28. Anton #3
“I was having a family moment.”
“That’s what I said.”
I cross the room and take the pen from her before she can throw it at me. “You are getting very bold for someone who can’t get off the sofa without making that little sound.”
Her eyes go flat. “Mention the sound again.”
I place the pen behind me. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“You absolutely would.”
“Yes, but later, when you’re less armed.”
She looks down at her stomach, then back at me. “I am always armed now.”
I bend and kiss her because arguing with her has become the best part of my day, which is disgusting and true. She softens against me, then grabs my shirt and pulls me closer like she still hasn’t forgiven me for existing in a way she enjoys.
The baby kicks between us.
I stop.
Sofiya groans. “Don’t make the face.”
“What face?”
“The face. The one where you look like you’re about to declare war on gravity for touching your daughter.”
I spread my hand carefully over the curve of her stomach. “Gravity has been disrespectful.”
“She’s not even born, and you’re already impossible.”
“She deserves standards.”
“She deserves a father who doesn’t threaten natural forces.”
“She can have both.”
Sofiya laughs, then winces and presses a hand against the underside of her belly. I straighten at once. “Pain?”
“No. Just pressure. She’s been sitting on my bladder for three weeks and has no manners, which I assume comes from your side.”
“Her strategy comes from yours.”
“Fair.”
The doctor says the baby could come any day, which turns my house into an armed maternity ward. Sofiya hates this, so naturally, she uses it.
She sends men for mangoes and cherries at midnight. She demands fresh bread from a specific bakery because Zhenya mentioned it once. She makes Kolya reorganize files while she sits in my office chair and tells him his tabs are ugly.
Kolya takes all of it with the grim dignity of a man who once survived a knife fight in Odessa and now fears a pregnant woman with a pencil.
One night, he sets a folder down and says, “I miss being shot at.”
Sofiya doesn’t look up. “Keep complaining and I’ll assign you color codes.”
He turns to me. “Control your wife.”
I smile. “No.”
Sofiya looks up then. “Smart man.”
By the time the first hard rain of the season hits Moscow, most of the dangerous loose ends are tied or bleeding somewhere private.
Maks is still alive, though Grigor has him moved from the family residence to an old property east of the city, guarded by men who report to nobody but him.
The official line says Maks is under medical supervision after exhaustion and family strain.
Sofiya reads that notice and laughs so hard she has to sit down.
“Medical supervision,” she says. “That’s generous.”
“His hand is broken, his routes are gone, and his men sold him out by the dozen. Maybe he does feel tired.”
She presses a napkin to her mouth, still smiling. “You’re awful.”
“You love me.”
“That remains inconvenient.”
I sit beside her on the sofa and lift her feet into my lap. She lets me, which means she’s either exhausted or getting better at accepting care without treating it as a hostile takeover. I rub the arch of one foot while she leans back and closes her eyes.
“Don’t get smug,” she murmurs.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re breathing smugly.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No,” I agree, and she smiles without opening her eyes.
A folder sits open on the table, because even now she refuses to stop working entirely.
The latest reports show the route cleanup holding, the Brotherhood leak sealed, Leonidov money tightening under Grigor’s hand, and Yuri’s men running cold-chain audits with enough rough joy to concern accountants in three cities.
For once, the world is not fixed, but it is moving in a direction I can live with.
Sofiya shifts on the sofa. Then she goes completely still.
I stop rubbing her foot. “What?”
Her eyes open and for once, she doesn’t have a fast answer.
“Sofiya.”
She looks down, then back at me, and her face changes so fast my whole body locks. One hand goes to her stomach, the other grips the edge of the cushion.
“I think,” she says slowly, “my water just broke.”
For one second, I forget every route, every name, every gun in this house.
Then I stand so fast the table jumps.
Kolya opens the door from the hall, already alarmed. “What happened?”
Sofiya looks at him, then at me, and somehow still manages to sound annoyed. “Apparently, your boss is losing his shit.”
Kolya stares.
I reach for her hand.
She squeezes back hard enough to hurt. “Anton,” she says, and for the first time all night, her voice shakes.
I bend and kiss her forehead. “I’ve got you.”
She glares up at me immediately. “If you say anything bossy right now, I’ll name the baby after Kolya.”
Kolya points at himself. “I support this.”
I look between them, my heart trying to break out of my chest, and take Sofiya’s hand more carefully. “Fine. No bossy.”
She narrows her eyes. “That sounded bossy.”
“Then get up, Milaya,” I say and help her to her feet. “We’ve got a daughter to meet.”