Sergei
I stare at the instruction manual like it’s written in ancient Greek. Step twelve makes no fucking sense.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter, tossing the manual aside.
I’ve orchestrated hits across three continents. I’ve dismantled rival operations. I’ve built an empire and killed men with my bare hands.
None of that matters in this room.
I’m being defeated by Swedish furniture.
I pick up the rail again, examining the connection points. There has to be a logical sequence here. Everything has a pattern, if you look hard enough.
The Moscow situation wrapped up three weeks ago. The last brother went down in a café in St. Petersburg. Clean. Quiet. No witnesses. The other two had been equally efficient. A car accident in Moscow. A heart attack in Minsk.
Natural causes, as far as anyone can prove.
The Ghost isn’t as difficult to manage as his reputation suggests. He values money. It’s never personal. And I have plenty of money. After paying out the contract on Sofia’s head, he walked away. Moved on to Italy.
When it came to handling the brothers, I knew who to reach out to. I hired the best. He could retire and live comfortably on his own island with the money I’ve paid him in the last six months.
But he won’t. Men like him don’t retire. They wait for the next job and tempt fate all over again.
The families meeting happened ten days ago. Castellano spoke first, as he always does when he wants to appear reasonable. The others fell in line. Sofia's name at the head of the Baranov table, backed by mine, was enough. The city is stable. For now that's all anyone can ask for.
I haven’t told Sofia the details. She hasn’t asked. Which means she’s already figured it out and chosen to let me handle it without her input. That’s growth. That’s trust.
Or maybe she’s just too exhausted from growing two humans to care about the logistics of eliminating threats.
I finally get the rail to click into place. Progress.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. Kirill knows not to call unless it’s an emergency, and anything short of nuclear war can wait until morning.
I sit back on my heels, looking at the partially assembled crib.
Sofia picked it out three weeks ago. Our evenings are spent browsing websites that sell everything related to babies.
And apparently, babies need a lot of shit.
Multiply that by two. And that’s why it’s midnight and I’m building a crib.
At the rate I’m going, I’m going to need five years to build these fucking things.
I’ve never done anything like this. Never prepared a nursery. Never built furniture for children I helped create. My father certainly never did. He had people for that. Staff who handled the domestic details while he focused on running the empire.
But I want to do this.
I need to prove to myself that I can be more than what he was. More than a pakhan who only knows violence and strategy. I can be a father who assembles cribs because he wants his sons to have something he built with his own hands.
Even if the fucking instructions make no sense.
I pick up the next piece and stare at it. I try to figure out how it fits into the sea of parts laid out in front of me.
“Goddamn it.”
I can’t help but think of Elena and what she would think about her baby having babies. Her daughter is alive. Safe. Carrying my children.
But what kind of world am I bringing these boys into?
The same world that killed Elena. The same world that killed my mother. A world where love is dangerous and loyalty is bought with blood.
I tighten the first bolt, then the second.
My sons will have better. They’ll have a father who comes home. Who protects them without making them into weapons.
I can give them that. I can be better than my father was. Sofia and I have talked about this extensively. We are who we are, but our world does not have to bleed into our children’s lives. Not until they’re older. And if we can persuade them not to go into the family business, we will.
Two hours later, I finally finish. The first crib stands complete, sturdy and level. I give it a shake to test the stability. It doesn’t budge.
Victory.
The second crib will wait.
When I enter our bedroom, I expect Sofia to be asleep. Instead, she’s sitting up in bed, one hand on her swollen belly, her face scrunched in discomfort.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, stripping off my shirt.
“The boys won’t stop moving.” She shifts position, trying to get comfortable. “I swear they’re practicing kickboxing in there.”
I cross to the bed and sit beside her. My hand replaces hers on her stomach. I feel the movement immediately—strong kicks against my palm.
“They’re active,” I say.
“That’s one word for it.” She looks at me, her eyes searching my face. “Where were you? You’re sweating.”
I sigh. “I got my ass kicked by a crib, and I’m not happy about it.”
Her lips twitch. “I told you we can hire someone. We have time.”
“The instructions were written by sadists.”
She laughs. “My big bad pakhan, defeated by baby furniture.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” She reaches out and cups my face. “I’ll help you in the morning if you want.”
“I finished one.”
“Oh.” She looks surprised. “Well, look at you. Domesticated and everything.”
“Don’t push it.”
“What are you going to do when we have to assemble the second crib? Cry?”
“I’m going to hire someone.”
“No, you won’t. You’re going to suffer through it just like you did tonight. Because that’s what dads do.”
Dads. Me. I’m a dad. The title still feels off.
I lean down and kiss her, slow and deep. She responds immediately, her fingers threading through my hair.
“How are you feeling?” I ask against her lips.
“Like I have two tiny humans using my organs as punching bags.” She shifts again. “But otherwise okay.”
My hand slides lower on her stomach, then lower still, slipping beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts.
“You know how they like to fall asleep,” I say. “Works every time.”
I stroke her slowly, watching her face. She gasps as I push two fingers inside her. Her hips lift, seeking more.
“That’s it,” I encourage. “Take what you need.”
I work her with my hand, my thumb circling her clit while my fingers curl inside her. She’s so responsive, so wet and ready for me.
Every single fucking day she grows rounder with my children and I find her more beautiful.
“I need you,” she pants. “Inside me. Now.”
I withdraw my hand and strip off the rest of my clothes. She pushes down her shorts and spreads her legs. I settle between her thighs, careful not to put pressure on her belly.
When I push inside her, we both groan. She’s tight and hot and perfect.
“Yes,” she moans. “God, yes.”
I start to move, pinning her hands above her head. Something I wouldn’t have been able to do six months ago. But she’s past that trauma for the most part. She trusts me with her body in a way she could never before.
“Harder,” she demands.
I comply, increasing the pace. The bed creaks beneath us. Her cries get louder.
“That’s my girl,” I growl. “Let me hear you.”
She comes apart beneath me, her body clenching around my cock. The sensation pushes me over the edge. I empty myself inside her with a groan.
We collapse together, both breathing hard. I roll to the side, pulling her against me.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much better.” She yawns. “The boys have stopped moving.”
I smile. “Every time.”
“We’re never telling them how daddy rocked them to sleep before they were born.”
I chuckle into the dark.
She’s asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out. I hold her, cradling my sleeping babies with my hand on her belly.
I can do this. I can be what they need.
I have to be.