"The Pakhan doesn't have to like it. This is between me and my future wife."
"Your future—" He stops. Starts again. "You're really doing this."
"Yes. Can you handle it?"
Iosif sighs again, longer this time. "I'll call him. But he's going to argue with you about this. Bratva don't do prenups. It's—"
"I don't care what Bratva traditionally do. I care about making my wife feel safe. Get it done."
“Fine,” he huffs. "I'll call Vitali. Expect pushback. I hope she’s worth it."
I think about the way Lily looked at me this morning, terrified and trusting at the same time. The way she let me hold her while she cried. The way she's fighting so hard to believe this could be real.
"She is," I say. "She's worth everything."
We end the call, and I return to the laptop, making more notes. The bakery can be saved. Not just saved, made profitable. It'll take money and connections, but I have both.
The question is whether Lily wants to keep it.
I return to the living room. She's still reading, completely absorbed. Her coffee mug sits forgotten on the side table, probably cold by now.
I make a fresh cup, exactly how she likes it, and bring it to her.
"Thanks," she says softly, not looking up from her book.
I settle beside her, close but not crowding. Just present.
After a few minutes, she sets the book down and turns to me.
"What were you doing in there?" she asks. "I heard you on the phone."
"Talking to my brother. Sorting some things out."
She's quiet for a moment. "What kind of things?"
"Legal protection. Making sure you're taken care of. The bakery finances."
"Oh—"
"Have you made your decision?" I ask, cutting off whatever protest she was about to make. "About the bakery. About us."
She draws in a shaky breath. "That's not fair. You said I had time."
"You do. I'm just asking if you've started thinking about it."
"I haven't stopped thinking about it."
"And?"
She looks down at her hands, fingers twisting together. "The bakery... I don't know. Part of me wants to keep fighting for it. It was my aunt's dream, and giving up feels like failure."
"It's not failure."
"Maybe not. But it feels like it." She looks up, meeting my eyes. "What do you think I should do?"
"I think you should do whatever makes you happy. If you want to keep the bakery, we can make it work. If you want to let it go, we let it go. Either way, you're taken care of."
"And us?" Her voice drops to almost a whisper. "What about us?"
