Page 81 of The Mafia King's Baby

She traces the rim of her glass with one finger. “I keep thinking about the baby’s first Christmas. Whether they’ll be walking yet, and what kind of toys they’ll like. I picture Christmas morning in the courtyard and a small tree with decorations that reflect both our backgrounds.”

The image she paints feels both unfamiliar and deeply comforting. I’ve spent most of my adult life without any real connection to holidays, but I can still remember what Christmasused to mean before everything fell apart. In St. Petersburg, the season arrived slowly, with frost-covered windows and the smell of fresh pine carried in from the forests. Our apartment would glow with soft candlelight, and our mother always insisted on baking vatrushki and pirozhki from scratch.

Dmitri and I used to stay up late on Christmas Eve, watching snow collect along the balcony railings, arguing over who would get the bigger slice of pryanik. Our father would come in smelling of cold and engine oil, carrying small, carefully wrapped gifts that somehow always felt extravagant, even when they weren’t. One year, I got a hand-carved chess set that I loved it more than anything else I owned. A wave of sadness hits me when I think about it, realizing I left it in our apartment that night when Dmitri and I ran after our parents’ murders.

That was the last Christmas before everything changed. A few months later, our parents were gone. After that, holidays turned into obligations that were cold, quiet, and empty. There was no point in tradition when the people who made it matter were gone, so most of the time, Dmitri and I had dinner out and barely marked the occasion. I haven’t celebrated at all in six years, since he was gunned down by a rival group who didn’t live very long to regret their actions.

Now, as Celia describes a quiet morning in Morocco with a tree just big enough to make a child’s eyes widen, something stirs in my chest. I don’t say anything right away. Instead, I watch her fingers move along the rim of her glass, steady and sure. She talks about making new traditions, creating a blend of what we both grew up with, and I want that more than I’ve ever wanted safety or revenge or even justice.

I want a Christmas that means something again. One filled with warmth and stories and soft lights that chase away the dark. Iwant our child to wake up excited to see what’s under the tree and know what it’s like to be surrounded by people who love them without condition or fear. I want mornings that smell like cinnamon and evenings spent by a fire, even if we’re half a world away from where I started.

“I’d like that,” I say, my voice quiet but steady. “Making our own version. Giving them something worth remembering.”

Later, back in our room, the evening takes on the kind of charged atmosphere that comes from extended anticipation and new promises. Celia moves around the space with unconscious grace, pregnancy having added a subtle sensuality to her movements that makes me want to worship every curve.

I sit on the bed’s edge and hold out my hand. “Come here.”

She approaches with a smile that tells me she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Someone seems eager to celebrate our engagement.”

I draw her closer until she stands between my knees. “I’ve been thinking about having you alone, without federal agents listening on their devices they must have implanted in the apartment, for weeks. Thinking about touching you without worrying who might interrupt.”

She laughs softly and runs her fingers through my hair. “What exactly have you been thinking about?”

Instead of answering with words, I reach for the hem of her sundress and begin lifting it slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wants. She raises her arms to help, and the fabric pools on the floor beside the bed.

Pregnancy has brought subtle changes to her body that make me catch my breath. Her breasts are slightly fuller and more sensitive, and there’s a tiny thickness to her belly that speaks to the life growing inside. She’s beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with conventional attractiveness and everything to do with the future we’re creating together.

I trace the slight swell of her belly with gentle fingers. “You’re incredible. So beautiful carrying our child.”

She shivers at my touch, and goosebumps rise on her skin. “The doctor said everything we used to do is still safe, as long as we’re careful.”

I unhook her bra and let it fall away, revealing breasts that are noticeably more sensitive than before. “I intend to be very careful with you.”

When I cup them gently, she gasps and arches into my touch. “They’re so sensitive now. Sometimes even wearing a bra is too much stimulation.”

I lower my mouth to one peaked nipple, tasting her with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. She cries out softly and threads her fingers through my hair, holding me to her as I explore how pregnancy has changed her responses.

She tugs at my hair gently. “Yefrem, please. I need you to touch me.”

I guide her backward onto the bed, arranging pillows to support her back. The position puts her at the perfect angle for me to worship her body without causing discomfort, and I take full advantage of the opportunity.

Starting with her feet, I massage and kiss my way up her legs, paying attention to the places where pregnancy has caused minor aches or tension. Her skin is warm and soft, and she sighs with contentment as I work out knots of stress she’s been carrying.

Her voice carries the kind of relaxation I haven’t heard from her in months. “That feels amazing. I didn’t realize how tense I was.”

I continue working up her thighs, noting how she trembles when I approach more sensitive areas. “You’ve been carrying stress for both of us. Tonight is about letting all of that go.”

When I reach her pussy, I smell her arousal, sweet and familiar. Her panties are already damp, and when I trace one finger along the edge of the fabric, she lifts her hips in encouragement impatiently. “Please don’t tease. It’s been so long since we’ve had real privacy.”

With a chuckle, I slide her panties down her legs and settle between her thighs, taking a moment to appreciate the sweetness in front of me. Her labia is swollen and wet, and her body prepares itself for pleasure in ways that make my mouth water.

I press a soft kiss to her inner thigh. “You’re so beautiful here too. So ready for me.”

The first touch of my tongue makes her cry out and arch off the bed. I explore her slowly, relearning how her body responds to different types of stimulation. The pregnancy has made her more sensitive, and I take advantage of the changes.

She grips the bed sheets with white knuckles. “Oh, that’s perfect. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

I focus on her clit with broad strokes of my tongue, building pressure gradually while monitoring her responses. When she starts making the little whimpering sounds that mean she’s close, I slide two fingers inside her, finding the spot that makes her see stars.

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