Chapter 45 Alina
ALINA
The estate feels different when we return from the meeting with the Bratva families.
Quieter somehow, despite the guards positioned at every entrance and the security cameras tracking our movements.
Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the one who's different, carrying the weight of everything that's happened in the past weeks like stones in my pockets.
Dimitri helps me out of the SUV, his hand lingering on my lower back. "You need to rest," he says, his green eyes searching my face with concern. "You look exhausted."
I am exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-weary exhausted. The kind of tired that sleep won't fix. But I nod because arguing takes energy I don't have. "I want to check on Katya first."
He studies me for a moment, then nods. "I'll be in my study if you need me. There's damage control to handle after the meeting."
I watch him walk away, his broad shoulders tense beneath his black shirt.
The meeting didn't go as well as we'd hoped.
Ivan Volkov's dramatic exit, taking two other families with him, has created a fracture in the Bratva that won't be easy to repair.
But that's Dimitri's problem to solve right now. Mine is making sure my sister is okay.
I find Katya in her bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed with her sketchbook open in her lap. She looks up when I enter, and relief floods her young face. "Alina! How did it go?"
I close the door behind me and sink onto the bed beside her, suddenly grateful for the soft mattress beneath me. "It was complicated. Some families are on board with the changes Dimitri proposed. Others walked out."
Katya sets her sketchbook aside, her brown eyes worried. "Is that bad?"
"It's not good." I lean back against the headboard. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."
She's quiet for a moment, then asks the question I've been dreading. "Have you heard from Mama?"
The word feels strange. Mama. As if Irina Popov deserves that title after everything she's done. Or rather, everything she's failed to do. "No. She hasn't tried to contact us since her visit."
Katya nods slowly, her fingers tracing patterns on the bedspread. "I'm relieved, actually. Is that terrible?"
"No." I reach over and take her hand, squeezing gently. "It's honest. Mama made her choices, Katya. She chose Papa over us, every single time. Even when she knew what he was doing, what he was planning, she chose him."
"I used to think she was just scared of him," Katya says softly. "That she stayed because she was afraid. But it wasn't that, was it?"
I think about my mother's perfectly styled hair, her designer clothes, her comfortable life built on blood and lies. "No. She stayed because she liked what he gave her. The money, the status, the power. We were just accessories to that life."
Katya's eyes fill with tears, and I pull her into my arms, holding her while she cries. Not for the mother we lost, but for the mother we never really had. The one who should have protected us, who should have chosen us, who should have been brave enough to leave.
When her tears finally subside, I pull back and wipe her cheeks with my thumbs. "But you know what? We're going to be okay. Better than okay. You're going to have the life you deserve, Katya. The one you've always dreamed about."
She sniffles, managing a small smile. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you're going to finish high school.
Then you're going to college to study art, just like you've always wanted.
" I watch her eyes widen with hope. "You're going to travel to Paris and Rome and all those places you've sketched in your notebooks.
You're going to fall in love with someone who treats you well, someone who sees your value beyond what you can offer in an alliance. "
"Really?" Her voice is small, disbelieving. "Dimitri will allow that?"
"Dimitri wants you to be happy. He wants you to have choices." I think about my husband, about the man who's so different from what I expected. "He's not like Papa, Katya. He's not going to use you as a pawn."
We spend the next hour talking about her future. She wants to apply to art schools in New York and California. She shows me her portfolio, sketches and paintings that take my breath away with their beauty and emotion. She's talented, truly talented, and I'm determined that the world will see it.
I make my way to the bedroom I share with Dimitri, grateful when I find it empty and quiet. I kick off my shoes and sink onto the bed, not bothering to change out of my clothes. Just five minutes, I tell myself. Just five minutes of rest.
I wake to the feeling of gentle hands on my feet. My eyes flutter open to find Dimitri sitting at the end of the bed, carefully removing my shoes. The room is lit only by the lamp on the nightstand.
"I fell asleep," I say, my voice rough.
"You needed it." He sets my shoes aside and moves up the bed, his hands finding my ankles and beginning to massage them with firm, steady pressure. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired. Overwhelmed. Pregnant." I close my eyes as his thumbs work magic on my sore feet. "How did the damage control go?"
"It went." His voice is carefully neutral, which means it didn't go well. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight is just for us."
I open my eyes and study his face. He looks exhausted too, lines of tension around his mouth and eyes. The silver threading through his dark hair at the temples seems more pronounced in the lamplight. "Dimitri, if you need to work, I understand."
"I don't need to work." His hands move from my feet to my calves, kneading the tight muscles there. "I need to be with my wife. I need to take care of her."
The words make something warm unfurl in my chest. He moves up the bed until he's lying beside me, propped on one elbow. His free hand comes to rest on my stomach. I cover his hand with mine, feeling the warmth of his palm through my shirt.
His hand moves from my stomach to the buttons of my shirt, and he begins undoing them slowly, one by one. There's nothing rushed about his movements, nothing demanding. Just a quiet reverence that makes my breath catch.
Pushing the fabric aside to reveal my bra, his fingers trace the curve of my breast, gentle and exploring.
I reach up and cup his face, feeling the roughness of his beard against my palm. "Make love to me, Dimitri. Slowly. I need to feel you, to remember that we're alive and together and safe."
He leans down and kisses me, his lips soft against mine.
He undresses me carefully, as if I'm something precious that might break.
Each piece of clothing is removed with reverence, his hands and mouth following the path of revealed skin.
When I'm finally naked beneath him, he pauses to just look at me, his green eyes dark with desire and something deeper.
"I love you," he says, the words coming easier now than they did that first time. "I love you, Alina. You and our baby. You're everything to me."
Tears prick my eyes. "I love you too. So much it scares me sometimes."
He strips off his own clothes, and then he's covering my body with his, careful to keep his weight off my stomach.
When he enters me, it's slow and gentle, giving me time to adjust, to feel every inch of him.
We move together in a rhythm that's become familiar, our bodies knowing each other in ways that go beyond the physical.
This isn't just sex. It's connection. Affirmation. A reminder that despite everything we've survived, we're still here, still together, still building something beautiful from the ashes of everything that came before.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me. His hand strokes my hair in long, soothing movements, and I feel myself drifting toward sleep.
"I want to be a good father," he says suddenly, his voice rough with emotion. "Not like mine was. Not like Viktor. I want our child to know they're loved, that they're valued for who they are, not what they can offer."
I lift my head to look at him. "You will be. You already are, Dimitri. The way you've taken care of Katya, given her choices and opportunities. That's the kind of father you'll be."
"I'm scared," he admits, and the vulnerability in his voice makes my heart ache. "What if I fail? What if I can't protect them? What if this world we live in destroys them the way it's destroyed so many others?"
I press my hand over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath my palm. "Then we'll build something better. We're already doing it, Dimitri. The changes you proposed at the meeting, the way you're restructuring the Bratva. It's not perfect, but it's a start."
He pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair. "I never thought I'd have this. A family. A future worth fighting for. You've changed everything, Alina."
"We've changed everything," I correct softly. "Together."
We fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other's arms, dreaming of the future we're trying to build. I don't know how long I sleep before something wakes me. The room is dark, the lamp turned off, and for a moment I'm disoriented. Then I realize what's wrong.
Dimitri's side of the bed is empty.
I sit up, my heart already starting to race. Then I hear it. Shouting from downstairs. Loud, urgent voices speaking rapid Russian. The sound of multiple footsteps, heavy boots on marble floors.
Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.
I throw back the covers and reach for my robe, my hands shaking as I tie it around my waist. The shouting grows louder, more intense, and I hear Dimitri's voice cutting through the chaos, sharp with command.
I move to the door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor, and press my ear against the wood. I can't make out the words, but I hear the urgency, the fear underneath the anger.
My hand goes to my stomach, protective and instinctive. Whatever's happening downstairs, whatever crisis has erupted in the middle of the night, I know with cold certainty that our brief moment of peace is over.