Chapter 42
Mary
The shower helps. Sort of.
I stand under the spray for twenty minutes, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders until my skin turns pink. My stomach’s been doing somersaults since I woke up, and I’m starting to think “morning sickness” is a bullshit term invented by someone who never experienced it.
“Morning discomfort” sounds cute. Manageable. Like “Oh, I’m just a bit queasy before breakfast.”
No.
This is full-body betrayal. My stomach hates me. My throat hates me. Even my teeth feel weird, which shouldn’t be anatomically possible, but here we are.
I towel off, pull on one of Anton’s T-shirts—because mine are all suddenly too tight and also smell wrong—and pad barefoot toward the bedroom.
That’s when I smell it.
Food.
Bacon? Maybe sausage. Something savory and rich and—
My stomach lurches.
I make it to the toilet just in time.
Everything from yesterday comes up. The pasta. The strawberries Lev brought me. That single bite of chocolate I thought would be safe.
Nothing is safe.
I’m on my knees, hair falling in my face, actively reconsidering every life choice that led me here, when I hear footsteps.
“Mary?”
Anton’s voice. Concerned. Close.
“Don’t come in here,” I gasp between heaves.
He comes in anyway. Of course he does.
I feel his hand on my back, warm and steady. He gathers my hair with the other hand, pulling it away from my face.
“I’m fine,” I lie, right before another wave hits.
“Clearly.”
When it finally stops, I slump against the wall, breathing hard. My mouth tastes like death. My eyes are watering. I’m pretty sure I look like a Victorian ghost moments before expiring dramatically on a fainting couch.
Anton hands me a glass of water. I didn’t even see him get it.
I rinse, spit, try to remember what dignity feels like.
“No one told me this part,” I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “All those pregnancy books talk about ‘morning nausea’ like it’s a mild inconvenience. This is not mild. This is biological warfare.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
I glare at him. “You try growing a human while your body actively rejects food.”
“Fair point.” He crouches beside me, hand still on my back. “What triggered it?”
“The smell of—” I stop. Blink. “Wait. Are you cooking?”
“Yes.”
“You cook?”
"When I want to."
I stare at him. “I’ve been living here for how long, and I’m just now finding out you cook?”
“You never asked.”
“I didn’t think—” I gesture vaguely at him. Tattooed, dangerous, built like he bench-presses cars for fun. “You don’t exactly scream ‘domestic chef.’”
“I have layers.”
“Apparently.”
He helps me stand, steadying me when my legs wobble. I brush my teeth twice, gargle with mouthwash, and still feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
“Better?” he asks.
“Define better.”
“Can you walk without collapsing?”
“Probably.”
“Good enough.”
He guides me out of the bathroom, hand on my lower back. The smell hits again—stronger now—and my stomach does a warning flip.
“If I throw up on you, it’s your fault,” I warn.
“Noted.”
We make it to the kitchen. And I stop dead.
Because Anton Malikov—the man who once shot someone in front of me without blinking, who runs a criminal empire, who sleeps with a gun under his pillow—is now at the stove in black sweatpants and nothing else, flipping what looks like an omelet.
“What is happening right now?” I ask.
“Breakfast.”
“I can see that. But… you’re cooking. With a spatula. Like a person.”
He glances over his shoulder. “What did you think I used? My hands?”
“I don’t know! I just—” I wave helplessly. “This is very domestic.”
“You want me to shoot the omelet instead?”
“That’s not what I—” I stop. Narrow my eyes. “Are you teasing me?”
“Maybe.”
I lean against the counter, still dizzy but intrigued now. “What else don’t I know about you?”
“Plenty.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He plates the omelet—perfectly golden, folded just right—and sets it on the island. Then he pulls out a stool and gestures for me to sit.
I do. Slowly. Eyeing the food as if it might attack.
“It’s plain,” he says. “No cheese. No spices. Just eggs and a little butter.”
“How did you—?”
“Dr. Vera sent a list. Foods that won’t trigger nausea.” He slides a small plate toward me. “Toast. Dry. And ginger tea.”
I stare at the spread. Then at him.
He’s already back at the stove, cracking more eggs into a bowl.
“You… called Dr. Vera? About food?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Because you threw up half a dozen times last week and barely ate anything after.” He whisks the eggs, movements efficient. Practiced. “I’m not watching you starve because your body decided to be an asshole.”
Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest.
“Anton.”
“Eat.”
I pick up the fork. Take a tiny bite. The eggs are soft. Warm. Not greasy. My stomach considers rebelling, then… settles.
Huh.
I take another bite.
“Good?” he asks without turning around.
“Yeah. Actually.”
“Good.”
I watch him cook. Watch the way his shoulders flex when he moves. The focused look on his face. Like making eggs is a mission he’s executing with precision.
“You’re different in the mornings,” I say.
“How so?”
“Quieter. Focused. Less… murder-y.”
He huffs. Almost a laugh. “Murder-y.”
“It’s a technical term.”
“Is it?”
“Very scientific.”
He plates his own omelet—this one loaded with peppers and cheese because of course his stomach isn’t staging a rebellion—and sits beside me.
We eat in silence for a minute. Comfortable. Easy.
Then I say, “What else?”
“What else what?”
“What else do you do that I don’t know about?”
He considers this. Chews. Swallows. “I read.”
“Everyone reads.”
“Poetry.”
I almost drop my fork. “You read poetry?”
“Sometimes.”
“What kind?”
“Russian. Pushkin. Akhmatova.”
I stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Anton Malikov, mafia enforcer, reads romantic Russian poetry.”
“It’s not all romantic.”
“But some of it is.”
“Some.”
I lean closer. “Do you have a favorite?”
His jaw ticks. Like he’s debating whether to answer. Then: “Akhmatova. ‘I taught myself to live simply and wisely.’”
“Is that the title?”
“Part of it.”
“What’s it about?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “Survival. Letting go of things you can’t control. Finding peace in small moments.”
The way he says it—low, rough, like the words cost him something—makes my chest ache.
“Did you find it?” I ask softly. “Peace?”
His eyes meet mine. Deep. Serious. “I’m working on it.”
We sit there, knees touching, the morning light filtering through the windows. I finish my eggs. He finishes his. Neither of us moves.
Then he says, “I also fix things.”
“Fix things?”
“Appliances. Electronics. Broken locks.” He shrugs. “My father taught me. Said a man who can’t use his hands is useless.”
“That’s… surprisingly practical.”
“He wasn’t a complicated man.”
“Was he a good one?”
Anton’s quiet for a beat. “He was loyal. Ruthless. Taught me everything I know about survival.” Pause. “But he never taught me this.”
“This?”
His hand moves to my stomach. Gentle. Deliberate. “How to be soft. How to care about something more than the Bratva. How to want something that doesn’t involve blood.”
My breath catches.
“You’re doing okay so far,” I whisper.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” I cover his hand with mine. “You made me eggs. That’s pretty soft.”
His mouth curves. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
We sit like that—his hand on my stomach, mine over his—until the tea kettle whistles.
He stands, pours me a cup, and adds honey without asking. Sets it in front of me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Ginger tea,” he says. “Helps with nausea.”
I wrap my hands around the mug. Breathe in the steam. “You’ve been researching.”
“Some.”
“Some?”
“A lot.”
I smile into the cup. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t tried to stand.”
“Good point.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me drink. There’s something in his expression I can’t name. Something careful. Like he’s memorizing this.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m looking.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
I set the mug down. “What’s the difference?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Staring is empty. Looking means you’re trying to remember.”
Oh.
Oh, that’s—
I blink hard. Stupid hormones.
“Anton—”
“I’m leaving tonight.” His voice is steady. Factual. “Two weeks. I’ll be gone two weeks.”
“I know.”
“I need to remember this.” His eyes trace my face. My hair. The way his T-shirt hangs off my shoulder. “You. Here. Safe.”
My throat tightens. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”
“I know.”
“Then why—?”
“Because I’ve never had something to come back to before.” He pushes off the counter and moves closer. Stands between my knees. “Every mission, every fight… I went because the job required it. Not because I wanted to. Not because something was waiting.”
His hand cups my jaw. Thumb brushing my cheek.
“This is different,” he says quietly. “You’re different.”
I reach up and cover his hand with mine. “So are you.”
“Good different or terrifying different?”
“Both.”
He smiles. Truly smiles. Soft and real and so rare it makes my chest hurt.
“Come here,” I whisper.
He leans down. Our noses touch. I close my eyes, breathe him in.
“Two weeks,” I say.
“Two weeks.”
“And then you come home.”
“And then I come home.”
“Promise?”
“I already did.”
“Promise again.”
His other hand finds my stomach. “I promise, malyshka. I’m coming back. To you. To this. To us.”
Us.
The word sits heavy and perfect between us.
“I’m going to miss you,” I admit. “So much.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to worry.”
“I know that too.”
“I’m probably going to cry at least three times.”
“Only three?”
I laugh despite everything. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
So I kiss him.
Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that says all the things we haven’t said out loud yet.
When we pull apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Two weeks,” he says again.
“Two weeks.”
He pulls me to my feet, careful, steadying me when I sway. Then he wraps his arms around me—tight, almost too tight—and holds on like he’s the one afraid to let go.
“I’ll call when I can,” he murmurs against my hair.
My chest tightens. “When you can?”
“Where I’m going…” He pauses. “Communication isn’t always safe. If Igor tracks any calls back here—”
“He’ll know you’re coming.”
“Yes.”
I close my eyes. Try to breathe through the fear. “So I might not hear from you at all.”
“You might not.” His arms tighten. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you. Every second. Every breath.”
“That’s not the same as knowing you’re alive.”
“I know.” His hand moves to my face, tilting my chin up. “But I need you to trust me. If you don’t hear from me, it means I’m working. It means I’m being careful. It means I’m doing everything I can to come home.”
My eyes burn. “And if something goes wrong?”
“Then Dima will tell you.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “But nothing’s going wrong.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” His forehead touches mine. “Because I have too much to lose now.”
I nod. Swallow hard. “Okay.”
“You’ll eat.”
“I’ll try.”
“Mary.”
“I’ll eat. I promise.”
“And rest.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He pinches my side. I yelp.
“Not funny,” he says, but he’s smiling.
“A little funny.”
We stand there—wrapped up in each other, the morning sun streaming in—and for a moment, everything else fades.
Then he pulls back slightly. Just enough to look at me.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” he says quietly.
“Okay.”
“But I’m going to say it in Russian.”
I blink. “Why?”
His mouth tips up at the corners. “Because I’m a coward.”
“You? A coward?” I almost laugh. “You’re the least cowardly person I know.”
“Not about this.”
His hand moves to my face. Thumb tracing my cheekbone. And then he starts speaking.
Russian rolls off his tongue—low, rough, beautiful. I don’t understand the words, but I feel them. In the way his voice drops. In the way his eyes never leave mine. In the way his hand trembles just slightly against my skin.
“Ya vas lyubil: lyubov yeshcho, byt mozhet, V dushe moyey ugasla ne sovsem; No pust ona vas bolshe ne trevozhit; Ya ne khochu pechalit vas nichem.
“Ya vas lyubil bezmolvno, beznadyozhno, To robostyu, to revnostyu tomim; Ya vas lyubil tak iskrenno, tak nezhno, Ya lyublyu tebya.”
It sounds like a song. Like something ancient and important.
When he finishes, the silence sits heavy between us.
“What did you just say?” I whisper.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Pushkin. ‘I loved you.’”
“That’s the title?”
“Part of it.” His jaw works. “It’s about… loving someone so deeply that even when it’s over, you still want them to be loved by someone else. To be happy. Even if it’s not with you.”
My chest tightens. “That’s sad.”
“It is.” His forehead touches mine. “But the last part—there’s a line I changed.”
“Changed how?”
His voice drops lower. Rougher. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”
The words curl around me. Warm. Heavy. Important.
“What does that mean?”
He’s quiet for so long that I think he won’t answer.
Then: “It means I’m coming back.”
That’s not what it means. I can hear it in his voice. In the way he won’t quite meet my eyes now.
But I don’t push. Because maybe he needs this. The safety of another language. The distance it creates.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
His eyes finally meet mine. Dark. Intense. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen.
“Ya lyublyu tebya, Mary.”
I don’t know what the words mean exactly. But I feel them settle into my bones. Into my chest. Into the space where my heart keeps beating his name.
“Teach me,” I say softly. “Teach me how to say it back.”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise. Fear. Hope.
“You don’t know what it means.”
“I know enough.” I cup his face with both hands. “Teach me.”
He’s quiet. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: “Ya lyublyu tebya.”
I repeat it. Slowly. Carefully. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”
His eyes close. Like the words hurt.
“Again,” he says.
“Ya lyublyu tebya.”
When he opens his eyes, they’re darker. Wet.
“Do you know what you just said?” His voice is wrecked.
“Tell me.”
“I love you.” His hand presses against my stomach. “That’s what it means. Ya lyublyu tebya. I love you.”
The words crack something open inside me.
“Anton—”
“I love you,” he says again. In English this time. Raw. Honest. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything. More than the Bratva. More than my own life. You and this baby—you’re everything.”
Tears spill over. I can’t stop them.
“I love you too,” I whisper. “I love you so much it scares me.”
He kisses me then. Deep. Desperate. Like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into this one moment.
When we break apart, we’re both shaking.
“Two weeks,” he says against my mouth.
“Two weeks.”
“And then I’m coming home. To you. To this.”
“Ya lyublyu tebya,” I whisper.
His smile is broken and beautiful. “Ya lyublyu tebya, malyshka.”