Page 67 of Captured By the Bratva

“Uh-huh,” Nik says with a smirk, then sidesteps a loose screw that nearly rolls off the edge of the stairs. “Looks simple enough.”

After several attempts and a few muttered curses, Ivan finally secures the gate in place, and we both burst out laughing.

“Thank you, Mr. Security,” I tease, giving him a playful salute. “You’re getting the hang of this parenting thing, you big softie.”

He grins, pulling me close. “Glad you think so. Just don’t let Nik hear you call me that.”

Anya joins us as we move to the kitchen, where Ivan teaches me how to cook some of his favorite Russian dishes. It becomes a chaotic, flour-dusted affair, with Ivan meticulously guiding me on the right techniques while Nik and Anya offer their own comments and observations.

“More salt,” Ivan says, tasting the borscht as I stir the pot.

“It’s already pretty salty,” I protest, laughing.

“Trust me,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s called flavor.”

As I add a little more salt, Nik picks up a spoon and takes a taste. He pretends to recoil, clutching his chest. “Flavor? That’s a heart attack in a bowl!”

Ivan scowls, but he’s grinning. “I’m not taking culinary advice from you, Nik.”

Anya pats Nik’s arm. “You’ve done well, Cathy,” she assures me. “Don’t let these two discourage you.”

After a few more tweaks and taste tests, we finally sit down to eat, the laughter and warmth between us making it feel like a real family meal.

As I take a bite, Ivan leans closer, his hand resting on mine. “You’ve done well,” he says softly, echoing Anya’s words. “Our child will grow up with love, and a family.”

My heart swells as I look at him, feeling a deep sense of gratitude for all the struggles that led us here.

As dinner winds down, Nik raises his glass, a teasing glint in his eye. “To the ‘new and improved’ Boss,” he says. “Father, husband, and now baby-proofing expert.”

49

CATHY

Two years later…

The living room is scattered with toys—blocks in bright primary colors, a plush bear missing an ear, and a stack of storybooks Ivan and I read aloud every night.

In the kitchen, I find Anya at the stove, humming as she stirs a pot. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air, mingling with the aroma of whatever delicious breakfast she’s preparing. She looks up and greets me with a warm smile.

I catch sight of my manuscript draft on the counter, marked with notes and a few frustrated scribbles. I’ve been rewriting a section for days, but every time I sit down to work on it, my attention wanders to the baby monitor on the counter. Tiny sounds of giggling fill the room, and I can’t help but smile.

Anya notices and nods toward the monitor with a grin. “Little Alexei is quite the morning chatterbox, isn’t he?”

“He definitely takes after Ivan in that regard,” I say, chuckling.

“Are you saying I talk too much?” a deep voice murmurs behind me. Ivan’s arms wrap around me from behind, his handsresting comfortably on my waist. I lean back, feeling the strength and warmth of him surrounding me.

“Only when it comes to bedtime stories,” I tease, nudging him lightly with my elbow.

Anya laughs from the stove, glancing over her shoulder. “That’s not a bad thing, Cathy. A man who reads bedtime stories is a keeper.”

Ivan chuckles, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

We stand there for a moment, a rare quiet filling the space. The scent of coffee, Anya’s gentle humming, the baby’s soft sounds from the monitor—it all wraps around us, making me feel that this life, this family, is real.

Nik strides in, grinning broadly, his new prosthetic arm gleaming in the light. With an exaggerated flourish, he grabs a beer from the fridge and deftly pops the cap off, waving his new arm around proudly.

“Show-off,” I tease, laughing as I watch him.

---