Chapter 13
SAMUIL
Ithought hearing my child’s heartbeat would settle something in me, calm me, and ground me. I expected to feel so much joy and relief that nothing else would matter. Instead, the exact opposite happened.
I am happy, of course, but I also realize how dangerous this world is for a child. I think of how restrictive my own childhood was. My father was a ruthless pakhan, and he had a lot of enemies. He kept me in a bubble until I was old enough to learn how to fight for myself.
It’s terrifying not knowing what could happen to my child, knowing that anything could hurt him or her. It fills me with a fierce, unrelenting need to protect them. As soon as we get home, I realize that I’m not doing nearly enough to keep Molly safe. Her attacker is probably still looking for her.
I’m not a calm man on the best of days, but since that appointment, it’s like the whole world has narrowed down to two people: Molly and our child. The idea of anyone hurting either one of them sends me into a murderous rage. I can’t allow anything to happen to them, ever.
Over the next few days, much to Molly’s annoyance, I tighten the security around her.
She can’t leave the apartment without me or a guard.
I install a camera outside her room, even though she’s been spending most nights in mine.
I assign a dedicated team ready to jump in if anything seems amiss.
I insist she wear a bracelet with a tracking device inside it, just as an extra safeguard.
I know it’s too much. I can hear it in her voice every time she says, “Samuil, I need space,” “You can’t watch me every second,” or “You’re driving me insane.”
But I can’t help it. I’ve tried. I keep telling myself to take a step back. To breathe. To remember that she’s a grown woman who’s survived far worse than anything I can shield her from.
Then I remember how I found her in that alley. I remember how her attacker would have killed her, or worse, if I hadn’t intervened. I think of his hand in her hair, of him slapping her across the face, and every rational thought burns away. Until he’s found, I can’t let her out of my sight.
I’m standing in the living room when she comes in from the guest room, wearing one of the oversized sweaters I bought for her. Her hair is pulled back, and she’s got a determined look on her face.
“I’m thinking of going out for a bit,” she says casually.
She doesn’t greet me or try to soften the blow. She never does. She just skips right to the bit of information that’s going to send me into an early grave.
I turn to face her. “And where were you thinking of going?” I ask, my tone bordering on condescending.
“Just to the bookstore around the corner.”
I consider it for a moment. It isn’t far, but there are too many variables between here and there. It’s better not to risk it.
“No,” I tell her after a moment. “If you want some books, I can send a courier.”
Her eyes narrow immediately, and she doesn’t even seem to hear my generous offer.
“No?” she seethes.
“That’s what I said.”
She crosses her arms, bracing herself as if she’s preparing for a fight.
“Samuil, I’ve barely left this apartment all week.”
“I’m aware,” I answer in a bored tone.
“I’m losing my mind in here.”
“Then you can be safe and insane.”
Her jaw tightens, and for a second, I swear she’s trying to keep herself from throwing something at me.
“I’m going to the bookstore,” she insists. “It’s only around the corner.”
“I know where it is,” I tell her icily. “It’s still no.”
She lets out a frustrated breath and turns away from me like she needs to regroup. I can see her chest rising and falling faster, like she’s holding herself together by a thread.
“You promised to respect me,” she says finally. “You said you’d let me live my life.”
“I’m letting you live it,” I say. “Just not outside without protection.”
“I don’t mind the protection,” she snaps, spinning back to face me. “But I’m not walking around with one of your oafs who sticks out like a sore thumb. Give me someone who’ll be inconspicuous.”
“That’s not how my men work.”
“Well, it should be,” she fires back. “I’m not a porcelain doll. You can’t just expect me to be carried around all day because you’re afraid I’ll break. People are going to start asking questions.”
“Let them ask.”
“Samuil, I’ve already taken a leave of absence from my job,” she says, her voice edging toward hysterical. “I haven’t talked to my best friend in days. I doubt that asshole is going to randomly show up in a bookstore on the Upper West Side. I’m perfectly safe.”
“The guards are non-negotiable,” I tell her calmly.
“And my dignity is non-negotiable,” she nearly shrieks back.
My jaw clenches. She notices.
“Samuil,” she says more softly, “I’m not stupid. I know we live in a dangerous world. I just want some control of my own life. A tiny sliver. You know how important this is to me.”
My throat feels tight, and I think back to our conversation a few days ago.
I know the hell she’s gone through. I know that a foster family once locked her in the apartment for an entire week, all by herself.
I don’t want her to associate me with them, but I simply can’t risk anything happening to her or our child.
“You can’t go alone,” I say again.
“I don’t want a whole damn entourage,” she counters.
We stare at each other for a long moment, tension raging beneath the surface. She’s too independent for her own good, and I’m too stubborn for mine. But I’m also the one who runs this show. My men respect me and they trust my judgment. Why can’t she?
Finally, I relent, but only halfway.
“Fine,” I say. “You can go with one guard. Dressed normally. He’ll keep his distance.”
She blinks, surprised. “Really?” she asks in relief.
“Don’t make me regret it.”
Her shoulders relax a fraction, and she nods. “Thank you.”
She goes to get her bag, and I watch her the entire time, my body coiled tight, every muscle waiting for the moment something goes wrong.
She leaves with the guard, Franco, one of my more discreet men, and for the next hour and a half I pull up Molly’s GPS location just to be sure she’s still at the store.
When she gets back, she looks lighter and more refreshed. I watched her GPS as she went to the bookstore, then to the bakery next door, then home with Franco close behind. She offers me a hot chocolate as a thank-you, and I take it grudgingly.
She looks happy, and that should calm me, but it doesn’t.
The next day, we fight about her leaving again.
The day after that, we fight about her taking a walk alone on the rooftop garden.
The day after that, we fight about her going down to the lobby without her bracelet.
She starts sleeping in the guest room without a word to me about it, and I give her space.
Yet every night, the empty bed eats at me. The sheets feel cold. The room feels too large. I lie awake staring at the ceiling while anger, frustration, and longing pull me apart.
She’s just a few doors down, sleeping soundly in a room that isn’t mine. It’s driving me nuts.
Every instinct in me says to go to her, pull her into my arms, tell her she’s going to stay with me whether she likes it or not.
But I don’t.
I’m the one who created the walls between us. I’m the one who tightened the leash so much that she had no choice but to pull away. I know this, but knowing doesn’t change anything. Pride can be a miserable thing.
I hear her at night sometimes, walking to the kitchen for water, the soft pad of her feet on the floor. Once, when the baby made her queasy, I heard her quietly retching in the guest bathroom.
I stood in my doorway, torn between rushing to her and staying out of sight so I didn’t push her further away. Eventually, I forced myself back to bed.
I’m trying. God knows I’m trying. But I don’t know how to fit into this new version of myself. The one who wants to keep her safe without smothering her, the one who wants her to trust me while I refuse to trust anything around her.
A few days into our strained new routine, there’s a knock on my office door. Before I can answer, Davyd pushes inside holding a small brown envelope.
“Shipment number nine came in,” he says. “Except half the crates got rerouted somewhere between the docks and the warehouse.”
My temper spikes immediately.
“Stolen?” I ask.
“Looks like it.” He grimaces.
“Lebedev?”
“That’s my guess.”
I clench my fists. The timing couldn’t be worse. With Molly under my roof and my attention split, enemies are testing boundaries I normally guard like the jaws of a steel trap.
I take the envelope and scan the list of what’s missing. Weapons and cash, plus a few deliveries that were signed for under a falsified name.
“This is deliberate,” I mutter.
“Obviously,” Davyd says, dropping into one of the leather chairs. “They’re poking the Wolf to see what happens.”
“What happens,” I growl, “is I tear their organization apart.”
He smirks at that. “Ah. There’s the man I know.”
Before I can respond, the office door swings open again and Molly pokes her head inside. Davyd watches her curiously, as he’s usually the only one allowed to come into my office without knocking.
Her hair’s in a loose ponytail, she’s wearing leggings, one of my shirts tied at the waist. She looks like she’s trying to give us privacy, standing in the doorway instead of stepping in.
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Davyd’s eyebrows go up. “You must be Molly.”
She nods, looking a little afraid.
“This is Davyd,” I say casually, though all three of us feel how weird this is.
He laughs at this.
“The one and only,” he says, bowing to her with a flourish.
“How does it feel living with the Devil himself?” Davyd jokes, jerking a thumb at me.
Molly laughs as she looks between us, the sound small, polite, a little forced. I don’t like the sound of it. I realize there’s so much I haven’t told her, so much that I owe her, but now isn’t the time.
My chest tightens. I grip the edge of my desk, trying to keep my face neutral. Davyd seems to notice. His smirk widens, amused and knowing, like he’s enjoying my discomfort.
Molly’s gaze flicks between us. “I was just going to make lunch. If either of you wants some.”
This is out of character for her, and I realize she’s trying. Despite the frostiness that’s risen between us the last few days, she wants there to be peace. This small gesture is her olive branch.
“No, thank you,” Davyd says kindly. “I actually have to get my daughter from school.”
I don’t miss the small look of sadness that flashes over her face at his words. I know she misses teaching, but I just can’t risk it. We both decided it would be best for her to step away for a while. Still, I wish there was something I could do to wipe away that sadness.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I tell her, shooting her a reassuring smile.
She nods before slipping out the door. When she’s gone, the air feels thinner somehow.
Davyd leans back in the chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. “You look like a man who’s stepped in his own trap.”
“Shut up.”
“You like her.” He snorts.
“I’m protecting her,” I remind him. “Her life is in danger.”
“And since when do you protect young women in your own home? This is me, Samuil.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to tell him the truth. So I do.
“She’s pregnant,” I say.
Davyd stills for a moment, then hums thoughtfully.
“With your baby?” he asks in amusement.
I nod once, and his face lights up.
“Pozdravlyayu, brat,” he says with a laugh. “Congratulations and welcome to the club!”
“Da ladno,” I deflect. “It’s no big deal.”
“I’ve never seen you this way with a woman before,” he says in awe, as if the realization is just hitting him. “This most certainly is a huge deal! We must celebrate.”
“I’ll celebrate when my baby arrives healthy, and when Molly is no longer in danger. Until then…” I gesture for him to leave.
He does, laughing as he goes.
I sit down heavily behind my desk, the missing shipment forgotten for a moment, replaced by the image of Molly being taken from me. My chest aches in a way I don’t like. I don’t want to be the overprotective prick she feels she has to tiptoe around. I miss her.
I miss the feel of her in my bed. I miss her soft voice in the morning. I miss her small hand resting on her stomach while she talks to the baby like it can hear her. I miss the way she looks at me when she’s tired and letting her walls slip.
Yet none of that matters when the alternative is losing her forever.
Her attacker is hardly our only threat. I have plenty of enemies who would love to use her as leverage against me.
There are men who would pay millions of dollars for this kind of information.
The truth is, even if we catch the man who threatened her, there’s no guarantee she’ll be safe.
It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.