The weight of her words settles over me like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. I think of the photographs, of strangers dissecting my body and my choices, of the Bratva wives measuring me against some standard I don't understand. I think of my baby,growing inside me, who will inherit this complicated world whether I'm ready for it or not.
"What do I need to do?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
Lara's expression shifts to something that might be approval, and she leans back in her chair with the bearing of a queen preparing to issue a decree. "You need to find a way to get in front of this before you lose all respect of the ladies. Because once that's gone, you'll have a very hard time having any control."
36
NIKOLAI
The voices of my captains blend into meaningless noise, a dull roar that barely penetrates the calculations running through my mind. I stand at the head of the table in The Golden Lion's private room, my hands braced against the polished mahogany, and watch their eyes slide toward me with questions they're too smart to voice directly.
They're discussing territory disputes. Supply routes. The usual business that keeps our organization running. But I can feel the weight of their unspoken doubts pressing against my skin like a physical force.
Nods around the table. Murmurs of approval. But their gazes keep flickering to me, measuring, assessing, questioning.
How can the Pakhan, who survived three bullets to the chest and abdomen, who was told by multiple doctors that fathering children was impossible, suddenly have a woman pregnant?
The math doesn't add up in their minds. I can see it in the way they exchange glances when they think I'm not looking,in the careful neutrality of their expressions when they offer congratulations that sound hollow.
"Pakhan?" Viktor's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Your thoughts on the northern territory?"
I force myself to focus, to project the cold authority that keeps them in line. "Proceed as discussed. Keep me informed of any complications."
More nods. More careful agreement. But the doubt remains, festering like an infected wound.
The meeting drags on for another hour, each minute feeling like an eternity. When I finally dismiss them, they file out with murmured goodnights and promises to follow up on various matters. All except Cyril.
My second-in-command lingers by the window, his jagged scar running from temple to jaw standing out in sharp relief. He doesn't speak, just waits with the patience of someone who's known me long enough to understand when silence is required.
The door closes behind the last captain, and I pour myself a vodka with hands that want to shake but don't. Can't. The Pakhan doesn't show weakness, even in private.
"Say it." I drain the glass in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to ease the tension coiling through my shoulders. "Whatever you're thinking, just say it."
Cyril turns from the window, his gray eyes holding mine with the brutal honesty of a man who's earned the right to speak truth to power. "They're questioning whether the child is yours."
The words land like bullets, precise and devastating. I set down the glass before I can throw it. "I know."
"A paternity test would silence them." His voice remains carefully neutral, but I hear the logic beneath. "Would restore confidence in your leadership. Would prove what you already know."
"Would it?" I pour another vodka, my jaw tight enough to crack teeth. "Or would it prove that I don't trust the woman carrying my child? That I need scientific evidence to believe what I feel in my bones?"
"Feelings don't matter in the Bratva." Cyril moves closer, his posture deceptively casual. "Facts do. Proof does. And right now, your captains need proof that you haven't been compromised by sentiment."
The word tastes like poison on my tongue. Sentiment. As if what I feel for Aria can be reduced to something so simple, so dismissive. As if the way my chest constricts when I look at her is just weakness rather than something I don't have a name for.
"The watch data shows conception occurred on the island," I say, but even I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.
"The watch data shows she's pregnant. It doesn't prove paternity." Cyril's expression doesn't change, but I see the concern lurking beneath his clinical assessment. "She could have been pregnant before the yacht party. Before the storm. Before you ever touched her."
My hands curl into fists against the table's edge. The possibility has been circling in my mind like a vulture since I first saw that data, a thought I've been refusing to examine too closely because acknowledging it means admitting I might be wrong. That I might be claiming another man's child out of desperate hope.
"You think she was sleeping with someone else." The accusation comes out flat, dangerous.
"I think we don't know her history. I think three weeks is a very convenient timeline." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "I think demanding proof protects you. Protects the organization. Protects the child if it is yours."
The logic is sound. Cold and brutal, but sound. A simple test would answer every question, silence the whispers, and restore my captain's confidence. It's what a Pakhan would do. What Ishoulddo.
"She'll never forgive me if I ask for proof," I say quietly.
