Page 78 of Sold to the Bratva
“You mean your wildly successful gallery opening where you sold out half your collection, impressed a dozen critics, and got invited to speak at Columbia?”
She shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, that one.”
I laugh and pull her closer. “I think it couldn’t have gone better if I’d threatened every person there to sing your praises.”
She looks up at me suspiciously. “You didn’t do that, right?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.
I can’t help but laugh. “Of course I didn’t do that, love. Everyone there was so charmed by you, they didn’t even know I was there. Isaac who? That sad, old man in the corner with the three kids?”
She laughs and stretches up to kiss me. “You’re not sad or old,” she argues. “I like to think I keep you young.”
“You definitely do,” I say as our kisses quickly turn from innocent to urgent.
“Think we’ll survive three kids and a growing empire of paintbrushes and onesies?”
I glance down at her, this woman who gave me everything without asking for anything in return.
“We’ve survived worse,” I say softly. “And thrived.”
She nestles in against my chest, and we sit there like that for a while, the house quiet except for the occasional baby rustle or sleepy sigh from one of the kids in their respective baby monitors.
“I still can’t believe this is our life,” she murmurs.
I look around, at the sketches on the table and the toys scattered on the rug, the photos on the walls, and the woman curled up beside me who gave me all of it.
“Believe it,” I whisper. “Because I don’t plan on letting it go. Not now. Not ever.”
We drift off like that, curled together on the couch. The moment we wake, we regret it, every joint stiff and sore for no good reason. We shake it off and slip into our usual morning routine. Katya showers and dresses, then wakes the kids and gets them ready for whatever adventures the nanny has planned.
I’m standing in the foyer, finishing a phone call about a shipment from Havana, when I hear the patter of little feet. Nikolai rounds the corner, his curls a mess, holding a toy truck in one hand and a juice box in the other like a warrior preparing for battle.
“Papa,” he calls, skidding to a stop. “Kira says I’m not allowed to hang my drawings on her art wall, but she said she could hang hers on mine.”
I sigh, crouch to his level, and tap the tip of his nose. “Because you hung yours with duct tape and peeled the paint off the wall.”
“But it looked good!”
Katya steps into the hallway then, laughing softly as she scoops Nikolai into her arms and kisses his cheek. “We’ll make you your own gallery, my love. But no duct tape, all right?”
She kisses Nikolai’s curls before setting him down. He takes off immediately, all rambunctious energy, leaving us alone for a moment.
I pull her to me, not daring to try and kiss her or start anything. There’s no time for that during our busy mornings. But this moment of stillness is rare, nonetheless. Usually, someone’s crying, someone’s knocking over furniture, someone’s calling me about an issue with the docks. But in this moment, we get to enjoy each other without any rush.
“I’m glad you didn’t run away at the beginning,” I say, pulling back just enough to look at her. “What made you change your mind?”
Katya smirks. “You did.”
“Me?”
“You proved to me that I was looking everywhere but right in front of me for my soulmate. You were everything I ever needed, I just had to open my eyes and heart to see it.”
I don’t speak. I just kiss her again, the kind of kiss that’s less about hunger and more about history. About what we’ve built. What we’ve survived.
When I finally pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. “And now you’re stuck with me for eternity, wife.”
“Best decision I ever made,” she whispers.
Later that evening, after dinner and bedtime stories, after Kira draped herself dramatically across Katya’s lap to complain about her brother chewing too loudly and Alina screamed until we sang her four songs and read three stories, we find ourselves on the back patio.
