Page 41 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

Almost immediately, the family’s most senior guard, Lev, is on the phone again. “The depot Mykros uses—it just went up. Flashing lights everywhere. I don’t know what the fucks going on, but someone’s got it in for him.”

“Now, they’re the ones that are really going to hurt him. He always has two hundred on the way, and two hundred ready to move. So four hundred kilos or thereabouts between the two of them,” I say, doing the math out loud. “Call it five million dollars, wholesale. Multiply that by three or four once it’s cut and hits the street, and you’re looking at what he actually lost today.”

Matvei lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “He may not give a shit about his kids, but he really loves his product.”

“He loves the money,” I say.

“A five-million-dollar hit in an afternoon,” Matvei says, shaking his head. “We may just kill him with a heart attack before either of us gets the chance to do it properly. Remind me never to get on your bad side, Mykros.”

He isn’t looking at a rogue Mykros boy who knows how to hack a network anymore. He’s looking across this room and realizing he’s invited a new kind of monster into his family fold.

“Nobody touches what is mine,” I tell him, my voice a dark promise. “That is a law with zero exceptions.”

My thoughts turn to Sergei. It could be ten of my father’s assets gone in one day, and it still wouldn’t be a debt paid. This is a down payment on a slaughter that’s going to take a lot longer to settle. His family will be taken care of—Illia most of all, though I already know he won’t want charity, only the chance to finish what’s started. It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t bring Sergei back. Nothing will satisfy the need for revenge except finishing the old bastard for good, and that is going to take time.

I finish the last of my coffee, set the empty mug onto the wood with a sharp click, and stand up to my full height.

“Right, if we’re done here,” I say, “I think I’ll go spend some time with my wife.”

Matvei gives a single, slow nod, his posture shifting as he pulls his phone back out. “Mikhail needs to know about this immediately.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll make the call to the Nikolais now.” He’s already dialing. “Security on the estate goes to absolute maximum tonight. Nobody steps foot inside the compound without my personal sign-off.”

“Good.”

I turn and cross toward the kitchen. Behind my shoulder, I can hear Matvei filling Mikhail Nikolai in on what’s gone down today, although there’s no doubt he’s already heard about it from his own men dotted around the city. Simon is burning through a second line to mobilize our street crews.

The entire machinery of the Volkov-Nikolai alliance is aggressively clicking into a higher gear in direct response to the fires I lit. My father was probably hoping to force a reckless reaction with the stunt he pulled this morning. What the old bastard didn’t realize is that he hasn’t weakened my hand; he has, in fact, lined the full, crushing weight of two empires up right behind my back.

Chapter 22 - Raya

He didn’t come to bed last night, at least I don’t think he did. The gray light of dawn is seeping through the bedroom blinds, and he is sitting exactly where he was when I closed my eyes last night. He’s leaning back in the chair, the laptop casting a pale blue glow over his face and body, allowing me to see the contours of his chest and abs. I lie there in the center of the mattress, admiring his form—though I wouldn’t tell him that—and watching him work. It probably sounds weird to say, but watching Yakov work is ridiculously arousing. Even when he has his phone pressed to his ear, lips moving in a low, rapid stream of Russian, there is this dark, lethal energy to him that is hypnotic, and quite frankly does things to me.

He’s been pretty quiet since yesterday. I don’t ask. I’ve learned by now not to push, as much as it kills me, and that he’ll speak when he’s ready. What happened yesterday has been clawing at him ever since. He will tell me what I need to know when the time comes. Until then, the most useful thing I can do is give him a sanctuary where he doesn’t have to fight.

I throw off the covers, pull on a soft sweater and a pair of jeans, and cross the hardwood floor to where he’s seated.

“Come downstairs and have breakfast,” I tell him, placing my hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’ve barely eaten.”

His hand comes up to cover mine as he looks up; his stormy gray eyes study my face before he slowly closes the laptop and slides out of the chair. He follows me down the grand staircase without a single word of protest, and a tiny, private victory blooms in my chest. He is a man who never stops, but he stops for me.

I’ve been looking forward to today far more than I thought I would. In the end, I’d come to enjoy the peace of the safe houses and the break from what can sometimes seem like relentless noise, but as soon as I walked back through the front door, I felt my spirits lift. Home. Family dinner. The massive, chaotic, deafening Volkov tradition that I have been missing for weeks without ever letting myself admit it. Everyone is coming over. The place will be full of kids, laughter, the smell of roasted meat, and sweet desserts and the specific brand of insanity that only happens when you trap too many Volkovs in a single house. I have been holding this evening in the back of my mind like a small, warm shield against the darkness outside, but I have also been worrying about how Yakov will find it.

We walk into the light-filled kitchen, and Matvei is already there, standing by the island in his socks, holding a coffee mug, looking ordinary.

“Family dinner tonight,” Matvei announces directly, his deep voice easy and natural. “Adrian’s handling the meat, apparently.”

Adrian is sitting at the breakfast table, cleaning his Glock, but he looks up long enough to give an affirming nod. “Prime rib. Don’t be late.”

Yakov clears his throat, his posture subtly shifting as he absorbs the casual finality of it. “Thank you,” he says, his voice even.

Two words. That’s it. But because I have spent weeks studying every expression on this man’s face, I see the precise moment his internal walls take a hit. He catches himself instantly, locking his poker face back down, but I saw it. I know he’s never had this. I imagine being called to the table by his father meant trying to work out what kind of mood he was in and what the threat was before you’d even pulled out a chair. He’s probably never known a table where an invitation is simply an invitation, given because people want you in the room. And now my oldest brother is standing there in his socks, casually reminding him about dinner like it’s the most normal thing on earth. I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, swallowing the lump in my throat, fully aware of what it costs Yakov to keep his composure right now.

I decide quietly, right then and there, that I am going to make sure tonight is perfect for him.

By six o’clock, the main house is a riot of noise. The front doors slam open, and Arron and Solenne come barreling into the foyer like a two-piece demolition crew, their boots clattering against the marble. Simon follows right behind them, holding a tray of desserts, looking thoroughly exhausted, while Selene walks in laughing, peeling her coat off.