I wake up before Rowan does. I’ve done that a lot lately. She spends most of the night tossing and turning, only finding true rest when the sun is starting to peek over the horizon.
These few minutes belong to me. I watch her breathe. Chest rising, falling, hair strewn everywhere. It’s torture not to touch the swell of her stomach, but I restrain myself.
She needs the rest. She’s doing the hard work of growing our child.
At thirty-nine weeks, every movement is a struggle, though she tries to hide her discomfort behind jokes and that stubborn independence that first drew me to her. I admire her bravery.
Last night was… unexpected. Her taking control, me surrendering it. I’ve never done that with anyone before. Never trusted anyone enough to let them see me vulnerable.
But with her, it felt right. Natural, even.
Who would’ve thought?
Careful not to make noise, I slip out from underneath the covers. There’s work to be done before she wakes, and I want to surprise her with breakfast in bed.
As I dress, my phone vibrates with an incoming call. Arkady. He knows better than to call this early unless it’s important.
“What is it?” I answer quietly, stepping into the hallway to avoid disturbing Rowan.
“We have a problem.” Arkady’s voice is tense. “The Costa Rica deal fell through.”
I frown. “That’s impossible. The contracts were finalized last week.”
“The bank pulled financing at the last minute. Cited ‘concerns about the project’s viability.’”
“Which bank?”
“First National.”
My jaw clenches. First National has been our primary financial institution for legitimate business for over a decade. They wouldn’t pull out without serious cause.
“Get me a meeting with De La Roche today,” I say, referring to the bank’s president.
“Already tried. He’s ‘unavailable.’” I can hear the air quotes in Arkady’s voice. “But his assistant mentioned something interesting. Apparently, they received some concerning information about our operation from ‘a trusted source.’”
Ice forms in my veins. “What trusted source?”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Arkady says. “The paperwork had the Akopov family seal. The old one. The one only your father still uses.”
I close my eyes. Breathe, motherfucker. Breathe through the rage. It doesn’t serve you any longer. “Are you certain?”
“Positive. I had Pavel check the security footage at the bank. Guess who personally delivered an envelope to De La Roche’s office yesterday morning?”
“My father.”
“Bingo.”
I end the call and lean against the wall. There’s only one word for this: betrayal. My father—the man who raised me, who taught me everything I know about business and the Bratva—is actively sabotaging my legitimization efforts.
The very efforts I’m making to secure a better future for my wife and child.
Why? What could he possibly gain from undermining his own son? His own legacy?
Unless…
Unless he never intended for me to leave the criminal world at all. What if all his talk of “transition” and “evolution” was just that: talk? Empty words meant to placate me while he ensured the Bratva remained exactly as it has always been?
Bloody.
Violent.
Inescapable.
“Vince?” Rowan’s sleepy voice calls from the bedroom. “Everything okay?”
I school my features before stepping back inside. “Everything’s fine,” I lie smoothly. “Just a work call.”
She struggles to sit up, and I move quickly to help her, arranging the pillows behind her back. “At six in the morning?”
“International business. Time zones are a bitch.” I press a kiss to her temple. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I swallowed a bowling ball.” She smiles ruefully, rubbing her belly. “Your child has decided that my ribs make an excellent punching bag.”
I place my hand beside hers, feeling the strong kicks against my palm. “Already fighting. A true Akopov.”
“God help us all,” she jokes, but her eyes search mine. “You sure everything’s okay? You look a little tense.”
I debate telling her about my father’s interference, but it doesn’t take long to decide against it. She has enough to worry about with the baby coming any day now. This is my problem to solve.
“Just thinking about all the work waiting for me,” I say instead. “But it can wait. I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”
Her face lights up. “Pancakes?”
“With extra syrup, just how you like them.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
In the kitchen, I work methodically. It’s easier to focus on the simple task of making breakfast rather than the rage simmering beneath the surface. The Costa Rica development was a cornerstone of our legitimization plan—a major resort that would generate substantial legal income while providing jobs for many of our people transitioning out of criminal enterprises.
Without it, we lose both momentum and credibility with those who were skeptical about the change in direction.
And that’s exactly what my father wants.
By the time I return to our bedroom with a tray of pancakes, fresh fruit, and orange juice, I’ve made my decision. This ends today. I will not allow Andrei Akopov to dictate my future—or the future of my family—any longer.
He’ll learn his lesson, one way or another.
For his sake, I hope he learns it quickly.
“You’re spoiling me,” Rowan accuses as I set the tray across her lap.
“You deserve to be spoiled.” I sit beside her. I can’t help but grimace as she drizzles an obscene amount of maple syrup over her stack.
“Mmm.” She closes her eyes as she takes the first bite. “Add this to the list with foot massages and blindfolded sex.”
I smile despite my dark thoughts. “High praise indeed.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before she speaks again.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, setting down her fork. “About names.”
“For the baby?”
She nods. “I know we’ve been avoiding the topic, but we can’t keep calling it ‘Baby Akopov’ forever.”
I’ve been dreading this conversation. In Bratva families, there are traditions. Firstborn sons are typically named after their grandfathers—a sign of respect and continuity.
But naming my child after my father feels wrong now. Especially after what I’ve just learned.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask carefully.
“If it’s a boy, I was thinking Aleksandr.” She watches my reaction closely. “It means ‘defender of the people.’ I thought that was fitting, given what we’re trying to build.”
“Aleksandr,” I repeat, testing the name. It feels right. Strong but not harsh. Traditional without being tied to my father. “I like it.”
Relief steals over her face. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“I mean it.” I take her hand. “It’s perfect.”
“And if it’s a girl…” She hesitates. “I was thinking maybe Sofiya. After your mother.”
Emotion tightens my throat unexpectedly. “Sofiya,” I manage. “She would have liked that.”
Rowan squeezes my hand. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes.” I bring her fingers to my lips. “Aleksandr or Sofiya Akopov. A new beginning.”
She beams at me, and for as long as that lasts, everything else fades away. My father’s betrayal, the collapsed deal, the uncertain future of our plans to take the Bratva legit—none of it matters compared to the sight of Rowan’s smile and the knowledge that, soon, we’ll hold our child in our arms.
“I have meetings this morning,” I tell her reluctantly. “But I’ll be back for lunch. Is there anything you need before I go?”
“Just a kiss,” she says, tugging me closer. “And maybe help getting to the bathroom. This bowling ball makes movement challenging.”
I laugh and help her up, supporting her weight as she waddles to the en suite. Before I leave, I press one more kiss to her lips.
“I love you,” I tell her, meaning it more than I ever have.
“I love you, too,” she replies. “Try not to terrorize too many people today.”
Not too many, I almost say. Today’s list has only one name.
