17. Igor
17
IGOR
“ W e need to tell her.”
Katya’s eyes widen at the words I just spoke, disbelief flashing across her face as she closes the book and sets it on her lap.
I hold her gaze, unyielding, as if to remind her that this isn’t up for debate. We’ve had this argument before, and I made myself perfectly clear: Sofiya needs to know who her father is. I won’t be robbed of this time with my daughter. Not by Katya, not by circumstance, not by anything.
She’s mine.
They’re both mine .
Sofiya and Damien are my family . The only good left in this ruthless, blood-soaked world I’ve carved out for myself. And Katya? She’ll have to figure out where she fits in. She can stand with us, or she can remain on the outside, glaring at me with that stubborn defiance that only fuels the fire between us.
I reach over and adjust the covers, tucking Sofiya in tighter. Katya’s sharp green eyes track my every move. I ignore her, focusing instead on Sofiya.
Her little face is blank, her glassy blue eyes wandering between me and Katya as if she’s trying to solve a puzzle too big for her small mind. No smile, no frown—just silence. It guts me.
Damien is the opposite. He crawls out from under the covers, his tiny hand landing on my thigh. He’s eager for my attention, unafraid to take it. I brush my hand through his soft hair, pride swelling in my chest at his unflinching love for me.
But Katya’s still watching me, simmering.
“I’m aware I’ll need your help to tell her,” I say, my voice low and firm. I let my words sink in, holding her gaze until I see the flash of irritation in her eyes. “Don’t mess this up for me, Katya. I will know if you lie to her.”
Her fingers drum against the book in her lap, sharp and deliberate. “This isn’t the time,” she snaps, her tone clipped and sharp enough to cut.
A low snicker rises from my throat before I can stop it. Something about those words—the defiance, the sheer nerve —makes something snap inside me. I’ve heard plenty of excuses and empty protests in my life, and while this one doesn’t technically fall into either category, it grates on me all the same.
I glance down at Damien, who is still fidgeting with his shirt. His innocence grounds me, softening the edge of my temper. Gently, I pinch his cheek. “How do you like having Sofiya around?”
“She’s fun,” Damien says immediately, his little face lighting up. “But she doesn’t talk a lot.” He looks at Sofiya with a shy grin. “But that’s okay because she likes the same games I do.”
He pulls out a coloring sheet from the nightstand drawer, showing it to me with a proud smile. I glance at Katya, catching the slight nod she gives him. Sofiya, though, remains quiet, her piercing gaze locked onto me, studying my every move. It’s unnerving how much of her mother I see in her—silent, calculating, defiant in her little girl kind of way.
“Good boy,” I say, ruffling Damien’s hair before turning my attention back to Katya. “It’s time. Tell her.”
Her eyes narrow, and the disbelief mingling with fury is impossible to miss. She’s furious, yes, but she’s also processing the bomb I’ve just dropped. She starts slowly, her voice soft, her hands moving in sign language as she locks her attention on Sofiya.
“Sofiya, sweetie,” Katya signs and speaks, her tone warm and full of affection, “you know I love you, right?”
Sofiya’s face softens immediately, her small hands reaching out to wrap around Katya’s neck in a hug. A tiny smile breaks across her lips, and for a moment, it feels like the world stops spinning. The love Sofiya has for her mother is so pure, so unconditional, it almost hurts to watch.
Katya chuckles softly, kissing the top of Sofiya’s head before pulling back a bit.
“Get on with it,” I murmur, careful to keep my voice low. The last thing I want is to startle Damien, who’s watching us intently.
Katya meets my gaze briefly, her irritation flickering like a spark before she turns back to Sofiya.
“This man,” she continues, pointing to me, “is your papa.”
The words land like a stone in the quiet room.
I watch Sofiya carefully, waiting for her to process what she’s just been told. Her blue eyes widen, darting from Katya to me, and back again. Her hands start to tremble slightly, her little body frozen as the realization begins to sink in.
Damien, however, reacts immediately. “So you’re not my papa anymore?” he asks, his small voice trembling with a mix of confusion and sadness.
I shift my focus to him, gently cupping his face in my hands. “I’m your papa, and I always will be,” I tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “But I’m also Sofiya’s papa. I hope you’re happy to have a baby sister.”
His wide, sad eyes search mine for a moment before his face brightens. “Yes!” he exclaims, throwing his little arms around my neck.
I chuckle, ruffling his hair as relief floods through me. “Good boy,” I murmur, kissing the top of his head before glancing at Sofiya. “Now let’s see what your sister has to say to this.”
But Sofiya’s reaction is… different.
Her hands fly into motion, signing so fast it takes a moment for me to register the sharpness of her movements. Her little face twists in confusion, her gestures frantic and almost angry. It’s like watching a storm build inside her, the weight of her emotions too much for her small body to contain.
“What is she saying?” I ask, my voice clipped as I turn to Katya.
Katya reaches out, gently holding Sofiya’s trembling hands. “Calm down, honey,” she says softly, signing the words as she speaks them aloud. “Your hands are shaking. He’s not going to take you away.”
I let out a low breath, my patience fraying as Katya’s words do little to ease Sofiya’s turmoil.
“What is she saying?” I repeat, my tone sharper this time.
Katya finally meets my gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. “She’s not happy,” she says bluntly. “She asked if Aleks could be her papa instead.”
The words slam into me like a fist to the gut.
“You’re lying,” I growl, my voice low and venomous.
“I’m not,” Katya says, lifting her chin in defiance. “She’s five, Igor. She doesn’t know how to process this. I told you we should give her time to adjust.”
Her defiance only fuels my frustration, but I force myself to remain composed. I glance at Sofiya, who’s now clutching Katya’s hand while reaching for Damien’s with the other. Her small frame seems to shrink, and the sight of it—of her withdrawing from me—leaves something hollow and heavy in my chest.
“This isn’t over,” I say through gritted teeth.
I rise from the bed, my movements stiff as I turn and leave the room. The door slams shut behind me, rattling the walls.
My daughter doesn’t know it yet, but she needs me.
And so does Katya, whether she’s ready to admit it or not.
“Oh, hey,” Aleks says, his tone awkward as we nearly collide in the hallway. He looks at me, clearly unsure how to gauge my mood.
“Not now,” I snap, brushing past him. My fists clench at my sides, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I force myself to focus, to redirect the anger brewing inside me. “What are we going to do about Montoya? Do you have a plan to fix this mess? Because apart from kicking Mikhail’s ass, I’ve got nothing.”
Aleks’s expression sharpens instantly. He’s good at this—shifting from casual to businesslike in the blink of an eye. He knows exactly what’s at stake, exactly what needs to be done. Because the truth is, the weight of this situation falls squarely on us, and without a doubt, one of the first tasks waiting for him will be tracking down the missing shipment.
Montoya’s threats are not a joke. The Colombians don’t bluff. Everyone knows their reputation is carved in blood, and the fact that the shipment disappeared under our watch doesn’t just make us look incompetent—it makes us look weak. And weakness? That’s something they’ll exploit without hesitation.
You’d think a decade of working together would count for something, that they’d give us the benefit of the doubt. But that’s not how the Colombians work. If anything, they’re stricter with their so-called allies. It’s not enough to pay them off; they’ll want revenge. The thief, whoever they are, is already as good as dead—they just don’t know it yet. But if we don’t find them fast, we’ll be the ones to take their place in Montoya’s crosshairs.
“Yes,” Aleks finally says, his tone clipped. “I’ve got a plan. But first…” He hesitates, his gaze flicking to mine. “Is everything okay with Katya and the kids?”
My lips press into a hard line. I don’t answer. I wouldn’t even know where to begin if I tried. What am I supposed to say? That I’m a stranger to my daughter? That the sight of Sofiya reaching for Katya—or worse, for Aleks—makes something inside me twist in a way I can’t even put into words?
Even to my own ears, it would sound pathetic.
So I stay silent.
I look away, focusing on the anger churning in my gut instead of the ache pressing against my chest. This is bullshit. Sofiya shouldn’t think I’m a temporary fixture in her life. I’m her father.
“What’s the plan?” I demand, cutting through the silence.
Aleks doesn’t press for an answer. He knows me too well, knows when to back off and when to push. Instead, he nods and switches gears. “I made an appointment to meet with Boris Olenko. A lot of people pass through his strip clubs. If anyone’s heard anything about the shipment, it’ll be him.”
“It’s a good place to start,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “But there’s just one thing.”
Aleks tilts his head, his brows furrowing slightly. He runs through the steps in his head, trying to figure out what he might have missed. It’s a habit of his, one that usually makes me roll my eyes, but right now, it’s the reason I trust him. He doesn’t leave loose ends.
“What?” he finally asks.
“I’ll be the one going,” I tell him, my voice firm. “Not you.”
Aleks raises a brow, his confusion obvious. “I thought?—”
“I’ll stop by after Sofiya’s doctor’s appointment,” I interrupt, cutting him off. “That’s the priority right now. And Olenko? He’s mine to worry about.”
Aleks studies me for a moment, and I can see the hesitation flickering behind his eyes. But to his credit, he doesn’t argue.
“If that’s what you want,” he says slowly.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want,” I reply, holding his gaze.
I give him a short nod before turning on my heel and heading straight for the sanctuary of my room.
By the time I reach the liquor cabinet, my anger is boiling over. I grab the nearest bottle, pouring a shot with shaky hands. My head’s a fucking mess, and this is the only thing that will take the edge off.
The first shot burns, sliding down my throat like fire. It doesn’t help, so I pour another. And another.
But no matter how much I drink, the thoughts keep coming. The anger, the frustration, the emptiness. One sip does little to ease the tension spreading through my limbs, and by the time I down the third shot, the burning in my chest feels more like punishment than relief.
I slam the bottle on the counter, gripping the edge with both hands as I steady myself.
Alcohol might blur the edges of reality, but it never erases it. The truth always comes back, sharper and more painful than before.
I stare at the bottle for a long moment, my reflection warped and distorted in the glass. My mind drifts, the haze of the vodka giving way to memories I’ve tried to keep buried.
Six years ago.
Katya.
My volchitsa.
I close my eyes, letting it wash over me. I can see her standing in front of me, her green eyes blazing with defiance, her sharp tongue daring me to claim her. She’s never made anything easy for me, not then and not now. But that’s part of what drew me to her in the first place.
She wasn’t scared.
Not of the Bratva, not for her reputation, not of the violence.
And now she looks at me like I’m a threat.
I grab the bottle again, pouring another shot.
This isn’t over. Not with Katya. Not with Sofiya. Not with Montoya.
Tomorrow, I’ll deal with Olenko. Tomorrow, I’ll fix this mess.
I raise the glass to my lips, my mind racing even as the vodka dulls my senses.