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“Why?” Kristof chuckles dryly, tightening his grip around my hand. “My house is where we’ve been shot at, betrayed, and nearly killed. Your house is where you were held captive and nearly killed by your insane mother. What’s not to love about both of them?”
“Alright, smart ass.” I smile, shoving Kristof lightly with my shoulder. “It’s just strange here. You know, when I was little, I used to love this place. So many little places I could hide in and read. Now, I can’t stand any of it.”
The childish memories of this place can’t hold back the tidal wave of tainted disgust at each room we pass. I’d love to see this place turned to ashes, nothing but dust to be carried off in the wind, but unfortunately, there are a few rules in place that prevent me from doing that.
“Ideally, I’d say you could do what you want with the place,” Kristof says, leading me through the dining room where countless boisterous Family dinners became meals of solitude. “But the Orlova Estate is the figurehead of the Russian Bratva. We need this place as much as we hate it.”
“Then it will be a very fancy office,” I decide, caressing my very swollen bump. “I don’t want to live here, and I definitely don’t want to raise our baby here.”
“Agreed.” Kristof leans into me and presses a light kiss to the top of my head. “We will find a nicer home. One that we can make our own.”
Through the dining room, we enter the bar, where countless balls and parties were hosted over my lifetime. My last clear memory here was of my birthday party, where I learned about my future and where it was decided I would be carted off to the Kuznetsovs. It’s rather alien to stand here now, heavily pregnant, with the future of the Family on my shoulders.
“I hate this room.”
“Do you like any room?” Kristof lifts my hand to his lips. “Hating the entire place kind of implies that.”
“I know.” I muse over the estate for a moment, then turn to face him. “The gardens?”
“Perfect.”
He takes the lead, and I follow, clasping his hand and allowing him to guide me slowly through the kitchens. As we pass yet another dried pool of blood, a question spikes in my mind.
“Andrev told me that some of the Kuznetsovs surrendered.”
Kristof remains silent.
“What happened to them?”
He leads us straight to the double-glass doors leading to the garden, where the setting sun is visible, creating a golden-pink sky that distracts me momentarily.
“I killed them,” Kristof replies when we step outside. “I didn’t want to risk anyone being left with a stewing idea of revenge.”
“You know, I think this is the one situation where your answer of killing people is appropriate.” I can’t hold this one against him, even for a second. There’s no place in my future for people like that. If I’m to lead, if I’m to take all these Families under my wing and begin repairing the damage my father and Mara caused, then I need people around me whom I can trust.
I’d never trust a Kuznetsov again, especially after Mikhail died at my hands.
Taking a deep breath, the crisp scents of mingling flowers, mint, and fresh air fill my lungs. Part of me misses the sharpness of Russian air, but unlike my father, I intend to return there regularly. August taught me the value of keeping good contact with Families in both Russia and America, and I refuse to repeat his mistake. To the best of my ability, no Family will slip through the cracks.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I murmur as we slowly walk along the cracked paving path. “I’d almost forgotten how much I loved it out here.”
“The only redeeming aspect of this shitty place,” Kristof muses, and our joined hands swing slightly.
The past few days since my rescue have been a whirlwind, and I know Kristof shoulders most of it. He refuses to allow anything else to stress me out so close to my labor date, no matter how I insist. It’s honestly a wonder little egg remains inside me after everything with Mara.
Speaking of, this feels like the perfect moment to voice a worry.
“Kristof?”
“Yes?” He stops walking and turns to me, his eyes immediately filled with concern.
“Do you think…” I pause and chew my lower lip, trying to think of a sane way to express my crazy fear.
“You can ask me anything.” His head tilts, and his weathered face softens.
“I’m scared,” I admit softly.
“Of?” He already sounds ready to fight whatever scares me, but in this case, he can’t.
