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“Blyat,” Pyotr growls. “How soon?”
“Next week.”
He shakes his head. “How the hell can he get away with that?” Dropping his elbows onto his desk, he scrubs his face with his hands and combs his fingers into his dark hair. “Dani, what has your father gotten himself into?” he murmurs, almost as if to himself.
I know how close Pyotr and Dani Richlieu were before she married Mikhail. I can only imagine the kind of torture he must feel to see her and her family on the opposite end of the battlefield. Yet, somehow, he never seems to hold it against her. Even now.
If sinners could be saints, there’s no doubt in my mind that Pyotr and his wife would be sitting squarely on that throne. Because despite our violent and shady business, he’s the most decent man I know. Silvia even more so.
“I don’t think we have the numbers,” Pyotr says, pulling himself back together. “I don’t think we can be ready in time. As much as I want to cut Mikhail’s legs out from underneath him, I’m not sure we’re strong enough to defeat him quite yet. And I want to wait until we can obliterate him with one lethal blow.”
I nod, my own assessment confirmed. “That’s what I told our man. So, as of now, he’s planning to sit tight and keep watching without making a move. But it sounds like Mikhail might be moving him to the Upstate operation in the near future.”
Pyotr’s head perks up, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “That was fast.”
I give a one-shoulder shrug. “He’s good at what he does.”
“I’ll say. That will give us a significant upper hand if we can wait it out and continue to rebuild.”
“Agreed.” Not that I relish the thought of my brother being so far away and surrounded by men who are little better than monsters—if at all.
But someone needs to take down the Zhivoder. Not just to avenge the deaths of all the men they’ve killed. Someone needs to help the innocent girls whose lives are being destroyed to line Mikhail’s pockets. I’m not a good man by any stretch of the word. But some men are so despicable, it takes a beast like me to bring them down.
And I fully intend to see Mikhail and his Bratva burned to the ground.
“Good,” Pyotr says, ending the discussion with a curt nod. “Anything else?”
I shake my head.
“Then the rest can wait.” Rising from his desk, Pyotr silently dismisses me.
A moment later, I catch the soft giggles that explain why he cut our meeting short. The girls are finished getting ready.
We head toward the office door, and as I step across the threshold, I find Mel’s little mini-me toddling down the hallway on Isla’s heels.
“Hi, Gleb,” Isla says in her typically shy manner.
“Baryshnya.” I acknowledge her respectfully with a nod.
But my name seems to have sparked Gabby’s attention, and she releases a happy squeal, actually jumping up and down as she notices me. Her excitement positively melts my heart. And she skips down the hallway, passing up her new friend to give me her undivided attention.
“Geb!” she calls enthusiastically, raising her arms in a silent request for me to pick her up.
Intense and all-consuming devotion washes through me, and I scoop her into my arms. It’s a paternal kind of protective instinct that I only now realize has been there all along. I loved Gabby the moment I met her. And, to my dying breath, I would do anything for her.
I should never have doubted Mel.
Because holding Gabby feels more right, more natural than breathing.
It’s my own self-doubt of being loveable—being worthy of love—that got in my way. And though I would love Gabby unconditionally and take care of her regardless of who her biological father was, at this moment, I choose to trust Mel. To believe that Gabby is my own flesh and blood.
Because I want to be with Mel. I want to be the father of her child. And with every fiber of my being, I want Gabby to be ours.
Wrapping her tiny arms around my neck, Gabby leans in, pressing her forehead to mine, her nose to my nose, and she gives me the sweetest squeeze I’ve ever felt. Just like the day I met her.
It’s as if she can feel my desperate need to belong to her. And she’s telling me I already do.
Uncharacteristic emotion clogs my throat, and I’m astonishingly close to getting sentimental. So I pull in a deep, steadying breath—and inhale her sweet, fresh baby scent.
