Page 189 of Betrayal and Vows

To anyone watching, he could be a banker or a lawyer coming to visit friends in the country.

They'd never guess he's the most feared enforcer in Moscow's underworld.

"Where's my nephew?" he calls out as he approaches, a wrapped gift tucked under his arm.

"Eating lunch," I reply. "And before you ask, no, he's not ready for solid food yet. Stop bringing him steaks."

"That was one time," Dmitri protests, settling into the third chair. "And it was a very small steak."

Lena shakes her head in amusement. "What did you bring him today?"

Dmitri's grin is sheepish as he unwraps the gift to reveal a tiny leather holster, sized for a baby. "It's empty," he says quickly when he sees our expressions. "Just for show. He needs to look the part."

"The part of what?" I ask.

"Future Pakhan of the Malikov family."

The words hang in the air between us. It's the first time Dmitri has used the title so casually, so openly. For the past year, we've maintained the fiction that I walked away from the Bratva entirely. That I chose family over power, peace over violence.

The truth is more complicated.

"Dmitri," Lena warns, glancing down at Alexei as if our six-month-old might somehow understand and be traumatized.

"What? He should know his heritage." Dmitri reaches over to tickle Alexei's feet, earning a gurgle that might be laughter. "Besides, it's not like we're hiding it from him. Half of Moscow knows who his father really is."

“I lean back in my chair, studying my oldest friend. "How bad is it this week?"

"The Kozlov situation is handled," Dmitri reports, his tone shifting to business. "Permanently. The territory disputes in the south are resolved. And the Petrov family has agreed to the new terms for their shipping operations."

Lena looks between us, her expression resigned.

She knows this conversation was inevitable.

We've been dancing around it for months, pretending I could somehow run the most powerful criminal organization in Russia from our peaceful cottage in the countryside.

"And the Chechens?" I ask.

"Neutralized. They won't be a problem again." Dmitri's smile is sharp. "Turns out they weren't as tough as they thought once they realized who they were actually dealing with."

The satisfaction in his voice reminds me why I chose him as my second-in-command.

Dmitri doesn't just follow orders—he anticipates needs, eliminates threats before they become problems, and handles the dirty work so I can stay here with my family.

"Good," I say simply.

"Anton," Lena's voice is quiet. "We agreed?—"

"We agreed I wouldn't put our family at risk," I interrupt gently. "We agreed I wouldn't become like Vadim. But we never agreed I would let chaos consume everything while I played house in the country."

She's quiet for a long moment, adjusting Alexei to burp him.

Our son obliges with a satisfied sound that makes all three of us smile despite the tension.

"If your father could see you now,” she says with a small laugh. “Running the Bratva from a distance while pretending to be a retired farmer."

"This is what works," I shrug. "Dmitri handles day-to-day operations. I make the big decisions. The violence stays away from our door, but I maintain enough control to ensure our safety. He would be jealous that I figured out how to balance my worlds."

How do I explain to my son that his father is a killer? That the peaceful life we've built is paid for with blood and fear?