Chapter 30 Alexei
Alexei
Mila’s crying filters through the bedroom door.
I stop halfway down the hallway with my hand suspended over the handle. Every instinct screams at me to burst in there and fix whatever’s causing her pain. But something about the quality of those sobs makes me pause.
This isn’t panic or fear. This is something deeper that might need space instead of interference.
I lower my hand and lean against the wall beside her door.
Leonid passed me in the hallway ten minutes ago, looking like someone who just survived his execution.
His face was still a mess of bruises and swelling, but something in his eyes suggested the conversation with his daughter went deeper than discussing his rescue.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text from Dmitri.
Novikov made a formal complaint through intermediaries. Claims we violated neutrality agreements by attacking his facility.
I type back quickly.
He kidnapped Leonid. That violated about twelve protocols.
Agreed. But now he’s positioning himself as the victim. Making noise about retaliation.
Let him make noise. We have Leonid back. That’s what matters.
I pocket the phone and return my focus to Mila’s door. The crying has quieted to occasional sniffles. Part of me wants to respect her privacy. The other part needs to make sure she’s okay.
The door opens before I can decide.
Mila stands there with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Were you listening?”
“Debating whether to interrupt.”
“Come in.” She steps back to let me enter. “I could use the company.”
I follow her inside and close the door behind us. The bedroom is sparse, with concrete walls and minimal furniture. Everything is designed for function rather than comfort, and it’s not the ideal environment for a pregnant woman who needs rest.
“What did your father say?” I ask.
She sinks onto the edge of the bed. “Too much to process right now.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“He thinks I should call my mother and give her a chance to explain why she left.”
I sit in the chair by the window. “Do you want to call her?”
“I don’t know.” She wraps her arms around herself. “Part of me wants to hear her side, but I’m still so angry that she walked away when everything fell apart.”
“Anger and curiosity can coexist.”
“That’s what Papa said. More or less. Did you know your mother?”
The question catches me off-guard. “She died when I was young.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” I lean back in the chair and study the ceiling. “But I remember enough. She was gentle in ways that didn’t fit this world. Like she’d been dropped into the wrong life and was trying to make the best of it.”
“Like my mother.”
“Probably. Women who aren’t built for violence tend to break. Either they adapt or they leave. Your mother chose to leave.”
“You make it sound so clinical.”
“It is clinical. Survival instinct overrides social obligation. When the stress becomes life-threatening, people protect themselves.”
Mila stands and walks to where I’m sitting. She places her hand on my shoulder—the good one—and squeezes. “Papa said something similar. That Mama’s leaving wasn’t weakness. It was self-preservation.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m starting to.” She moves her hand to trace the edge of the bandage covering my wound. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Sore. Dr. Orlov says it’s healing properly.”
“You should be resting instead of checking on me.”
“I’ll rest when I know you’re okay.”
She leans down and presses her forehead against mine. The gesture is intimate without being sexual. Just two people existing in the same space and finding comfort in proximity.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“Of what?”
“Becoming my mother. Reaching the breaking point where I can’t handle this world anymore and have to choose between staying and surviving.”
I cup her face in my hands. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“Am I? Because right now, I feel like I’m barely holding on. Papa was kidnapped. You got shot. Three men died. And I’m supposed to just accept that this is normal? That this is the life our child will grow up in?”
“It doesn’t have to be normal for them.”
“How do we prevent it? How do we protect a child from violence that’s built into every aspect of our families?”
The question is heavy and real in ways I haven’t let myself consider. What kind of father can I be when my world revolves around threats and retaliation? What kind of life can I offer a child who deserves better than constant fear?
“We make different choices,” I tell her. “We don’t repeat the mistakes our parents made.”
“That’s a nice sentiment. But what does it mean?”
“It means we prioritize differently. We create boundaries between business and family. We teach our child that they have options beyond this life.”
“Like the doctorate that I’ll never finish?”
The bitterness in her voice cuts through me. “You’ll finish it. When this is over and the threats are eliminated, you’ll go back to school.”
“When will that be, Alexei? When will it ever be over? There’s always another enemy, another threat, or another reason to keep me locked away for my protection.”
She’s right. The cycle never ends. One threat gets neutralized only for another to emerge. That’s the nature of this world. Constant competition for territory and influence that requires perpetual vigilance.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I know I won’t let you sacrifice everything for my world.”
“You might not have a choice. Being pregnant means I’m permanently vulnerable. Anyone who wants to hurt you can use me and this baby to get to you. That doesn’t end when Novikov is dealt with.”
I pull her onto my lap, and she settles against me with her head tucked under my chin.
“Tell me something,” she prompts after several moments of quiet. “If you could go back to that wedding, knowing everything that would happen, would you still approach me in the garden?”
The question deserves honesty. “Yes.”
“Even knowing it would put me in danger? That it would lead to all of this?”
“Having you in my life is worth the complications.”
“That’s selfish.”
“Probably. But I’ve never claimed to be selfless where you’re concerned.”
She traces the patterns on my shirt with her fingertip. “My mother emailed me last week. I deleted it without reading.”
“What made you think of that?”
“Papa. He said she’s been trying to reach me for months, but I keep blocking her attempts. That maybe I should at least hear what she has to say before deciding whether to cut her off permanently.”
“Do you want to hear what she has to say?”
“I think I need to. Even if I’m still angry afterward, at least I’ll know I tried.”
“Then find the email in your trash and read it. See what she wrote. Give yourself permission to feel whatever comes up without judgment.”
She lifts her head to look at me. “You’re going to be a good father.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because you care. You’re willing to question yourself instead of just assuming you know best. That’s more than most men in this world manage.”
I want to believe her. I want to think I can be the kind of father who protects without controlling, guides without dominating, and loves without destroying.
But I also know my nature. I know how easily protection becomes possession when fear drives my decisions.
My phone vibrates again, but I ignore it.
“You should answer that,” Mila suggests. “With everything going on right now, it could be important.”
“Nothing is more important than this conversation. Whatever Dmitri wants can wait. Right now, you’re my priority.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to determine if I’m being sincere or just saying what she wants to hear. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For not running when things got complicated. For choosing us even when it would be easier to walk away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
The vulnerability in that word makes my chest ache. She’s asking for reassurance I can’t guarantee. Asking me to promise that life won’t intervene in ways that tear us apart.
“I promise that I’ll fight like hell to stay. That I’ll do everything in my power to build a life with you. That no matter what happens, you and this baby come first.”
She nods slowly. “I guess that has to be enough.”
We sit in comfortable quiet for several minutes. My phone vibrates twice more, but I continue ignoring it. Whatever crisis is brewing can wait until Mila is settled.
“I’m going to read Mama’s email,” she finally decides. “Tomorrow. When I’ve had some time to prepare for whatever she wrote.”
“Want me there when you do?”
“No. This is something I need to do alone, but I appreciate the offer.” She stands from my lap and moves to the bed like she expects me to repeat my mantra about her needing rest. I might as well record it for as often as I find myself saying it these days.
She climbs under the covers and looks at me. “Stay until I fall asleep?”
“Of course.”
I return to the chair by the window and watch her get comfortable. She closes her eyes, and her breathing gradually evens out. Within minutes, she’s asleep.
I pull out my phone to check the messages I’ve been ignoring. All from Dmitri. All marked urgent.
Novikov is escalating. Need to discuss response strategy.
Intelligence reports suggest coordinated action from multiple families. This isn’t just about Novikov anymore.
Call me. We have decisions to make.
I pocket the phone and return my focus to Mila sleeping peacefully. Her face is relaxed in ways it hasn’t been for days. No worry creasing her forehead or fear drawing her mouth into a line.
This is what I’m fighting for. These moments of peace. The chance to build something that doesn’t involve constant threat assessment and tactical planning.
My shoulder throbs with each heartbeat, reminding me that peace requires violence. Protecting what I love means engaging with a world designed to destroy beautiful things.
But watching Mila sleep, and knowing she’s carrying our child, makes every bullet and every risk worth it.
Tomorrow, I’ll deal with Novikov. Tomorrow, I’ll address the coalition forming against us. I’ll make the hard decisions required to keep our families safe.
Tonight, I just sit here and guard the woman who’s become more important than territory or influence or anything else I’ve spent my life pursuing.