Page 53 of Sold to the Bratva
I take my time sorting the files Mikhail left, spreading them across the desk and thumbing through names I’ve read a hundred times. I stop at a few, double-checking timestamps, searching for inconsistencies in routine. Nothing jumps out, and that only makes it worse.
I stand and pace. I should be with Katya, holding her and staring at that ultrasound together. Today should still be one of the happiest days of my life. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go now that I finally have something worth fighting for.
I grab the bottle of Scotch from the cabinet behind the bookshelf, pour two fingers, and drain it in one slow gulp. It burns well, but not enough to chase off my worries.
My phone buzzes on the desk with a message from one of the men stationed at the warehouse, confirming they’ve installed a second round of cameras. I reply with a simple message.
Stay vigilant.
This is about far more than a territory war. Whoever keeps attacking us is sending a message. They want to prove they can outmaneuver me. Maybe they think I’ve gone soft. I’ve only been married a month so maybe they think that means I’m distracted or weak.
Unfortunately, they have no idea what they’ve awakened. Being married to Katya, having a baby on the way, those things give me everything to lose. And that makes me lethal.
Later that evening I’m lighting the last candle on the dining-room table when Maude walks in.
“I’ve left your plates in the oven, and dessert is in the fridge. Do you need anything else?”
“That’s all, Maude. Thank you,” I say as she holds out her hand for the lighter.
I hand it over. She nods and heads back to the kitchen to tuck it into the drawer.
I’d given her the rest of the night off because I want a romantic evening with Katya. When I told her, she offered a knowing look I wouldn’t let anyone else get away with. Maude has worked for me so long she’s become another mother, so it’s no surprise she knows more about my feelings for Katya than even I do.
Now that Maude is gone, I’m absurdly nervous. I’ve been in shootouts that felt less stressful than telling my wife I have feelings for her.
Just as I set the last plate on the table, Katya appears in the doorway, and every coherent thought slips away. She’s wearing a deep blue dress that hugs her torso and skims herthighs. Pregnancy has already made her breasts fuller, and I’m practically salivating by the time she reaches the table.
“You clean up nice, Kozlov,” she says with her dry, dangerous little smile.
“You’re the one stealing the air out of the room,” I say, moving toward her and pulling out her chair.
She gives me an amused look. “So, what’s with the fancy dinner?” she asks as she sits. “Am I in trouble? Have you done something awful and this is your way of buttering me up?”
I chuckle, easing into the chair opposite hers. “Can’t I just have a nice dinner with my wife without an agenda?” I ask, teasing.
“I don’t know, Isaac, it’s all pretty suspicious,” she murmurs, unfolding her napkin and laying it across her lap. “But I’ll allow it.”
She digs into the food on her plate, a traditional Russian dish she once told me her mom made for special occasions. Everything I asked Maude to prepare tonight is something Katya has mentioned. I want her to see I’m paying attention.
“Did you make this?” she asks, sniffing suspiciously. “I didn’t peg you for a cook.”
“Your instincts are solid.” I laugh and take a sip of wine, watching her eat. “I burn water. Maude made this, but I personally requested everything on your plate.”
She looks down at her plate, eyes turning glassy. She wipes them quickly, trying to be inconspicuous, but I don’t miss the motion.
“Are you all right?” I ask, suddenly worried that I’ve done something wrong.
She looks up at me, surprise blossoming into a luminous smile. “Everything is perfect, Isaac,” she whispers. “I just can’t believe I’m married to such a thoughtful man. The pregnancy hormones are really getting to me tonight.”
We eat slowly, savoring the delicious meal Maude’s prepared. Every once in a while, her hand grazes her belly, almost unconsciously, and every time she does, I feel something shift in me. We’re really doing this. We’re really on the journey of parenthood together, and I’ve never felt like a luckier son of a bitch. By dessert, I can’t sit still.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. She’s mid-bite of her chocolate tart when I say, “I need to tell you something.”
She looks up, eyes cautious. “Okay.”
“I know this isn’t the life you wanted,” I begin. “You didn’t choose this marriage, and you didn’t choose me.”
She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Isaac…” she starts, but I raise my hand to stop her. I need to get through this.
