Artyom looks up, his gray eyes locking onto mine. "You're going to rescue her bastard?"
"He’s her son, Artyom," I growl, my voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "And she’s my wife. If Boris thinks he can use a child to dismantle my family, he’s stupider than I thought. I’m going to find the boy, and then I’m going to fucking kill Boris."
"You have feelings for her," Artyom says.
I do… I really do.
And for the first time, everything just clicks into place.
"I do," I admit, my throat dry, I stare at the tiles on the floor. “Real ones. It's a mess, brother. I spent the last six months wanting to put her in a box, and now... now I’m ready to burn the city down just to keep her from crying."
"Why is this an issue?" Artyom asks.
I let out a dry, bitter laugh, standing up and walking back to the window. "You know why. This is the Bratva. If this gets out... she’s my wife. She’s the bride who was supposed to repair an alliance. But she has a child. A child from another man. People will say she’s not pure. They’ll say I’m a fool who took another man’s leftovers. I already looked like an idiot when she jumped out of that window on our wedding day. Now this? It’s a public humiliation. Again."
"And you care about what they think?" Artyom asks, his voice calm. “Think about it.”
"I care about the name," I snap, turning back to him. "I care about the hold we have on this city. If the other families think we're soft... if they think I’m weak because of a woman..."
"There is only one person who should have an opinion about your wife, Mikhail," Artyom interrupts. "And that is you."
I freeze, staring at him.
"Do you think worse of Irina because of this?" Artyom asks.
"No," I say immediately. The answer is right there, solid and true. "She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever met. I don't think worse of her. I think she’s fucking magnificent."
"Do you mind raising the child with her?"
I pause, the image of a seven-year-old boy with Irina's blue eyes flashing in my head. A boy who needs to be taught how to shoot, how to drive, how to survive in a world that wants to eat him alive. A boy who belongs to her.
"No," I say, my voice steadying. "I don't mind."
Artyom leans his head back against the pillows, a faint, tired smile touching his lips. "Then I see nothing bad. The Bratva is ours, Mikhail. We make the rules. If anyone whispers a word about your wife's purity or your family's pride, you kill them. It’s very simple."
I look at him, my shoulder dropping as the tension finally starts to leave my body. He’s right.
"You've changed," I say, a small, grunted laugh escaping me. "A year ago, you would have told me she was a liability and that I should have left her in Cancun."
"A year ago, I didn't have Kira," Artyom says, his gray eyes softening just a fraction as he looks toward the door. "She made me realize that some things are worth the mess.”
“Fucking hell.” I groan and he chuckles.
“Damn right.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The belt of the treadmill hums beneath my sneakers, a steady, relentless whir that isn't nearly fast enough to outrun the noise in my head.
I’ve been running for forty-five minutes. My chest is tight, my lungs burning, and my grey tank top is damp with sweat, but my brain won't shut up. I keep seeing the look on Mikhail’s face from this morning, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For years, my past was a weapon used to keep me in line, and I just handed the handle of that weapon to a Morozov.
He said he would help me. He promised. But what if he gets back from the hospital and realizes a child is too high a price to pay for a wife?
Was I being stupid when I decided to trust him?
My sneakers slap the belt in a frantic rhythm. I’m exhausted and sore from last night, but the anxiety is a motor that won't stop running.
The gym door clicks open.
