don’t sound so horrified!” I laugh. “Yes, a few stuffed bears wouldn’t hurt, maybe a touch of color. I don’t want our baby’s first memories to be of chandeliers and leather armchairs.”

He smirks, but there’s a gentleness behind it. “Alright, pastel it is,” he says, lifting his glass again. “Though I still think a mini library wouldn’t hurt.”

“Alright,” I say, matching his smirk. “Pastel walls and bookshelves. A compromise.”

47

CATHY

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