Page 67 of The Mafia King's Baby

The first shot surprises me with its accuracy because it hits center mass, slightly left of the bullseye. Muscle memory, apparently, doesn’t fade as quickly as I thought.

“Again.”

I fire five more rounds in steady succession, and each one finds the center mass area with reasonable precision. Not perfect, but competent. Good enough to stop a threat at close range.

“Your father taught you well.”

Secondhand pride suffuses me. “He insisted I understand guns aren’t toys or symbols. They’re tools with one purpose, which is stopping threats.” I lower the pistol and engage the safety.

“We’ll work on speed and accuracy, but your fundamentals are solid.” He replaces the target with a fresh one. “Let’s see how you handle stress.”

For the next hour, he puts me through increasingly complex drills, including drawing from concealment, shooting from cover, and reloading under pressure. Each exercise builds on the last, creating scenarios that simulate real-world defensive situations.

By the time we move to the compound’s small gymnasium, sweat sticks my shirt to my back, and my hands ache from grip strength exercises, but I feel more confident than I have since this entire situation began.

“Hand-to-hand combat is different from firearms.” Yefrem removes his shirt, revealing the network of scars that map the violent history of his life. “Guns give you distance and stopping power. Close combat is about leverage and opportunity.”

He demonstrates basic defensive positions, showing me how to break free from common holds and create distance for escape. His movements are fluid and precise from years of training and real-world application. “Your advantages are speed and unpredictability. Most attackers expect compliance from women, especially pregnant women. Use that assumption against them.”

We practice for another hour, working through scenarios that might occur in confined spaces or when weapons aren’t available. He’s careful not to make contact that could hurt me or the baby but pushes me hard enough that I understand the seriousness of what we’re doing.

“Why did you learn to fight?” I ask during a water break.

The question seems to catch him off guard. He’s quiet for a long moment, toweling sweat from his face while considering his answer. “My father was an associate of the St. Petersburgbratva. Not high-level but connected enough that violence was always a possibility.” He sets down the towel and meets my eyes. “He tried to shield me and my brother from that world, but children see everything eventually.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight when I saw my first beating. Ten when I understood it could happen to me if I wasn’t strong enough to prevent it.” His voice carries old pain. “My father taught me to fight because he knew he couldn’t protect me forever. I think, even then, he was planning to double-cross the localbratvaand get us to America.”

The image of a young Yefrem learning violence out of necessity breaks something in my chest. “And your brother?”

“Dmitri was a year older and naturally better at it. He protected me until I was old enough to protect myself.” He reaches for my hands, studying the calluses forming on my palms from tonight’s training. “I don’t want our child to grow up in a world where fighting is necessary for survival.”

“But if it is necessary?”

“Our child will be ready, but I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

The determination in his voice makes me believe him. This man who’s killed federal agents and buried bodies, who’s built his life around violence and risk, wants something different for our family.

“I love you.” The words come out soft but certain.

He pulls me closer, careful of my tired muscles and the new life growing inside me. “I love you too. Both of you.”

When he lifts me and carries me toward our room, I don’t protest. The day has drained something essential from both of us, and right now, I need the comfort of his hands on my skin and the promise of sleep in his arms. We make love slowly and tenderly.

Later, after showering together, we lie in darkness with his hand resting on my stomach. The baby is still too small to feel, but knowing life grows there changes everything about how I understand my own body and what I’m willing to risk.

“They’re going to come for us harder now.” His voice cuts through the quiet.

“I know.”

“No more half-measures. We can’t rely on hoping we can expose them without getting blood on our hands.”

I turn to face him in the darkness. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying tomorrow, we stop playing defense and start hunting them instead.”

The words should terrify me, but they don’t. After today, after being held at gunpoint and threatened with death while carrying his child, something fundamental has shifted in how I view this conflict.

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