Page 188 of Betrayal and Vows

"Daddy doesn't appreciate the finer points of horticulture."

"Daddy appreciates that Mama's garden keeps us fed," I reply, spreading the checkered tablecloth Elena bought us last month.

She insisted we needed "picnic supplies" for outdoor meals with the baby.

The domesticity of it all still catches me off guard sometimes.

A year ago, I was deciding whether to seize control of the Orlov empire or disappear entirely.

Now I'm debating whether the pumpkins are ready for harvest and wondering if Alexei's getting enough tummy time.

I made my choice six months ago, the day our son was born.

Lena settles into the chair across from me, carefully maneuvering Alexei out of the carrier.

He immediately starts fussing, his tiny fists waving in the air with indignation at being moved.

"Someone's hungry," she observes, lifting her shirt to nurse him. The sight of my wife feeding our child still fills me with a primal satisfaction I can't quite name.

Mine. Both of them. Safe and content and utterly perfect.

"He gets that from me," I say, unwrapping the sandwiches she prepared this morning. "The Malikov appetite is legendary."

"The Malikov stubbornness is more accurate," Lena counters, but she's smiling as Alexei latches on and immediately settles. "He spent an hour this morning refusing his bottle when I tried to pump. Wouldn't take it from Mom, wouldn't take it from me. Just screamed until I gave in and nursed him directly."

"Smart boy. He knows what he wants."

"Just like his father."

I reach across to stroke Alexei's cheek with my finger.

His skin is impossibly soft, unmarked by violence or fear.

He has no idea that his parents once killed for each other, once stood in warehouses surrounded by bodies and blood.

To him, we're just Mama and Papa—the people who feed him and change his diapers and sing lullabies in the middle of the night.

It's exactly how I want it to stay.

The sound of an approaching car draws my attention. A sleek black sedan winds up our long driveway.

I recognize the driver immediately.

Dmitri, right on time for our weekly lunch.

"Uncle Dmitri's here," Lena announces to Alexei, who's too busy eating to care. "He probably brought you something completely inappropriate for a six-month-old."

She's not wrong.

Last week it was a toy gun that shot foam darts.

The week before, a leather jacket sized for a toddler.

Dmitri seems determined to turn our son into a miniature version of himself.

Lena adjusts the blanket to cover herself.

The car door slams and Dmitri emerges, looking every inch the successful businessman in his tailored suit and polished shoes.