Page 38 of Knocked Up By the Russian

"We couldn't," she explained, avoiding Ivan's eyes. The Bratva probably didn't put too much thought into things like that, but that had always seemed like a big birthday, so the disappointment had hit a little harder than it should've.

"Why didn't you?" he asked, and she relaxed a bit.

Shrugging, she thought about the shit her father had left them with. Some of that debt was still being paid off today, and she hated that. That's why she'd been so pissed off when he messaged her.

"He didn't leave us in a good situation," she finally told Ivan, but she stopped before going into detail.It was... embarrassing, to say the least.

"He had some debt that Mom had to pay off. But she couldn't do it on her own, and I had to make some sacrifices. Things worked out in the end. I was in a better place, financially and mentally when he messaged me for my birthday. But he'dmentioned something about getting better. Going to rehab," she shrugged, unable to do anything else. What was she supposed to say? She hated the fact that he was getting better? It made her sound like a horrible person, but she did. She hated that he'd left them to suffer while he found himself. Found help. She hated how easy it must've been for him when they were stuck trying to pick up the pieces.

"Have you seen him since he left?" Ivan asked, and Amy shook her head.

"No, and I'm not planning to. He left to change himself; he can't come back and expect the rest would stay the same... That we'd still love him like we did then. We had to change too," she whispered before clearing her throat. "You mentioned that you visited my mom again. How did the move go?"

He could've thrown her earlier words back in her face, but he didn't. Instead, he smiled as he told her about the way her brothers had raced through the rooms, eager to pick their own. And Amy laughed when he told her that Ava ended up getting the first choice anyway because she'd stayed behind to help her mom out.

"She's fair like that," Amy grinned as she finished eating. No matter how difficult things had been, her mother had always been a great parent. Their forks clinked softly on their plates in the silence as Amy wondered what they were doing right then. Her mother had probably made the same dish for them to eat too, but were the boys running around the house like the lunatics they were? Or were they already playing video games? And did Ava like her new room? Or did she miss sharing the bed with their mom?

Eager for a distraction, Amy changed the subject. "How was the club today?"

Ivan's sudden stillness caught her attention, and she frowned. Something must've happened. Her thoughts automatically went to Brittany's mistakes. "Don't tell me you fired someone," she muttered, straightening in her seat. "Ivan?"

He let out a hoarse laugh. "No one got fired, Mishka."

But something had happened, she concluded.

"Then what happened?" she pressed as she rose from her seat and picked up their plates. Ivan didn't answer as she wiped off the excess food into the trash can, and her brow creased further as she placed the plates in his dishwasher.

"Ivan?" she repeated, tone growing irritated as she washed her hands. His arms wrapped around her waist while she was busy, and Amy blinked.

His exhale made her hair flutter, drawing her back into the moment. She switched off the tap and turned to face him. "Tell me what happened," she demanded, pushing against him lightly to force him to give her some space. If something bad had happened, she wanted to hear it first—she'd decide herself if she needed comforting afterward.

Ivan took a step back. Ran his fingers through his hair. Annoyance prickled, but just as she was about to open her mouth, he answered her.

"I didn't want to worry you, Mishka, but we received three more packages."

"Three?" she echoed, fingers gripping onto the edge of the counter.Why that many? Have we done something to make the guy behind the threats mad?Her breath started to disappear, black spots flickering across her eyes. "How did this happen?"

"We're trying to find out still, Mishka." Ivan took a step closer, and she shook her head, pulling herself together. His faceechoed his frustration, but he didn't crowd her. It felt like a step forward, and her breaths came a little easier.

"Has anyone found anything yet?" she asked as she dried her hands on the shirt she was wearing... his shirt—his very expensive Italian shirt. Oh, shit. Her cheeks heated, but Ivan didn't seem to care, so she brushed her concern away.

"No, it's still under investigation," he admitted softly, and she nodded, blowing out a breath as she turned to look around the kitchen. There wasn't much she could do about that.

"Want a glass of wine?" she offered, spotting the bottles he'd brought home with him from Giovanni's.

"Sure," he agreed easily, and he leaned against the kitchen counter as she grabbed the wine and two glasses.

After popping the cork, she started to pour—but the red wine splashed like blood, and she stopped quickly, taking a step back. Boris's dead gaze flickered through her mind again.

"Mishka?" Ivan questioned, and she shook her head, putting the cork back into the mouth of the bottle.

"I don't feel like wine anymore," she admitted as she took the glasses to the basin and poured it out. It wouldn't have settled her nerves anyway.

"Tell me why you were crying on the couch?" Ivan asked, pulling her attention away from the red flowing down the kitchen drain.

"Huh?" she muttered, flicking the tap on. It didn't stop her from imagining her own face in place of Boris's. Or her family's. Amy felt sick.

"Why were you crying on the couch, Mishka?" he asked again, but he didn't have to. She'd heard him just fine. It just took her a second to realize what he was saying.

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