"And you're helping clean her backpack before school."
"Okay, Papa."
Crisis averted. For now.
Lev's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at me. "Mikhail. Wants to know if I'm coming in today or working from home."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I'd decide after breakfast." He sets down the phone. Studies our children. Mila eating pancakes while texting someone under the table. Xander building a fortress from his food. "I'm working from home."
"Really?" I raise an eyebrow. "You have that meeting with the Italians."
"They can come here. Or we'll reschedule." He reaches for my hand across the table. Presses a kiss to my knuckles. "I'd rather be here. With all of you."
A few months ago, Lev would never have said that. Would never have chosen family over business. Would never have let children interrupt his carefully controlled world.
But that man died the night Patrick attacked. The one who came back is different. Softer in some ways. Harder in others. But present. Actually present for his family.
"Mama, can I have more pancakes?" Xander holds up his plate, fortress demolished and consumed.
"Say please."
"Please may I have more pancakes, Mama?"
I ruffle his dark hair—exactly like his father's—and take his plate. "One more. Then you need to help your sister before school."
After breakfast, Lev handles getting Mila to school while I supervise Xander cleaning the backpack disaster. Which involves more syrup somehow ending up on him than gets cleaned off the bag.
By the time Lev returns, I've bathed Xander, and he's playing in his room.
I find Lev in his study. He's on the phone with Mikhail, discussing shipment schedules and territory agreements. The Bratva doesn't run itself, even if he's shifted to more legitimate operations over the years.
He sees me in the doorway. Holds up one finger. "Mikhail, I'll call you back."
"You don't have to—"
"I do." He sets down the phone. Crosses to me. Pulls me into his arms. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. But we need to talk."
His body tenses slightly. Old instincts. Even now, "we need to talk" triggers his threat response.
"It's good news," I assure him. "At least, I think it's good news. You might think it's insane."
"Tell me."
Instead of telling him, I pull the pregnancy test from my pocket. Place it in his hand.
He stares at it. At the two clear lines. At the evidence of what we've created.
"You're pregnant."
"About six weeks. Due in late spring." I watch his face carefully. "Surprise?"
His hands start trembling. Actually trembling. The test shakes in his grip.
"Lev? Are you okay?"
