Page 118 of Bratva Baby

The vows are short because I refused anything long enough to make the old men emotional. Anton says his part in a voice that carries across the hall. Protection. Loyalty. Blood. House. Wife. Daughter. He makes the words sound less like tradition and more like policy he intends to enforce personally.

When it’s my turn, I keep my eyes on him.

“I choose you,” I say, and my voice stays steady. “I choose our daughter, our house, and the life we’ve built out of every bad decision that should’ve ended us. I’ll stand beside you, argue with you, work with you, and love you even when you’re impossible.”

His thumb moves over my knuckles.

“Especially then,” I add.

Kolya coughs into his fist. Yuri mutters, “Good correction.”

Anton’s mouth almost smiles.

The rings go on, and the room understands the shift before anyone says it. My marriage to Anton locks more than a romance into place. It puts our daughter under two names, forces the cleaned freight agreement into family reality, and makes every man present recalculate how expensive it would be to test either house.

After the ceremony, we sign papers in the side room.

Marriage certificate first. Route agreement second. Protection terms third. The final document recognizes the shares my father had tried to keep safe and the authority I now hold over them. Grigor signs. The Brotherhood boss signs. Anton signs. Then the pen comes to me.

I sign slowly.

Sofiya Reznikova.

The ink dries while half the men in the room pretend they aren’t watching.

Yuri stands near the door in a suit he clearly hates. “Good. Now can people eat before the fish becomes evidence?”

Zhenya appears with our daughter on her hip, and the baby has one mashed cherry stain on her sleeve.

I point at it. “Zhenya.”

“She negotiated aggressively.”

“She’s one.”

“So she started early.”

Anton takes our daughter for a moment, kisses her cheek, and lets her grab his collar with sticky fingers. His face goes serious in that ridiculous way it always does with her, like she’s the head of a small, unstable country and he’s honored to serve.

Zhenya takes her back before he can start looking sentimental in public. “Go greet your dangerous friends. I’ve got her.”

The reception runs like a business summit with better food. Grigor and the Brotherhood boss share vodka near the windows. Viktor speaks with Yuri about cold storage terms. Lazlo sits with Zhenya for half an hour and somehow ends up agreeing to review old route ledgers after the honeymoon because nobody in this family can attend a wedding without creating work.

Anton keeps touching me.

A hand at my waist. Fingers at my wrist. His palm at my back when I speak to brokers who suddenly remember how much they respect women with signed authority.

When one of them says, “Mrs. Reznikova, we look forward to stable cooperation,” I smile and answer, “Then don’t make me correct your paperwork twice.”

Anton leans closer. “That was beautiful.”

“It was a warning.”

“I know.”

Across the room, Zhenya catches my eye and lifts our daughter’s little hand in a wave. The baby is sleepy now, her cheek pressed to Zhenya’s shoulder, one tiny fist caught in the old woman’s collar.

I walk over and kiss her head. “Be good.”