Kira still saw Valeria sometimes.
Except “sometimes” turned into her showing up at our place every other day like she’d moved in without asking.
She was obsessed with Kira’s pregnancy—it was like it had taken over her entire personality overnight.
She started bringing things—tiny clothes, soft socks. We didn’t even know the gender, but she kept showing up with onesies in every damn color.
She had already claimed the title of aunt before the kid even had a name.
“Cool aunt,” she corrected once, like it was an important distinction.
One time she showed up with miniature headphones, holding them up like she’d brought something brilliant.
“For the baby,” she said, completely serious. “You know, when I take it to raves.”
I just looked at her.
“Over my dead body.”
She smirked, like she’d already decided that wasn’t going to stop her.
But she looked different.
Not in some dramatic, overnight way—just… clearer. Cleaner. Like she was actually present instead of halfway gone all the time. Still Valeria, still chaos, but something in her had settled, like she’d finally found a reason to stay in her own body.
And I noticed the way she watched Kira. The way she hovered around her, like she had something fragile to protect and didn’t trust anyone else to do it right.
Maybe that was what did it.
Seeing Kira like this—pregnant, steady, not alone.
Whatever it was, it dragged Valeria back from wherever the hell she’d been disappearing to, and for once, I didn’t mind having her around.
We also started spending more time with Sashko and his wife, Marina, drifting into something that almost passed for normal—double dates, dinners, evenings that didn’t end in blood or silence.
Sashko, of course, ran his mouth like always. He kept smirking, calling me soft, asking when I was going to start carrying diapers in my jacket next to a gun.
I told him to shut the fuck up.
He laughed harder.
And the worst part?
I didn’t break his jaw.
I just sat there, Kira’s hand warm in mine, and let him talk shit.
Because I actually liked the bastard. Even when he annoyed the hell out of me.
It was the kind of annoyance you secretly don’t want to lose.
But still. The truth? I didn’t think I could do it. Be a father. I’d lived in shadows too long. My blood was dirty. My hands were worse. But Kira had this way of steadying me. Like she’d figured out the right weight to press against the madness when it tipped too far. When I doubted, she pressed my hand to her stomach. That small curve where our child was growing. And somehow, just somehow, I started to believe I wouldn’t fuck this up.
But the business didn’t run itself. It was still dangerous—always would be. Roman was gone. I’d made damn sure of that. And someone had to step in.
That someone was me.
Most believed Moscow had finished the job. And with no heirs in sight, I was the obvious successor. I had been his right hand, the one who knew every corridor of his power structure. I already had his men—loyal to me long before the fire. Then I claimed his routes, his suppliers, his underground contacts.
