Page 92 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Asshole.”

I sigh and switch the phone to the other ear. “Get some sleep, Jennifer. Tomorrow will be tiring.”

“Every day is tiring, Aleks. Every day has been tiring for a really long time now.”

I hang up without replying and go upstairs to Olivia’s room. I don’t bother with knocking. I just push my way inside

At first glance, the room seems to be empty. Then I realize the bathroom door is ajar. I creep up to it and poke my head around the door frame. She’s standing in front of the mirror, studying her reflection.

She’s wearing nothing but black lace underwear and a matching bra that highlights how swollen her breasts have become. And when she turns to the side, I can see a slight swelling of her stomach. She cradles herself delicately as though she’s doubled in size.

“Hey, baby,” she coos. “I don’t know what you’re going to be yet. A boy, a girl, it doesn’t really matter to me. I’ll love you no matter what. And you won’t have to do anything but exist.” Her face is stretched in a dreamy smile. “You don’t need to do anything but that. I don’t care if you’re the best at anything you try, ever. If you’re completely ordinary, completely average, completely boring, it won’t change a thing. I’ll love you unconditionally, little one.”

When she turns back to the door, she catches sight of me and gasps. She presses her hands to her chest. “Jesus, Aleks! How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to have heard the promise you just made to our child.”

“Good. Because I meant it,” she sniffs, reaching for her silk robe and slipping it onto her shoulders.

“I don’t doubt you do.”

She looks up at me once the robe is cinched tight at her waist. “I know what you want for this child, especially if it’s a boy. And I’m telling you now, I won’t let you bully him into becoming a carbon copy of you.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You think you know what I intend?"

“I do know you,” she snaps, pushing past me and leaving the bathroom. “You’re an alpha, the kind of man who wants to have lots of sons so that they can carry on the family name. Continue the legacy. Am I right?”

“No,” I say firmly. “You’re not.”

She laughs out loud. “You’re telling me that if your boy comes to you and says he wants to be a lawyer, or an accountant, or a damn FBI agent—you wouldn’t throw a fit?”

“I wouldn’t stand in his way. Or hers, for that matter.”

“Bullshit.”

“I have no interest in forcing my child into anything they don’t want to do.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“I knew from a young age that I had no choice in this. I was always going to be the don of the Makarova Bratva.”

“And you resented it?”

I shake my head. “On the contrary, I felt important. It was something to work towards. A way for me to prove myself. I have no regrets about how my life has turned out,” I say. “But I wouldn’t do it to my child.”

She takes that in for a moment, studying my face. “Gotta say, you’re almost convincing.”

“There’s nothing to convince you of. I’m not lying.”

“What if I have a girl?” she asks in a small voice. “Would you be disappointed?”

I frown. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“It’s a legitimate question.”

“Is it?” I ask. “Because it sounds to me like you’re working off some stereotype of what you think a don is.”

“You haven’t exactly veered too far from type thus far.”

---