74. Vasiliy
“You don’t have to do this—”
“Say that one more time and I’ll lobotomize you with this pen,” she snaps, holding up the utensil between our faces.
My hands raise in surrender. “Fine.” I lean over the arm of my chair to hers, eyeing the lawyer sitting on the other side of the desk.
The summer air hangs thick, unaffected by the thundering attempts of the rickety AC in the corner. We arrived at the law firm hours ago, and we’re still going through the paperwork. The longer this takes, the more nervous I get.
“All I’m saying is that this is a very permanent thing. I have no expectations for you to fill the role, and you’re so young…”
“Marriage is a permanent thing, wouldn’t you say?” She raises her brows. “Especially for someone like you, seeing as the only way you’re getting out of it is an early grave.”
“I do enjoy your threats, my love, but can we save them for a more secluded room if they continue to include murder?”
She waves at the man. “He’s on an NDA.”
“That’s actually not how those work,” he finally pipes up, but Octavia only rolls her eyes, turning back to me with a question in her gaze.
“Is this something you don’t want?”
“No,” I answer immediately. “Of course I want it.” I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something more. “But you…” I sigh, twisting my hands in my lap. When I find the end of the sentence, my words are little more than a breath. “You were supposed to be a ballerina.”
Her eyes widen.
“You were an amazing ballerina, moya zlaya. Do you not ever wonder what you could’ve accomplished in New York if I didn’t curse you with my existence?”
The man across from us wisely maintains his focus on the stack of papers in his hand. I hold my gaze on the desk, set on giving Octavia some semblance of privacy while she thinks, but a hand threads up my neck and through my hair.
“We are allowed to be many different things in this life, Vas. Ballet was not my dream. It was a pathway to reach it.”
“So what was your dream?” I ask, leaning into her touch. “What did you think about becoming when you were small?”
How have I not asked her this question before? It is my job to tick off every single one of her hopes and dreams.
“Power.”
Disappointment echoes in my mind. It isn’t something I can offer her, not when she already carved it out for herself.
“Do you think that makes me a monster?”
We may have grown up thousands of miles apart, but I understand her answer down to my marrow. Our dream was the same. Two children who craved control in the disarray, and went to sleep each night wishing they wouldn’t have to fear the morning.
“You are no monster. You are my leader, my wife, and my closest friend.”
She tilts her head in contemplation, and the only sound in the room is the rough scribbling of our lawyer’s pen.
The past few months have been spent rebuilding.
The Siderov Bratva might not be mine by blood, but it is mine by triumph.
I claim it, just as I claim her, and I’ve settled into my role at her right side with pride.
Our soldiers hover around the compound with reverent adoration every time Octavia walks by or turns the corner.
She single-handedly ended a cold war that many of them had spent their lives fighting.
We now have a powerful truce with the Solokov Bratva, and Ivan’s presence grows stronger by the day as his men recover Popov’s business domains.
The syndicate has never had such a sturdy foundation.
“Would you be upset with me if I never gave you any children?”
I straighten. The pen goes still in her grip as she waits for my answer.
“Not at all,” I say, slipping her small hand into mine. “We don’t have to have children. Not a single one.”
My words are earnest. Little Octavias running around is a tempting fantasy, but that means nothing if she doesn’t wish for it.
“I do want them, but I can’t stomach the thought of creating another when so many are out there. When we were in New York, I promised myself that Anya would never have to wait for someone to show up and claim her. I knew she was mine then, and I know she’s mine now.”
A fissure cracks open in my chest.
I accepted my strange role in my sister’s life a long time ago.
We will never argue like playful siblings or show up at our folks’ house for a Friday night dinner.
I will always be her parent, and it is a role I’ve learned to cherish.
But how can I ever repay the burden my wife’s about to take on for me?
I must be the most selfish asshole in the world, because as soon as those concerns rise, an image overtakes them. I fall into it like a pool of water.
The birds chirp, but we’re already awake.
There’s far too much to do to sleep in. I bring her morning coffee in bed, and she scoots up the mattress, allowing me to settle behind her and braid her hair.
We talk the way we’ve always talked—far more gossip than strategy—as we work out deals for our new transport expansion routes.
We spar before most of the compound rises, and when my sister finally wakes and wanders outside, Octavia will lift her into her arms, just as she did today.
She will mindlessly mutter I love you as she walks away, and I will never tire of hearing it.
She will thrive in her chair of leadership, and I will always be at her back with a blade for anyone who steps out of line.
“Vasiliy.” She invades my space, forehead pressing to mine. “Let’s start our family.”
A shaky breath flutters from my lips. I nod fervently, far too overcome with emotion to find words.
Octavia’s lawyer shuffles his papers and slides them across the wood. “If you’re ready to finalize the adoption, I’ll have you sign here. Will she have three last names, or one?”