Chapter 41 #2
“He’s always been insecure about me,” Anton continues. “About my influence. My connections. The fact that half the council respects me more than they respect him.” He pauses. “When Timofey died and I survived, Igor saw his chance.”
“To what?”
“To turn the Bratva against me. Make it look like I orchestrated the whole thing. Like I wanted Timofey dead so I could take over.”
My stomach twists. “Did it work?”
“No.” A dark smile crosses his face. “Because Ray Bishop’s raid exposed everything. Caleb’s money laundering. Timofey’s trafficking networks. Igor’s offshore accounts.” He leans back against the headboard. “The council saw who was really bleeding them dry. And it wasn’t me.”
“So Igor ran.”
“He fled to Moscow with what was left. Three loyalists. Some cash. No territory. No power.” Anton’s eyes meet mine. “He’s trying to rebuild. Asking the Moscow Bratva for backing. For soldiers. For a second chance.”
“And they’ll give it to him?”
“No.” His certainty is absolute. “I’ve already made calls. Every network Igor might’ve turned to—they know what he did. How he operated. They’re not backing a dying king.”
I process this. “Then why are you going?”
“Because he’s desperate. And desperate men do desperate things.” His hand moves to my face, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “He already lost his nephew. His empire’s falling apart. The only thing left to hurt me with,” his eyes flick to my stomach, “is you. You and our baby.”
Ice slides down my spine. “So he’ll come for me.”
“He’ll try.” Anton’s voice goes lethal. “Which is why I’m ending him first.”
“Can’t you just—I don’t know—send someone else? Dima or—”
“No.” The word is final. Absolute. “I’m doing this myself.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
His eyes go dark. “Because it’s personal.” His jaw tightens. “His network’s been quiet. Too quiet. Which means he’s building something. Getting support. Waiting for the right moment to strike.”
“So you’re—”
“Striking first.” His hand presses against my stomach. “He wants you dead. Wants our child dead. Wants to make me watch before he kills me, too.” His breath hisses. Lethal. “That’s not happening.”
“Anton—”
“No one threatens my family. Not Igor. Not the Bratva. Not anyone.” His eyes lock on mine. “My father spent his whole life preaching loyalty to the brotherhood. Loyalty above everything. Family second. Blood second. The Bratva first.” He pauses. “He was wrong.”
My breath catches.
“It’s always been about family,” Anton says quietly. “Real family. The ones you choose to protect. The ones you’d burn the world down for.”
His hand presses firmer. “You. This baby. That’s my family now. Mine to protect.”
“But… but it’s a trap.”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re walking into it.”
“Yes.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “Because once Igor’s gone, there’s no one left who wants you dead. No loose ends. No threats.” His eyes lock on mine. “You’re safe. The baby’s safe. We can live without looking over our shoulders.”
My throat tightens. “What if something goes wrong?”
“It won’t.”
“But—”
“Lev, Dima, and Boris will stay here with you. Twenty-four-hour security. No one gets near this building without going through them.” His hand moves to my stomach again. “You’re protected. I made sure of it.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I know.” His forehead touches mine. “But this is the last thing. After this, it’s done. Igor’s the only one left who can hurt you. Once he’s gone—”
“We’re free.”
“We’re free.”
I close my eyes. Try to breathe through the fear.
“How long have you been planning this?” I whisper.
“Since the day I woke up in that clinic.” His voice is rough. “Since I heard you were pregnant. Since I realized I had something worth protecting.”
The words break something in me.
I swallow hard. “When do you leave?”
“Tonight.”
Tonight.
“That’s—” My voice cracks. “That’s not enough time.”
“I know.”
“Two weeks is—”
“Too long.” His lips brush mine. “But it’s what it takes.”
I close my eyes. Breathe through the panic crawling up my throat.
Two weeks without him.
Two weeks in this penthouse with the boys, but not him.
Two weeks of wondering if he’s safe. If he’s coming back.
“Hey.” His voice is softer now. “Look at me.”
I open my eyes.
He’s watching me. Steady. Certain.
“I’m coming back,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” His hand moves to my stomach again. “I’m not missing this.”
Tears prick my eyes. Stupid hormones.
“Promise me,” I whisper.
“I promise.”
“Say it again.”
His mouth curves slightly. “I promise, malyshka. I’m coming back. To you. To this.”
He presses his palm flat against where our baby is growing. Too small to feel. But there.
I nod. Swallow the lump in my throat.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We lie there. His hand on my stomach. My hand on his chest. Breathing each other in.
Then I say, “You know what’s really unfair?”
“What?”
“You get to leave for two weeks.” I glance down at the very obvious tent in the sheets. “And I have to stay here. With that image in my head.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. Low and rough and so damn beautiful it hurts.
“You’re evil,” he says.
“I learned from the best.”
His eyes flash. “Two weeks, Mary.”
“I know.”
“The second Dr. Vera clears you—”
“I know.”
His hand slides up my thigh. Slow. Deliberate. “I’m not going to be gentle.”
My breath catches. “I didn’t ask you to be.”
His grin is pure sin. “Good.”
Then he kisses me.
Deep. Slow. The kind of kiss that promises everything he can’t give me yet.
When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“Go,” I whisper. “Before I make this harder.”
“Too late.” He glances down pointedly.
I laugh despite everything. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
I do.
God help me, I really do.