“Papa was really scary when you were hurt,” Alya announces, reaching for a piece of bread. “He broke a door.”
I shoot my daughter a warning look. She ignores it with inherited precision.
“And he yelled at Dr. Katya when she said you needed more surgery.” Alya’s eyes are wide, like she’s telling a ghost story at a sleepover. “But then he got really quiet, which was scarier.”
“Alya.” My voice contains a warning.
“What?” She blinks innocently. “Babushkasays honesty builds character.”
My mother sips her wine without comment.
Suddenly, a low sound cuts through the clink of forks and the quiet buzz of the kids.
A deep laugh.
Rough. From the chest. Too rare to mistake.
Anatoly.
I don’t look up at first. I know he’s been watching. Since the second Bella was wheeled in. Since I lifted her out of that chair like it was instinct. Since I handed her a plate like it meant something.
He laughs like he’s finally confirmed something he’s always suspected.
That I’ve softened.
That I’m no longer the weapon he trained.
He’s wrong.
I glance at him, just once.
And I don’t smile.
This is what he finds entertaining—watching his son cut meat for a woman. He sees weakness where I see necessity. Strategy where he sees submission.
The old wolf mistakes pragmatism for sentiment.
But I’m not him. Never will be. Never want to be.
My children need more than fear. My business needs more than blood. And Bella—
She’s under my protection now. Not because of a contract. Not because of the Bratva code of obligation that’s been hammered into me since birth.
Because I chose it. Because she stepped into this world through my door, and everything that happens to her is my responsibility.
I’ll be goddamned if I let her be hurt again. Let any of them be hurt.
My father sees me staring and raises his glass. A concession. Or a challenge. With him, they’re often the same.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, but the ghost of that laugh lingers in his eyes. “You remind me of myself, once.”
“I doubt that.”
His mouth quirks. “Your mother would disagree.”
I glance at Yelena, who’s studying the table like it contains state secrets.
