Page 80 of Married to the Bratva

She ignores him entirely, which is probably for the best. Those two have been in a constant battle of wills since they moved in together, and I suspect they both enjoy it far too much to stop.

“Speaking of Maxim,” Grandma says as she hands me a glass, “where is the brooding peanut butter hoarder?”

“Meeting Nikolai in town,” I reply, taking a sip. “Something about inventory or logistics. You know, important crime boss stuff.”

Victor snorts as he settles into a lawn chair. “Inventory? You mean he’s checking to make sure no one’s stolen his secret peanut butter stash from the trunk of his Bentley.”

“Probably,” I say with a laugh. “I found two jars hidden in the sock drawer last week. He claims it’s for ‘emergencies.’”

Amber raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly constitutes a peanut butter emergency?”

“Apparently, living with me,” I deadpan. “He says I’m reckless with the jars. Like, excuse me for not rationing out teaspoons at a time like it’s liquid gold.”

Victor chuckles, shaking his head. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Oh, you think we’re ridiculous?” I shoot back, nodding toward Grandma. “This one made an entire lasagna last night just because you said you felt like maybe having one at some point in the future. Who’s whipped now?”

Grandma gasps in mock outrage, but the blush creeping up her neck betrays her. “I wasn’t being whipped,” she protests. “I was being considerate.”

Victor smirks, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Their banter fades into the background as I shift my attention back to Mila, who has finally decided that playing with her wooden blocks is more interesting than eating grass.

Watching her, I feel a pang of disbelief at how much my life has changed. Not so long ago, I was a hostage in Maxim’s world, terrified and unsure of my place.

Now, I’m sitting in the sunshine, watching my daughter giggle as she topples a tower of blocks.

And Maxim… God, Maxim. He’s gone from the cold, calculating Bratva boss to a man who kisses my forehead every morning and sings terribly off-key lullabies to Mila at night.

Not that he’d admit it, of course. The brooding peanut butter hoarder has a reputation to maintain.

Grandma interrupts my thoughts by plopping down on the blanket beside me. “So,” she says, nudging me with her elbow, “when are you going to tell Maxim about the third jar you’ve got hidden in the pantry?”

My mouth drops open. “How do you know about that?”

“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I know everything that goes on in this house. I’m basically a psychic.”

“Well, if you’re so psychic,” I counter, “why don’t you know that it’s not just peanut butter? I’ve also got chocolate spread.”

Grandma gasps. “You are playing with fire, Sophie.”

“Life’s too short to live without peanut butter and chocolate.”

“You’re wrong,” she replies.

“How so?”

“You need ice cream as well.”

61

MAXIM

The late afternoon sun stretches long shadows across the streets of Rook’s Hollow as I stand by the corner of the town square.

Nikolai is murmuring something about the latest shipment, but his voice fades the moment I see her.

Sophie.

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