“I asked you here.”
He folds his hands. “Wait. You can protect them here without a ring. Name the boys in your heart and in the house, not in court. Prepare the papers. Do not sign them yet. We need time to bring the boy to heel.”
“He tried to kill me, Fyodor. He planted a mine in a public road. He is stalking her. There is no time to bring him to heel.”
“Even dogs come to heel when the leash is tight.”
“He is not a dog. Dogs are loyal. Vitaly is a son who wants to be king without temperance. If he became pakhan, the other bosses would not stand for it. We did everything we could to turn him around. We tried patience. Correction. Bribery. The boy is wired wrong. He has no care for family, for friends, for this organization. Vitaly is out. My sons are in.”
He looks down at the tea he hasn’t touched. When he looks up again, he has the face he wore when he told me my father was dead. Practical. Dry. “Then you must make the marriage work in the eyes of men who will use any excuse not to accept it.”
“I know.”
He watches me for a long breath, then nods like he had to verify that I am not blinded by the same fever that killed men before me. “You like her.”
“I do.”
“That is dangerous. For you. For her. For the boys. Liking is soft. Soft is deadly.”
“I am not a child, Fyodor. I know.”
He leaves. The office is quiet again except for the camera feeds and the low hum of systems that never sleep. I look at the house plan on the wall. The hallway where the nursery sits is a clean line between my room and the guest rooms. I can reach it in ten seconds. Fewer, if adrenaline is a factor.
I can’t sit still.
At the nursery door, I stop. The white noise is a soft rush. The room smells like laundry. Tanner sits on a chair in the hall. He nods once. I nod back.
The door next to the nursery, Mina’s room, is open a hand’s width. I hear her quiet voice, counting under her breath, then humming without a tune. I knock the way you knock to not startle. “Roman,” I say, so she doesn’t have to ask.
“Come in,” she answers, low.
She stands by the bed in a nightgown that is more practical than anything else—soft cotton, narrow straps, nothing theatrical. Her hair is loose. She holds Yuri against her shoulder and pats his back with two fingers. The room lamp is on the lowest setting.
“How are you?”
“It’s too quiet.” She shifts the baby and he sighs. “They don’t like quiet. The white noise helps.”
“You can make it louder,” I say.
“I did. I also sang the theme song to a show I hate because it’s the only thing that stuck in my head.” She glances at me, amused at herself and tired. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging you. I am grateful you know how to keep them calm.”
“That’s my job, right?”
“Indeed.”
She takes a breath, as if to speak, but then hesitates. After a beat, she asks, “Do you want to hold him?”
“Yes.” The word is out of me so fast, as if it was waiting on the tip of my tongue. Maybe it was.
She transfers Yuri into my hands, and I support his head, shift him higher, and feel the weight settle into the place I didn’t know was waiting. He is warm and solid and serious even in sleep. He looks like he is considering a problem.
“He makes that face when he’s almost asleep,” she says. “Like he’s bargaining. Xander is easier. Or he was tonight. He’ll punish me tomorrow for daring to say that out loud.”
I try for a smile to comfort her. Not sure if it lands. “He can try. He’ll find I’m stubborn.”
“I believe you.” She watches me with mild amusement. “You look natural with him.”
