“No.” The word had been absolute. “You find him. You bring him to us. We handle it the Bratva way. Clean. Efficient. But your hands stay clean, Kirill. Do you understand?”
I’d understood. Hadn’t agreed, but understood.
Now, a week later, I stood outside the ornate front doors of the Davis estate, my heart pounding harder than it had when I’d faced down armed men. Harder than when I’d found Barbara bleeding out in that abandoned building.
Because this was different. This was walking back into her life when I’d abandoned her in the hospital. When I’d let panic and confusion drive me away instead of staying when she needed me most.
I took a deep breath. Then another. Ran a hand down my face, feeling the week’s worth of inadequate sleep and too much caffeine in the tremor of my fingers.
Today I wasn’t going to sneak in. Wasn’t going to use her security codes or slip through gaps in coverage. Today I was going to walk through the front door like I had every right to be there.
Because I did. She was carrying my child. That gave me rights, responsibilities, and obligations that went beyond whatever complicated mess existed between us.
I pressed the doorbell, the sound echoing somewhere deep in the mansion. Footsteps approached—one of the staff, probably. The door swung open to reveal Marcus, the head of security, whose system I’d replaced. His expression shifted from professional courtesy to recognition to something harder.
“Mr. Petrov.” His tone made it clear I wasn’t welcome. “Ms. Davis isn’t expecting anyone.”
“She’ll see me.” I kept my voice level, controlled. “Tell her Kirill’s here.”
“I don’t think—”
“Tell her.” Not a request this time.
Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he stepped aside. “Wait here.”
He disappeared into the house, leaving me standing in the foyer with its marble floors and crystal chandelier and the kind of wealth that should’ve made me feel out of place. But I’d spent too many years in Vladimir’s world to be intimidated by money anymore.
Minutes ticked by. I counted them by my heartbeat, each one louder than the last.
Then footsteps. Lighter than Marcus’s. Her footsteps.
Barbara appeared at the top of the staircase, and the sight of her stole whatever breath I’d been holding. She’d lost weight, too much weight for just a week. Her face was pale, with dark circles under her honey-brown eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide. She wore loose clothing that disguised her frame, and herhair was pulled back in a way that looked more practical than stylish.
She looked exhausted. Fragile. And absolutely furious.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice carried down the staircase, sharp with an anger that was entirely justified.
“I need to talk to you.”
“We have nothing to talk about.” She started down the stairs, each step deliberate, controlled. “You made that clear when you walked out of the hospital.”
The accusation hit its mark. “I know. I—”
“Get lost, Kirill.” She reached the bottom of the staircase, stopping several feet away like proximity might burn her. “I don’t need you here. I don’t need your guilt or your confusion or whatever brought you to my door. Just leave.”
I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because leaving was the one thing I absolutely couldn’t do.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out rougher than intended. “I’m sorry for walking away when you needed me most. For letting panic override everything else. For being a coward.”
“You think an apology fixes it?” Her laugh was bitter. “You think showing up a week later makes it okay?”
“No.” I took a step toward her, watching as she stiffened. “I don’t think it fixes anything. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“I don’t want you here.”
“I know.” Another step. “But you’re stuck with me anyway. Because you’re carrying my child, Barbara. Our child. And I don’t walk away from that. I don’t walk away from you.”
“You already did walk away,” she said quietly.
