Iosif:I'm going to assume you're alive since you left my messages on read.
Shit. Read receipts.
I type back slowly, one-handed so I don’t have to move my arm.
Me:Alive. Healing. Need a few days.
Iosif:Where are you?
Me:Safe.
Iosif:That's not an answer.
Me:It's the only one you're getting.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then reappear.
Iosif:The Pakhan is asking questions.
Me:Tell him I'm working on it.
Iosif:Working on what?
I look around the apartment. At the photos on the wall. The worn furniture. The empty space where a man's things could be, but aren't.
Me:The heir situation.
Iosif:You're joking.
Me:Do I joke?
Iosif:No. Which is why this concerns me.
Me:Don't be concerned. I have it handled.
Iosif:Your last message to me said you got shot.
Me:Unrelated.
Iosif:Zakhar—
I close the messages and set the phone down.
Below me, I hear the bakery coming to life. Mixers being switched on. Pans clattering. The rhythm of someone who's done this a thousand times.
She saved my life.
In the old code, the one that still runs deep in Bratva blood despite all the modern trappings, that means something. A debt. An obligation.
A bond.
She doesn't know it yet. Doesn't understand that the moment she opened that door, the moment she pulled me inside and helped me, she tied herself to me in ways that can't be undone.
I close my eyes and let the meds she gave me pull me under. When I wake again, the sun is higher, and I can smell bread baking below.
I think about the Pakhan's order. About producing an heir within a year. About finding a woman who understands loyalty, who won't flinch at the life we lead.
My cousin, Vitali, he found Charlotte immediately. Wrote up a contract and everything… Now they are married and well on their way to making that heir the Pakhan is all twisted up about. Our uncle was always obsessed with legacy, but after meeting Jasmine, it ramped up considerably. By the time their first baby was born, he was ordering us to do the same.
