Chapter Forty-Six
Osip
I settle deeper into the leather chair, watching my brothers make themselves at home in my living room.
Melor’s sprawled across the couch like he owns the place, his feet propped up on my coffee table— expensive Italian leather boots leaving scuff marks I’ll hear about from Ilona tomorrow.
Radimir sits rigid in the opposite chair, nursing his vodka like it’s communion wine, still wound tight from our last conversation.
“So we’re good, da? ” I ask, trying not to sound too gruff. The reconciliation after our blowout feels fragile.
Melor raises his glass in mock salute. “Good as gold, bratishka . Unless you plan on being a dickhead again.”
“Me?” I bark out a laugh. “You two were the ones acting like svolochi . I told you both— pull that shit again, and you’re out on your asses. I don’t care if we share blood.”
Radimir’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Threatening to kick out your own brothers. How very pakhan of you.”
“Someone has to keep you durakhi in line.”
The familiar rhythm of our banter settles over us like an old coat.
This is how it’s always been— we tear each other apart just to build each other back up again.
Three brothers forged in the same fire, shaped by the same violence.
We know exactly where to hit to make it hurt, and exactly how to patch up the wounds after.
Three drinks in, the vodka loosens something in my chest. Four drinks, and the words start forming before I can stop them.
“I have news,” I say, swirling the liquid in my glass.
Melor raises an eyebrow. “Good news or ‘hide the bodies’ news?”
“I’m going to be a father.”
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the ice melting in our glasses.
Both my brothers stare at me like I’ve just announced I’m joining the circus.
Melor’s drink hovers halfway to his lips, forgotten.
Radimir goes completely still, which for him is more unsettling than if he’d started shouting.
“Blyad…” Radimir finally breathes. “After… you know… I didn’t think you’d want a child anymore.”
The reference to Galina hits like a knife between the ribs, but I keep my expression neutral. They’re the only ones who know the whole truth about what happened. About what I lost.
“Who’s the mother?” Melor asks, setting down his glass carefully.
“Her name is Ilona.”
“What?” Radimir’s voice shoots up an octave before he catches himself. “Your housekeeper? How romantic.”
I want to tell him it’s not like that, but the vodka has made my tongue heavy and my thoughts scattered. Instead, I grunt and take another drink.
“What the fuck, Osip? What’s the story?” Melor leans forward, suddenly interested. “You finally decided to sample the help?”
“It’s not—” I start, then stop. How do I explain this without sounding like a complete mudak ? “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Radimir presses. “Either you’re fucking her or you’re not. How else do you make a baby?”
The alcohol burns through my reservations. Before I can stop myself, the truth spills out.
“Her name is Ilona Shiradze.”
Both my brothers go statue-still, their faces cycling through confusion, recognition, and finally, horror.
“Shiradze’s daughter?” Melor chokes out. “Living in your house and having your baby? Are you fucking insane, Osip?”
“Keep your voice down, mudak ,” I snap, glancing toward the hallway. The last thing I need is for Ilona to overhear this conversation.
Radimir leans back against the couch and lets out a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling like he’s asking God for patience.
“Actually,” he says without looking at us, “it’s the perfect cover-up. Who’d suspect you’d keep her this close?”
“That’s not why she’s here,” I growl, but even as I say it, I know how fucked-up it sounds.
“No?” Melor stands up, all six feet four inches of barely contained violence. “Then tell me, brother. Why is the daughter of our dead business partner— who betrayed us, who you killed— in your house? In your bed? Having your child?”
“Because,” I say finally, “I’m paying her to carry my baby.”
They stare at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“What the fuck, Osip?” Melor explodes. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? This is sheer insanity! Does she know that you killed her father?”
“Nyet!” I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, my chair scraping against the floor. “And if either of you pizdy ever mention anything about that to her, I’ll rip your fucking tongues out and shove them up your asses!”
The threat hangs in the air between us, real and violent and final. My brothers know I don’t make empty promises.
“I lost Galina,” I continue. “My child. I didn’t think I’d ever be a father after that. But Ilona Shiradze will give me that gift. She’s a good person and a perfect surrogate mother.”
Even as I say it, guilt gnaws at my insides.
Deep down, I know it’s not as simple as I’m trying to make it sound.
I did kill her father. Put a knife in his chest and watched him bleed out.
And what’s worse— what makes me want to put my fist through the wall— is that I’m starting to have feelings for her.
Real feelings. The kind that make a man weak.
She can never know the truth about how her father died. Never.
“What about Anett?” Radimir asks quietly. “Why not her?”
“Anett’s out of my life.” The words come out clipped, final.
Radimir finally looks up from his contemplation of the ceiling. “Right. Congratulations, bratishka . You’re fucking the daughter of someone you killed and she’s having your child. Perfect fucking storm.”
Melor pours himself another vodka, the bottle clinking against the glass in the heavy silence. “Men’s dicks make them stupid,” he says conversationally. “Stupid men make mistakes. Mistakes get you killed.”
“Or they save you,” I add quietly.
Blyad.
This is why I need my brothers, even when they’re being dickheads. They’re two of the few people who aren’t afraid to challenge me, to tell me when I’m being an idiot. Melor keeps me sane. Radimir keeps me rational.
But they’re wrong about Ilona. What they’ll never understand— what they can’t understand— is the effect she has on me. What she means to me.
And that terrifies me more than any bullet ever could.