Page 9 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
She giggled, and that sound made everything worth it.
Later that night, after dinner and stories and her favorite cookies, we curled up on the couch. The fire crackled beside us, painting her face in gold shadows.
She situated herself on my chest like she belonged there, one hand curled into my shirt like she was afraid I’d disappear again, the other clutching her stuffed unicorn.
Cartoons played quietly on the screen—some nonsense about talking dogs and flying princesses—but I didn’t hear a damn thing. All I heard was the soft hum of her breathing, the rhythm syncing with mine.
My hand rested on her back, fingers sifting gently through her hair, and I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close. My eyes burned from the unbearable fullness in my chest.
All I saw was her. All I felt was peace, real peace. The kind I never found in penthouses, power, or the barrel of a gun.
Her lashes fluttered as she stirred in her sleep, mouth parted slightly. I didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Because, for just tonight, I wasn’t Damien Yezhov, the cruelest executor in the Bratva.
I was just Katya’s papa.
***
If my life were a fairy tale of normalcy, the most appropriate thing to holler into the quietness would have been, “I’m home!” standing with open arms, and waiting for my daughter to run into them.
Yeah.
Fuck that.
“Katya?” I called out instead and was met with echoes of my voice journeying past the foyer and through the hallways. And then, no response. Just complete silence.
I went into the living room, pleased to see the furniture and decor tidy and in order. When Fedor said he’d handled business, he meant it.
The place was just as I remembered, and it was slightly more organized. The difference was the warmth. It was missing, replaced with an overwhelming emptiness and coldness that felt icier than the hollowness within me.
The curtains were drawn, and natural light flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows, causing the marble floors to shine.
Outside, I watched as a few of my men moved suitcases while Fedor talked and gestured, possibly barking out orders.
While the men lined up more suitcases from the cars, I moved to the sectional sofa, gripping the creamy white leather rim. The mere feel of it beneath my fingers jogged unwelcome memories from the past. One was vivid, clearly resurfacing without my permission.
That day had been a rough one. The Irish somehow bypassed our security radars, and there was a terrible clash. More precisely, a street fight in front of one of the casinos left more of my men injured. I came home seething and in a foulmood, disappointed that I couldn’t protect my men. At home, I dismissed everyone, but Irina didn’t care.
She’d said she wasn’t leaving until she pulled a smile out of me.
I growled at her, threatening the pretty head on her neck. But she wouldn’t budge. We’d argued and said hurtful words to each other. And when all was quiet, on this sofa, she climbed onto my lap, determined, and cupped my cheeks, stealing tender kisses until she got what she wanted.
In many ways, we were alike when it came to motivation. We were fierce and not easily swayed. Other than that, Irina was an angel. It was one of the reasons I was fond of her: her huge heart and caring spirit. She’d possessed many qualities I lacked, and, at the time, I thought she complemented me impeccably.
For the first year, our marriage worked out well. Then, Katya was born, and….
I shut the memories down.
Clenching my jaw, I focused on the present. The sofa faced the stone fireplace, and I noticed that the walls held a new eclectic mix of contemporary art. Certainly, an afterthought of Fedor’s touch.
Resounding quiet footsteps from behind made me turn around, with a hand ghosting over the holster between my belt.
A small part of me expected to see my daughter crossing the threshold of the double doors into the living room, but it was a silver-haired woman in a plain brown dress with beady eyes and her hands knitted below her abdomen.
“Welcome home, Mr. Yez—”
“Where’s my daughter?”
The maid’s eyes shifted, her throat bobbed, and when she spoke again, I heard the shaky nerves in her voice. “Katya…she, um, she spent the night at her best friend, Elena’s, house. She hasn’t been back since, sir.”
