Page 28 of Protected and Bred By the Bratva
Mikhail’s eyes find mine across the room. The violence, the power, the calculated brutality I once witnessed in that underground engine room—it’s all still there. He is still the man who rules Boston with blood and steel when he must. But when he looks at me, at our daughter, at the swell of our son in my belly, that man disappears. He becomes simply… mine.
That night, after Sofia is tucked into bed with stories and kisses and a nightlight shaped like a crown, Mikhail and I lie tangled together in our bed. His hand rests on my belly, feeling every jump and bump.
“I love you,” I whisper, tracing the scar that runs along his collarbone. “Not the Pakhan. Not the monster. Just you. The man who spins our daughter until she’s dizzy. The man who reviews my quarterly spreadsheets even though he hates paperwork. The man who still calls me Baby Girl like it’s a prayer.”
He turns his head, gray eyes shining in the dark. “You saved me, Riley,” he says, voice rough. “You and Sofia. This baby. You took a frozen man who only knew how to take and taught himhow to love. I’m still the Pakhan. I will always protect what’s mine. But the monster… he’s gone. You killed him the day you chose to stay.”
Tears prick my eyes. I lean in and kiss him, slow and sweet and full of six years of gratitude. “I’m never leaving,” I murmur against his lips. “Not you. Not our children. This is my family. The one I always dreamed of but never thought I’d get.”
He pulls me closer, one hand still protectively over our unborn son. “Then we’ll fill this city with more of them,” he says, a hint of that old ruthless smile returning. “Three more at least. I want an entire army of little girls with your fire and little boys who will learn to be better than I was.”
I laugh softly. “You’re insane.”
“I’m in love,” he replies, the same words he gave me that night six years ago. “With you. With them. With this life we built.”
As I drift off to sleep in his arms—our daughter’s laughter still echoing faintly down the hall, our son kicking gently against his father’s palm—I know without a shadow of doubt that we are exactly where we were always meant to be.
Mikhail Kutuzov is still the most feared man in Boston.
But in this penthouse, in our home, he is simply Daddy.
He is my husband.
He is loved.
And for the first time in his life, the Pakhan has found something more powerful than fear. He has found a family.
