"The new location stays in my name. Not yours, not some shell corporation you control. Mine." I tick off points on my fingers. "I choose the equipment. I hire the staff. I make all creative decisions about menus and clients."
"Agreed." No hesitation, which makes me suspicious.
"And you don't interfere with day-to-day operations. No sending your men to intimidate suppliers or pressure clients into using my services."
His jaw tightens fractionally. "I can't promise that. My reputation will influence how people interact with you, whether I actively interfere or not."
The honesty surprises me. "Then at least promise you'll try to minimize it."
"I promise." His thumb traces my lower lip, the touch sending electricity cascading through my nerve endings. "Anything else?"
"The Bratva wives who want to work for me get priority hiring. Real jobs with real paychecks, not charity positions." I meet his gaze steadily. "They've proven themselves. They deserve opportunities."
Something that might be approval flickers across his features. "You're building a network."
"I'm building a business." But even as I say it, I understand what he's seeing. The wives who work for me have become advocates, going home and talking about the restaurant with enthusiasm that's harder to fake than any PR campaign. It's created goodwill I didn't expect, softened the edges of how the organization views me.
"It's smart," he says quietly. "Giving them purpose beyond being ornaments on their husbands' arms. Some of the captains have noticed their wives are happier, more engaged. It reflects well on you."
The calculated way he discusses it makes my stomach tighten. "I'm not doing it for political advantage. I'm doing it because they deserve better."
"I know." His forehead drops to rest against mine. "That's what makes it work."
We stand there in the ruins of my kitchen, and I feel something fundamental shifting between us. Maybe accepting his help doesn't mean losing myself. Maybe it means building something new together, something that's ours rather than just mine or his.
"When do we start looking?" I ask against his chest.
"Tomorrow." His hand slides down to cover mine on my stomach again. "I've already had my people compile a list of potential properties. Locations with good security, high visibility, and room for expansion."
Of course he has. The Pakhan is always three steps ahead, always calculating and planning. But instead of feeling manipulated, Ifind myself grateful. He's been preparing for this, ensuring I have options rather than forcing me into a corner.
"Thank you," I whisper, and I feel his body tense with surprise.
"For what?"
"For not making me beg. For understanding that I need this." I pull back enough to meet his gaze. "For trying to give me what I need even when it complicates your life."
His eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my pulse hammer in my throat. "You're carrying my child, Aria. Your needs are my priority."
The possessive way he says it should irritate me, but heat floods through my body instead. I rise on my toes and press my lips to his, tasting the surprise before he responds with hunger that matches my own. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, letting him take what he needs while my fingers thread through his hair.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his phone buzzes against my hip. He ignores it, his mouth finding the sensitive spot below my ear that makes my knees weak.
"Nikolai," I gasp as his teeth graze my pulse point. "Your phone."
"Don't care." His hand slides under my sweater, palm warm against my ribs.
The phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. He growls against my throat but pulls it from his pocket, his expression shifting from desire to something carefully neutral as he reads the screen.
My stomach drops like a stone thrown into deep water. I know that look. That's the face he wears when he's calculating how to deliver bad news.
"What is it?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb scrolling through what looks like a message. When he finally looks up, his eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity.
"It's from the rehabilitation facility." His voice is carefully controlled. "About Maya."
46
