Chapter 32 Mikhail
MIKHAIL
I stand at the window of our bedroom, watching the city lights flicker to life as dusk settles over the skyline.
My reflection stares back at me—blonde hair, green eyes that have seen too much violence, the faint lines of exhaustion etched around my mouth.
Behind me, Sophia rests quietly in bed, the covers tucked up under her chin.
She’s so young. So innocent. And pregnant.
A father.
I’m going to be a father.
The thought keeps circling through my mind like a prayer I don’t know how to finish.
My hand moves unconsciously to touch the eight-pointed star tattoo on my chest through my shirt, that mark of Bratva royalty that once defined everything I was.
Everything I thought I’d always be.
But now there’s a child.
My child.
Growing inside the woman I love.
The woman I almost lost because of my own uncle’s madness.
“Mikhail?” Sophia’s voice is soft behind me. “Are you okay?”
I turn to face her, and my breath catches the way it always does when I look at her.
She’s wearing one of my shirts, the white fabric falling to mid-thigh, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
In the fading light, she looks ethereal, untouchable.
But I know better.
I know the strength beneath that delicate exterior, the fire that burns in her blue eyes.
“I’m more than okay.” I cross to her and pull her into my arms, feeling the warmth of her body against mine. “I’m terrified and amazed and completely overwhelmed.”
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating through her chest into mine. “That makes two of us.”
I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones.
“I never thought I’d have this. A family.
A real family, not the twisted version I grew up with.
” My voice roughens with emotion I can’t quite control.
“My father was a drunk who beat my mother. I always thought that darkness was in my blood, that I’d pass it on to any child I had. ”
“You’re not your father.” Sophia’s hands cover mine, her touch grounding me. “You’ve made mistakes, yes, but you’ve also fought to be better. To do better.”
“Have I?” The doubt creeps in, cold and insidious. “I’ve killed men, Sophia. I’ve built an empire on violence and fear. What kind of father does that make me?”
She pulls my hands from her face and presses them against her still-flat stomach. “The kind who will protect his child with everything he has. The kind who knows the darkness and chooses the light anyway.”
Her words pierce through my doubt, and I feel something shift inside me. A decision crystallizing into certainty.
I lean down and kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips. “No more violence. We’re going legitimate.”
“Just like that?” She searches my face, looking for hesitation.
“Just like that.” I pull her closer, feeling the steady beat of her heart against mine.
“I have resources, connections, money. I’ve…
ready been building something new in the background, for Nicole.
I want to make it for you, too, and our future.
We can build something new. Something clean. Something our child can be proud of.”
Sophia’s eyes fill with tears, and she rises on her toes to kiss me.
It starts gentle, tender, but quickly deepens into something more urgent.
My hands slide under the shirt she’s wearing, finding warm skin, and she gasps against my mouth.
“Mikhail,” she breathes, and the way she says my name makes heat flood through my veins.
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom.
The dimmed lights cast shadows across the bed as I lay her down on the sheets.
For a moment, I just look at her.
The way her hair spread across the pillow.
How her lips are swollen from my kiss and her eyes are dark with desire.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, my voice rough. “So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”
She reaches for me, pulling me down to her. “Then stop looking and touch me.”
I obey, my hands learning the curves of her body all over again.
Every touch is a celebration of survival, of love, of the future we’re building together.
I strip away the shirt she’s wearing, revealing skin that glows in the dim light.
My mouth follows the path of my hands, tasting, exploring, worshiping.
When I finally enter her, it’s slow and deliberate. Something that feels like a promise.
She moves with me, her hands gripping my shoulders, her nails leaving crescents in my skin that I’ll wear like badges of honor.
“I love you,” I tell her as we move together, as our breathing synchronizes, as the world narrows to just this moment. “I love you, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it.”
“I love you too,” she gasps, her body arching beneath mine. “I love you, Mikhail. I love you.”
We shatter together, and in that moment of perfect unity, I feel something I haven’t felt in years. Hope.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare shoulder.
“Tell me about the businesses,” Sophia says softly. “The legitimate ones you’re planning.”
I smile against her hair. “I have investments in real estate, tech startups, import-export companies that actually import and export legal goods. With some restructuring, some careful management, we can build something substantial. Something that doesn’t require looking over our shoulders constantly. ”
“I can help with that.” She props herself up on one elbow, her blue eyes bright with interest.
Pride swells in my chest. “Then we’ll do it together. Partners in every sense of the word.”
She leans down and kisses me, soft and sweet. “Partners.”
The next few weeks pass in a blur of activity.
I meet with lawyers, accountants, and business consultants.
I liquidate the Bratva assets that can’t be legitimized and invest the proceeds in ventures that can withstand scrutiny.
Sophia is brilliant, her mind sharp and strategic as she helps me navigate the complex world of legitimate business.
We work side by side in my office.
I even bring in an extra desk for her, where she sits looking over spreadsheets and projections, while I’m usually on calls with potential partners and investors.
Sometimes I catch her touching her stomach, a small smile playing at her lips, and my heart clenches with love so fierce it takes my breath away.
At night, we make love slowly, carefully, mindful of the life growing inside her.
I worship her body, marveling at the subtle changes already beginning—the slight fullness of her breasts, the way her skin seems to glow.
She’s creating life, and I’m in awe of her.
“What do you want?” she asks me one evening as we lie in bed, her head on my chest. “For the baby, I mean. Boy or girl?”
“Healthy,” I answer immediately. “That’s all that matters. Healthy and safe and loved.”
She tilts her head to look at me, and I see tears gathering in her eyes. “You’re going to be an amazing father.”
“I hope so.” I stroke her hair, feeling the silky strands slip through my fingers. “I want to give our child everything I never had. Stability. Safety. A father who’s present, who’s sober, who doesn’t solve every problem with his fists.”
“You will.” Her hand finds mine, threading our fingers together. “We both will.”
The trauma of what we’ve been through still haunts us. Sophia wakes sometimes in the night, gasping from nightmares about Lorenzo.
I hold her until the shaking stops, until she remembers she’s safe.
And sometimes I wake in a cold sweat, seeing his face, hearing his voice promising to destroy everything I love.
But we’re healing.
Slowly, carefully, we’re building something real from the ashes of our past.
Two months after Lorenzo’s death, I finalize the sale of my last Bratva holding.
The money goes into a trust for our child, untouchable and clean.
Tony and Miranda have been our biggest supporters, though Marco has still helped even if he preferred we didn’t go legitimate.
That night, Sophia and I celebrate with champagne for me and sparkling cider for her, toasting to new beginnings.
“To us,” she says, raising her glass. “To our family. To the future.”
“To the future,” I echo, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.
We’re in the middle of dinner when the doorbell rings. I frown since we aren’t expecting anyone, and no one from security announced a presence.
Sophia’s hand finds mine across the table, her eyes wide with sudden fear.
“It’s probably nothing,” I tell her, but I’m already standing, already moving toward the door with the caution that years in the Bratva have ingrained in me.
I check with security first. It’s rare someone makes it to the doorbell without someone being alerted first, but I have reduced the number on hand as we moved to legitimate.
The porch is empty except for a package sitting on the doormat.
No delivery person, no signature required.
Just a plain brown box with no return address.
Every instinct I have screams danger.
I open the door carefully, scanning the estate grounds.
Two guards make their rounds in the distance.
Another appears at my shoulder, apologizing and inspecting the package.
He picks it up carefully, and after a deep inspection he hands it to me.
It’s light, almost empty.
I carry it inside and set it on the kitchen counter, Sophia hovering behind me.
“Should we call the police?” she asks.
“And tell them what? That we’re paranoid?” But my hands are steady as I cut through the tape and open the box.
Inside is a stack of photographs and a note.
The first shows Lorenzo’s grave—a simple headstone in a cemetery I recognize on the outskirts of the city.
Someone has placed fresh flowers on it. Red roses, the color of blood.
The rest are pictures of us, taken secretly as we go about our lives.
The note is typed, impersonal, but the message is clear.
Payback’s a bitch.
My blood turns to ice.