ANDREY
Iwake to sunlight streaming through the windows and Mariya's warm body pressed against mine. For a moment, I just lie there, my hand resting on her flat stomach, thinking about the life growing inside her. Our child. The thought still feels surreal, like something that happens to other people, not to men like me who've spent their lives building criminal empires and eliminating threats.
But it's real. And despite Mariya's obvious anxiety about it, I'm fucking thrilled.
She stirs beside me, her green eyes blinking open. "Morning," she murmurs, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning." I lean down and kiss her forehead, then her lips, keeping it gentle. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired. Confused. Overwhelmed." She shifts slightly, her hand covering mine on her stomach. "But okay, I think."
I want to tell her everything will be fine, that I'll protect her and our child from anything that threatens them. But I know Mariyawell enough by now to understand she doesn't want empty reassurances. She wants action. Solutions.
So instead, I say, "Let's go home. We can figure out the rest of this treasure hunt bullshit there."
She nods, relief flickering across her face. "Yeah. I'd like that."
We pack quickly and check out of the bed and breakfast. The drive back to the estate is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Matvey follows in the second vehicle with our security detail, his usual silent presence somehow comforting.
By the time we pull through the gates, I'm exhausted and irritated. This treasure hunt has dragged on long enough. Her father's games and cryptic clues, the constant running around, it's all wearing thin. I want answers. I want this finished so I can focus on what actually matters now.
Mariya, the baby, and our future.
Once we're inside, I head straight for the library. It's the largest room in the house aside from the ballroom, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and enough space to spread out everything we've collected. I call for staff to bring in a larger table, something we can work around comfortably.
Mariya appears in the doorway as the staff is positioning the heavy oak table in the center of the room. She's changed into jeans and a fitted sweater that hugs her curves, making it damned difficult to concentrate. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she looks determined.
"Ready to end this?" she asks.
"More than ready." I gesture to the table. "Let's lay everything out. We're not leaving this room until we figure out what the fuck your father was trying to tell us."
Matvey joins us moments later, carrying the box containing all the items we've collected. The key. The photographs. The documents. The cryptic notes. He sets everything on the table without a word, then takes a seat across from me.
I start organizing the clues systematically, grouping similar items together. Mariya moves beside me, her shoulder brushing mine as she leans over the table to examine a photograph. The contact sends heat through me despite the seriousness of what we're doing.
I can't stop touching her. My hand finds the small of her back as she reaches for a document. My fingers brush her thigh when she sits down beside me. It's like I need the physical connection to reassure myself she's real, that she's here, and that she's carrying my child.
The thought of a child,mychild, makes my chest tight and throat dry. Mariya worries she won't be a good mother, which I think is ridiculous. She's strong and kind. Just look at how she took to Sophia, hugging and reassuring her. She's fierce and protective. She will be a fantastic mother.
But what about me? I'm a Pakhan. I've got a lot of men's blood on my hands. I'm ruthless and possessive, but can I be a good father? I shake the thought off. That's something to worry about at another time.
We work in focused silence for hours, passing documents back and forth, comparing dates and locations. Mariya's sharp mindcatches connections I miss. Matvey contributes occasionally, his observations brief but useful.
By the time lunch arrives, we've made some progress, but nothing definitive. The staff bring in trays of food, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee, setting them on a side table before disappearing quietly.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. "We're missing something. There has to be a pattern we're not seeing."
Mariya picks at a sandwich, her expression thoughtful. "The key is central to everything. Every clue we've found points back to it somehow."
"But we still don't know what it unlocks," I mutter, frustration bleeding into my voice.
Matvey reaches for his coffee, his dark eyes distant. Then, unexpectedly, he speaks. Not his usual one-liner, but actual sentences.
"When I was a boy," he says quietly, "my father set up a treasure hunt for my birthday. He hid clues all over our property. Took me three days to find the final prize."
I stare at him, surprised. Matvey rarely talks about his childhood. He rarely talks about anything personal.
"What was the prize?" Mariya asks gently.
