Page 113 of Bratva Baby

“You’re breathing smugly.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“No, you won’t.”

“No,” I agree, and she smiles without opening her eyes.

A folder sits open on the table, because even now she refuses to stop working entirely. The latest reports show the route cleanup holding, the Brotherhood leak sealed, Leonidov money tightening under Grigor’s hand, and Yuri’s men running cold-chain audits with enough rough joy to concern accountants in three cities.

For once, the world is not fixed, but it is moving in a direction I can live with.

Sofiya shifts on the sofa. Then she goes completely still.

I stop rubbing her foot. “What?”

Her eyes open and for once, she doesn’t have a fast answer.

“Sofiya.”

She looks down, then back at me, and her face changes so fast my whole body locks. One hand goes to her stomach, the other grips the edge of the cushion.

“I think,” she says slowly, “my water just broke.”

For one second, I forget every route, every name, every gun in this house.

Then I stand so fast the table jumps.

Kolya opens the door from the hall, already alarmed. “What happened?”

Sofiya looks at him, then at me, and somehow still manages to sound annoyed. “Apparently, your boss is losing his shit.”

Kolya stares.

I reach for her hand.

She squeezes back hard enough to hurt. “Anton,” she says, and for the first time all night, her voice shakes.

I bend and kiss her forehead. “I’ve got you.”

She glares up at me immediately. “If you say anything bossy right now, I’ll name the baby after Kolya.”

Kolya points at himself. “I support this.”

I look between them, my heart trying to break out of my chest, and take Sofiya’s hand more carefully. “Fine. No bossy.”

She narrows her eyes. “That sounded bossy.”

“Then get up, Milaya,” I say and help her to her feet. “We’ve got a daughter to meet.”

29

SOFIYA

A year later

I still know the house by its sounds before I know it by sight. Guards changing downstairs. Elevator doors opening somewhere beyond the hall. Rain tapping against the balcony glass.

Our daughter laughing in the kitchen with Zhenya, who has apparently decided babysitting means feeding her mashed cherries and insulting Anton’s coffee while armed men pretend not to smile. The whole place feels different now, less like Anton’s fortress and more like a home that learned to make room for toys, blankets, bottles, and one very serious little girl with his eyes and my temper.