Page 81 of Married to the Bratva

She’s pushing Mila’s stroller along the cobblestone path, her head tipped slightly forward against the golden light.

The soft breeze lifts the strands of her hair, framing her face like a portrait come to life. Mila, my little whirlwind, babbles in her own language, her tiny fists waving like she’s conducting an unseen symphony.

“She’s here,” I say, cutting Nikolai off mid-sentence.

He smirks, following my line of sight. “You’re a different man when they’re around. It’s amusing.”

I ignore him and step forward, my strides purposeful. Sophie turns the corner, and her eyes catch mine almost instantly.

She gives me that look she does—a mix of amusement and exasperation—as if she’s already anticipating my next gift,brought out for her or my daughter. Mila spots me, and her babbling crescendos, her tiny arms reaching skyward.

“Daddy’s here,” Sophie murmurs to her, and my chest tightens in a way I’ll never admit aloud.

The space between us disappears, and when I reach them, I bend down to scoop Mila into my arms. Her squeals of delight echo across the square, and for a moment, everything else in my life falls away.

“How’s my girl?” I ask, my voice softer than I’ve ever let it be with anyone else.

Mila answers by grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking, hard enough to make Nikolai snort behind me.

“She’s been eating grass,” Sophie says, crossing her arms, her lips twitching into a barely suppressed smile. “I’m starting to think she might grow up to be a cow.”

I raise an eyebrow at Mila, mock disapproval etched on my face. “Grass, malyshka? Really? That’s the best you could find? We’ll have to work on your taste. Peanut butter is far superior. Just keep it away from your mother.”

“Don’t start,” Sophie groans, shaking her head. “You’ve already bought out half the town’s supply. I’m pretty sure the grocer hides in the back whenever you show up.”

From behind me, Nikolai chuckles. “Not wrong. I’ve seen it happen.”

I throw him a dry look. “Laugh all you want, but when the apocalypse comes and peanut butter is currency, you’ll both be coming to me.”

Sophie rolls her eyes, leaning a little closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Please. I’ve got my own stash.”

I narrow my eyes, adjusting Mila on my hip. “Do you now?”

“Maybe,” she replies, smirking. “But you’ll never find it.”

Before I can reply, Mila slaps her small hand against my chest, her laugh bubbling up as she declares, “Da-da!” The soundstops me cold, my focus narrowing to just her. I press a kiss to her forehead, murmuring in Russian, “You’ll always have your dada, malyshka. Always.”

Sophie steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she glances down at Mila, her fingers brushing the soft curls framing her daughter’s face. “She trusts you completely, you know. It’s like she knows you’ll always catch her.”

The weight of her words settles between us, unspoken but understood. I tighten my arm around Mila, my voice low. “Maybe it’s because she knows I will.”

Sophie’s gaze flicks to mine, and something passes between us—a recognition, a quiet truth we both feel but don’t need to name.

“Come on,” I say after a moment, settling Mila back into her stroller. “Let’s head home. Amber’s cooking always smells like it’s worth stealing.”

“Only if Victor hasn’t eaten half of it already,” Sophie quips as she falls into step beside me.

Ahead of us, Nikolai shakes his head, muttering something about domestic bliss not suiting me. I let him walk on, ignoring the jab. Right now, the quiet between Sophie and me feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“How’s the inventory?” Sophie asks after a while, bumping my arm lightly.

“Secure. No one’s stolen my peanut butter.”

Her laugh is soft but genuine. “Good. So the empire is safe.”

I glance at her again, catching the way the late sun lights her features, and for a moment, I forget the empire, the enemies, the weight of the world. It’s just her. Her and Mila.

And the quiet, steady thought I’ve been pushing down since the moment I met her:Maybe this is what conquers everything. Not power. Not fear. But this.

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