Page 103 of Bratva Baby

Maks looks down.

His father is still on the line. Grigor Leonidov would survive the end of the world if he thought someone was trying to hang up on him first.

“You will put the gun down,” Grigor says. “You will go with Yuri. You will keep your mouth shut until I decide who is allowed to hear it. And if Sofiya has one bruise I did not authorize, you will beg before I am finished with you.”

Maks’s face crumples for half a second, enough for me to see the boy who thought power meant never being told no, and enough for everyone else to see it too.

He lowers the gun.

Yuri’s men move immediately. One takes the weapon, another twists Maks’s arms behind him, and a third checks his coat with the kind of rough efficiency that does not care about expensive tailoring. Maks fights once, more insult than strategy, and Yuri smacks him across the back of the head so fast, I barely see the movement.

“Stop embarrassing yourself,” Yuri says.

Kolya makes a thoughtful sound. “I really like him.”

Anton ignores both of them and comes toward me.

I meet him halfway because I can’t stand still anymore. His face tightens with pain at the first step, and that nearly breaks me, but he keeps moving because apparently, stubbornness is also a medical condition in his family.

When he reaches me, he takes the gun from my hand first. “You’re welcome,” I say.

He checks the safety, tucks the weapon away, then cups the side of my face with his blood-smeared hand. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

His eyes drop to my wrist.

“Mostly no.”

His thumb moves over the red mark there, and his face changes in a way that makes me think Maks is lucky Yuri already has him. “He touched you.”

“He confessed to killing my father, tried to trade hostages for fake records, got yelled at by Grigor, and lost his yard in front of everyone. I’m choosing to focus on the larger win.”

Anton stares at me.

Behind him, Yuri’s men start moving Maks toward the service doors. Kolya gives orders to secure the boxes and the coat man. Niko speaks into his mic near the gate, his eyes still on the yard as if he expects one last bad surprise. The whole place moves around us, but Anton and I stand inside our own terrible little circle.

“You lied to Maks,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You lied to me.”

“Only by omission.”

His brows pull together. “That’s still lying.”

“I was busy saving your life.”

“That answer is going to start a fight later.”

“Good. You’ll need bed rest, and I’ll need entertainment.”

For one second, pure heat cuts through the pain in his face. “Careful.”

“No. I’ve been careful for months and look where it got me.”

He laughs once, then winces.