Chapter Twenty-Seven
Arkady
I jolt awake, throat raw, sweat soaking the sheets.
Mishka’s face—frozen in that final moment of confusion. Blood spreading across his chest. The way his small body crumpled, like someone had cut his strings. The copper scent of blood mixing with gunpowder.
“Blyad,” I growl into the darkness, the curse ripping from my throat.
I drag a hand down my face, wiping away sweat and the last fragments of sleep. The nightmare feels more vivid than usual, more immediate. As if Mishka was just here, close enough to touch.
I sit up, listening to the silence of the house at dawn. The emptiness of the bed beside me feels wrong. Something nags at my consciousness—a whisper of warmth, a phantom weight, the ghost of comfort.
I could swear Mirabel was here. In my bed. Calming me through the nightmare.
That’s a new level of pathetic, mudak.
Now you’re dreaming about her comforting you?
But it felt so real. Her hand on my chest. Her voice. The subtle floral scent of her shampoo on my pillow.
My cock stirs, hardening against my thigh at the thought of her. I stare down at the betrayal of my own body with disgust. Fifteen years later, and I’m still the same selfish bastard. Waking from nightmares about my dead brother, only to immediately think about fucking the woman who works for me.
The woman who’s becoming mine in ways that terrify me.
Chert voz’mi.
I drop back against the pillows, tension vibrating through me with nowhere to go. My hand slides beneath the sheet, wrapping around my cock before I can think better of it. The contact sends a jolt of relief through my system—one form of release in place of another.
I close my eyes, stroking myself roughly. I don’t deserve tenderness, especially not in this. Not when I’m thinking of her.
But I do think of her. Mirabel’s dark eyes. The soft curve of her hips. The way she bites her bottom lip when she’s nervous. How she felt wrapped around me, tight and perfect.
My strokes quicken, my breath shortening. She’d whispered my name that night, right at the end—not Mr. Laurov, but Arkady—and the sound of it had nearly shattered me. I imagine her saying it now, imagine her watching me.
I want to claim her completely—mark her as mine where everyone can see, not just in hidden moments behind locked doors. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. The thought sends fire through my veins, more potent than any drug.
My hand keeps pumping, hips lifting as the sensations build to a fever pitch. The orgasm rips through me without warning, intense and unsatisfying all at once. I come across my stomach, muscles taut, teeth clenched to trap any sound.
After, the emptiness feels worse.
I clean up methodically, taking a scalding shower, washing away the evidence but not the guilt. The water pounds against my shoulders, my ink dark against skin reddened by heat.
I stand under the spray long past necessary, letting it burn away the lingering effects of the dream, the memory of Mishka, the shame of using Mirabel this way, even just in my thoughts.
By the time I dress and head downstairs, my mask is firmly back in place. I am Arkady Laurov again—the man who makes rival Bratva captains cross the street to avoid meeting my eyes.
But it slips the moment I step into the kitchen.
Mirabel stands at the counter, preparing a meal. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a loose emerald sweater that makes her skin glow. Her hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and the sight of her—domestic and beautiful in my space—makes something tighten in my chest.
Moya.
Mine.
She looks up, her expression instantly shifting to professional. “Good morning,” she says, gesturing to a plate she’s prepared. “Your protein breakfast. Eggs, avocado, cottage cheese.”
The food looks immaculate, precisely arranged. Everything in its place. The way I like it. The way I need it.
My gaze catches on a slight pink mark at the edge of her collarbone where her sweater dips—a bruise I left there two nights ago. The sight of my mark on her skin sends a jolt of satisfaction through me that I have no right to feel.
“Isn’t it your day off?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. I slide onto the stool at the kitchen island, keeping the marble between us.
“It is. I’m going at ten.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel, not quite meeting my eyes. “The plumbers are coming at nine, and I have to show them the pipe burst. And while I’m waiting for them, I made your breakfast.”
Something about the tidiness of her explanation rings false. She’s nervous. Hiding something. But what?
I watch her movements, taking in the subtle tells—the quick dart of her eyes, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the slight flush creeping up her neck. I’ve spent years reading people who are trying to lie to me. People who’ve died for lying to me.
“Thank you,” I say, picking up the fork. The first bite is perfect—the eggs just how I like them, the right balance of salt and pepper. She’s been paying attention. Learning my preferences. The realization is both pleasing and terrifying.
I take a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “I had a strange dream last night,” I say casually.
“Really?” She doesn’t look at me.
“In my dream, you were in my bed.”
Her face flushes instantly, a deep rose staining her cheeks. She turns away, busying herself with wiping down an already clean counter.
“Dreams can feel very real sometimes,” she says.
Not a denial. Interesting.
The realization hits me: she was there. She actually came to my room during the night. I struggle to keep my expression neutral as implications cascade through my mind.
Why would she come? What did she hear? How much did I reveal in my weakened state?
Before I can pursue it, she’s gathering her purse, her movements slightly too quick to be casual.
“I’m off now,” she announces. “See you tomorrow evening.”
An impulse seizes me—to grab her wrist, to demand answers, to pull her against me and taste the truth on her lips. My hand actually twitches toward her before I force it flat against the counter.
Not yet. This game between us has rules, even if neither of us understands them fully.
And just like that, she’s gone, the kitchen suddenly too large and too empty without her presence.
I finish my breakfast mechanically, mind churning.
The fact that she saw me vulnerable—that she offered comfort rather than using it against me—defies everything I understand about how the world works.
People exploit weakness. They don’t soothe it and slip away without demanding something in return.
That’s what my father taught me. That’s what fifteen years in the Bratva has confirmed, time and again.
What game is she playing? What does she want from me?
The coffee turns bitter on my tongue as a more terrifying possibility emerges: what if she wants nothing? What if she simply saw me suffering and responded with kindness?
That would make her dangerous in ways I’m not equipped to handle.
I leave my plate in the sink and retreat to my office, seeking the sanctuary of work. But the mountain of tasks waiting on my desk can’t compete with the chaos in my head.
Mishka. Mirabel. Rosanna.
Rosanna, who’s been looking like shit recently. Rosanna, who is carrying a child that might be mine. Rosanna, whose father I murdered after he threatened what’s mine.
I killed Sergei Tulikov, and while I don’t regret it—the man was scum—the consequences spider outward, touching lives I never intended to affect. Including his daughter’s.
I pull up the latest surveillance photos of Rosanna. The dark circles under her eyes. The way her clothes hang on her frame despite the pregnancy. The flat, empty expression. Depression wears its own distinctive uniform, and she’s dressed in it head to toe.
Not your problem, Laurov.
She’s a beautiful woman. Wealthy. Intelligent. She’ll find a new husband. And if the baby is mine, I’ll do what’s necessary.
But the words ring hollow. I’m making excuses, and I know it.
Sergei might have been a cruel bastard to the rest of the world, but he loved his daughter. He would have supported her and her child, despite everything. He was a monster, but he understood family in ways I’m still struggling to grasp.
But he weaponized Mishka’s death. He left me no choice.
Ublyudok!
I push away from the computer, disgusted with my own circular justifications. The truth is simpler and uglier: I killed a man because he touched the raw nerve of my greatest shame, and now his daughter suffers for it.
No matter how much I don’t want Rosanna in my life, her child is innocent and needs a father. The thought catches me off guard—a strange, unfamiliar yearning taking root. What would it be like to hear a small voice call me “Papa”? To teach someone to walk, to speak, to… become a person?
I’ve spent fifteen years convinced I don’t deserve fatherhood. That I’m too damaged, too dangerous to be trusted with a child’s life. That I’d only destroy anything pure and innocent that came into my orbit.
But now, faced with the reality of Rosanna’s pregnancy, I find myself imagining possibilities I’ve always denied.
No.
Chert voz’mi.
Fuck no.
Loving someone is dangerous. At 12, Mishka was gone. Mother was gone a few years later. And it’s all my fault. Besides, Rosanna’s child is probably someone else’s—we barely slept together, a calculated attempt to seal our families’ alliance that neither of us particularly enjoyed.
But what if it’s not someone else’s? What if it’s mine?
My fingers hover over the keyboard, the cursor blinking accusingly on the empty screen. After a moment of hesitation, I begin to type:
Subject: Financial Arrangements
Rosanna,
I’m setting up a direct debit of $200,000 per month into an escrow account. If the DNA shows the baby is mine, it will be released.
When the baby is born, I will purchase a penthouse in the child’s name, and, as I said, I will bear all the financial costs for the child.
I hope this helps. Contact me after the baby is born for the DNA test.
A.L.
I read over the email twice. It’s cold. Impersonal. Focusing on money as if that’s all a child needs. As if that’s all I’m capable of providing. But money is something I understand, something I can control, unlike the mess of emotions threatening to drown me.
Yes, the arrangement is unnecessary given how wealthy Rosanna is in her own right. But there is no other way I can calm my guilty conscience. No way to wash the blood from my hands.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then lean back in my chair, exhaustion settling over me like a shroud.
Mirabel in my bed. Rosanna carrying what might be my child. Sergei’s blood on my hands.
And at the center of it all, Mishka’s ghost, watching me struggle with the burden of living when he never got the chance.