It was never supposed to be long term. But how did you find someone decent to run a rotten empire? I needed someone who wouldn’t traffic kids. Who wouldn’t hurt little girls like Mila. Or boys like me. But so far? No one like that existed. So I had taken the throne of a dying kingdom. For now.
Weapons. Drugs. Smuggling. Money laundering. Protection rackets. You name it—we still did it. I cleaned up the worst of it, but I didn’t pretend I was pure. I wasn’t. I never would be. I’d slit throats and carved names into flesh. Some nights I slept beside her, her hand curled around mine, and still dreamed of blood.
I hadn’t visited Mila yet. I kept telling myself it wasn’t the right time. That her life was better without me in it. That I’d only ruin whatever peace she’d managed to carve out. And maybe that wastrue. Maybe I was just trying to be less selfish. Trying to think of someone besides myself for once.
Especially now.
Now that I was building something new. A life. A future. A fucking family. Damn.
The word alone tasted unreal.
I was going to be a father.
The son of a monster, raising a child of my own. I used to think that kind of legacy couldn’t be broken. That blood made you doomed to repeat the sins of your father. But maybe not. Maybe knowing what he was gave me a map of everything I refused to be.
At least I had the perfect example of who not to become.
And now, as we drove toward the asylum to visit her mother, my men trailing us at a careful distance like they always did these days, Kira slept lightly in the seat beside me, her hand resting on that barely-there bump. And for the first time in a long while, I started to think that maybe I had been made for something more than killing.
It had been a few months since that visit—since I’d stormed into that godforsaken facility and threatened the administrator within an inch of his life. I’d told him to take care of Kira’s mother. Treat her like a human being. Help her recover for real this time. I’d meant every word. And now? Now it had been long enough. She should have been showing some kind of response. Some flicker of humanity.
And if she wasn’t—if that bastard had done nothing, if her eyes were still glassy and her body still slack—then I would finish what I’d promised. I’d kill him. And his entire bloodline.
Kira had been so happy when I told her we could go. She’d jumped on me like a kid—wrapped her legs around my waist and started crying into my shoulder. Whispered thank you again and again.
I couldn’t let her be disappointed. Especially not now. Not when she’s carrying my child.
Anyone who makes my girl cry pays for it. With interest.
Kira stirred as the car came to a stop. She blinked at me, bleary-eyed, then stiffened as she looked out the window.
The asylum stood quietly in front of us, almost unremarkable at first glance—low, pale walls softened by the early morning light, tall windows reflecting the gray sky, and a neat path leading up to the entrance. The kind of place that sat too still in the early hour, wrapped in a calm that felt almost deliberate.
She brushed her hair back with one hand, eyes fixed on the structure like it might swallow her whole.
“Hey,” I said, brushing my fingers against her knee. “We can turn around. Say the word.”
She gave me a flat look. “I live with a mafia boss and raging hormones. Visiting my mom is the least dramatic part of my week.”
I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Just checking.”
She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “I’m fine. But thanks for worrying, daddy.”
Nothing had changed in this hellhole. Same cold walls, same scent of rot dressed up as sterilization. I didn’t plan on scaring anyone today, but the moment we stepped in, I saw her—the receptionist—and watched the color drain from her face. She remembered who I was. Oh well. Can’t say I didn’t try.
“Irina Sokolova,” I said flatly. “Now.”
She hesitated, clearly torn between following protocol and acknowledging the silent demand in my stance. Her fingers hovered over some paperwork, as if clinging to procedure might delay the inevitable. I remained completely still, unblinking, letting the weight of my presence do the talking. After a moment that stretched too long, she gave a reluctant nod and motioned for us to follow.
The common area hummed with a muffled hush, like a place suspended between worlds. Sunlight filtered weakly through tall windows streaked with grime, casting pale beams across chipped linoleum floors and faded armchairs clustered in corners. A muted television flickered silently above, ignored. A few patients sat slumped in their seats or paced in slow, uncertain circles. It was too quiet. Then I saw her.
She was sitting at a table, a piece of paper in front of her. A pencil in her hand. Drawing.
Kira stopped breathing.
She took one step forward, then another—then stopped short, like she was afraid of shattering the moment. Afraid it was a hallucination.
Her mother lifted her head.
