Page 54 of Bratva Baby

When it arrives through three layers of screening and one deeply unimpressed kitchen manager, it’s enough to make me grin. It’s a large pepperoni with red peppers and extra cheese and grease blotting the box. Anton opens it himself at the kitchen island while I steal the first slice and burn my fingers on it.

We eat in silence for a while—he joins in after I convince him by dangling a slice in front of his nose. Four slices in, I glance at him over the box. “What does Maks look like from the outside? To a stranger?”

Anton tears another slice in half and leans a hip against a table. “He’s the kind of asshole who mistakes escalation for strength and calls everyone else weak when they prefer fewer graves.”

He pauses to take another bite, and it does unfair things to the line of his mouth and throat that I do not need right now. “Men like him are common. Clean jacket, tidy smile, appetite big enough to damage other people’s lives, and just enough intelligence to think they’re exceptional for it.”

He’s read Maks exactly right. Anton sees more than he says, and that’s been obvious to me from the beginning. The more time I spend with him, the harder it gets not to notice how much is going on under the surface.

When he calls the kitchen and asks for Coke, I know he’s buying himself a minute. The bottles arrive cold. He twists one open, takes a long drink, then walks to the window with it in his hand. I stay at the island and watch him between sips, already knowing I’m not going to like whatever comes next. “I’m meeting the Brotherhood soon.”

I straighten slowly. “Who exactly are we talking about when you say Brotherhood?”

He turns back to me. “The top layer—men who sit above the routes, the money, the crews, and the favors. They’re the ones who decide what matters, what gets buried, and who gets protected when things turn ugly. They care about blood, leverage, and whether a problem costs more alive than dead.”

The Coke suddenly tastes flat in my mouth.

“They’ll want to know,” he goes on, “why a Reznikov is sheltering a Leonidov woman in his own home, feeding her, guarding her, and moving men around her. I can redirect some things, and I can keep details tight, but I can’t walk into that room and pretend your presence here is casual. They’ll smell the lie before I finish the sentence.”

I fold my arms. “So, what are you going to tell them?”

His gaze holds mine for a beat too long. “That part of the answer is simple.”

He sets the bottle down and comes back toward the island. “I need to tell the top layer that you’re carrying my child.”

17

ANTON

By the time I walk into the Brotherhood house that evening, half of those present already know enough to look irritated and the other half know enough to look smug.

The meeting room sits on the older side of the building behind thick doors, dark paneling, and enough layered security to make lesser men feel important on the way in.

I go in alone, which is the first of the two things I intended to do.

The second is that I’m late by exactly four minutes, which is just enough to be noticed and not enough to be disrespectful unless somebody already wants a fight. Today, somebody definitely does.

Sergei Malenkov is already seated to the right of the head chair in a dark suit, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression so reigned in it’s almost theatrical. Across from him sits Viktor Belov, older, broad through the chest, silver hair cut close, eyes that never stopped looking like they belong to a man who once broke bones for a living and only later learned to do it with signatures.

Mikhail Sidorov is nearer the far end, older than both, pricey watch, heavy shoulders, and a face that suggests his patience ran out around 1998 and never fully returned.

The boss sits at the head of the table and watches me come in without changing his face. I take my seat.

Nobody offers me a drink—that’s the third message.

Sergei is the one who opens. He likes being the first voice in a room, says it helps him pretend he owns its rhythm. “We understand,” he says, “that you brought a Leonidov woman into your home.”

Straight to the chase, then. I lean back in the chair and look at him. “You understand correctly.”

Mikhail snorts. “That answer alone tells me we’re in for a tiresome hour.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” I reply. “You could all decide early not to waste my time.”

Viktor’s mouth shifts with something close to amusement. Sergei doesn’t share it.

“A Leonidov woman,” Sergei repeats, “in a Reznikov penthouse, under guard, with staff aware, movement adjusted, and men redirected around her. Are you being stupid, Anton, or do you have good reason?”

I don’t lose character. “Reason.”