Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)
Chapter 10

I should be getting ready. Should be doing something more, at least. More makeup, or more jewelry, or more… I dunno. Better hairstyle, maybe.

Instead, I’m lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling like it’s going to spit out all the answers to my burning questions.

How is this supposed to work?

How am I supposed to raise a baby with a man like Pasha?

Should I raise my baby with him?

What if he thinks I’m just some gold-digger?

I don’t need Pasha’s help. Even if my parents have fallen from grace, my job at the gallery pays enough to keep a roof over my head. I have enough to cover rent, bills, and make sure my baby has everything they need.

But I want Pasha’s… not his help, but more like… involvement? Yeah, that’s it. I just want him to be involved, to be part of this whole process of learning how to become decent parents in a less-than-decent world.

He doesn’t know how much his promise means to me. That he’ll be right here, by my side, raising our child with me.

Because he’s basically the only person in my life to make such a promise.

Mother still won’t talk to me. Father is… well, he’s surprisingly not as furious as I anticipated. More like he’s wallowing in grief over the fall of the House of Hamish. His two daughters are a curse upon his name and he’s been praying for answers as to what he did to deserve any of this. Thus far, God has declined to pick up his calls.

At least Melanie is excited to be an aunt. She did promise to check in on me frequently and to be there for the birth, so that’s something. But she’s got her own shit to deal with, so I can’t exactly ask her to hold my hand through everything.

So it really does circle back to Pasha. Gorgeous, sexy, way-too-damn-sure-of-himself Pasha. Will our baby have his eyes? His rugged jaw? His devilish charm?

An image of Pasha cradling our baby in his arms, bare-chested and cooing in the middle of the night, sends a surge of heat straight to my core.

Fuck, I want him. I want that. I want him and that and so much more.

The alarm on my phone goes off before my hopes devolve into raunchy fantasies.

Ugh.

Showtime.

I grab my purse and keys and head for the door, pausing only to slip on the heels that match my little black dress. I might as well enjoy them now before my ankles and feet get too swollen.

And then I damn near trip over a heavy vase in the hall.

“What the hell?” I mumble to myself as I swoop down to catch the huge bouquet of flowers before they topple over and spill water all over the carpet.

Roses. Interesting. Champagne-colored with pink tips and there’s at least two dozen⁠—

Ah, shit.

They’re from Conrad.

There’s a note scrawled inside the card, but the only thing I actually read is his boorish signature at the end. It’s enough to make me want to toss the note into the trash and the bouquet out the window.

But they are roses. And beautiful ones, at that. I’d hate to waste them.

They’ll survive in my car until I figure out where they belong.

When I see Pasha waiting for me outside the restaurant, I nearly groan.

Not because of anything bad.

He just looks so damn good.

His thick hair is playfully disheveled and yet somehow makes his charcoal gray look all the more professional. There’s a five o’ clock shadow dusting his jaw and I’m suddenly struck with the desire to replace out what that feels between my thighs.

Focus, girl. You’re here to talk business.

At least I didn’t overdress for the occasion. Pasha picked the restaurant, and I figured an LBD would be the safest bet no matter where we ended up being.

To my surprise and delight, this is a deep dish pizza joint.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs into my ear as he helps me slip my coat off. It’s not particularly cold out, but better to be safe now that I’m carrying our little one inside me.

And now, I’m officially overheating.

Pasha hands my coat to the interior valet and nods when the host leads us to our table. His hand never leaves the small of my back. He pulls out my chair and waits for me to be comfortably seated before he settles himself in.

I’ve never felt so protected before.

I’m not sure how I feel about it, exactly.

“This is nice,” I remark awkwardly as I look around the room. It is a pizza place, but one of those higher-end joints where you still get waited on and the water is served with decorative slices of lemon and mint leaves. “A whole lot of men here, though.”

“They’re mine.” Pasha casually flips through the menu and says that like it’s supposed to explain anything at all to me.

“Yours? Like…”

“Security.”

Right. Because that makes sense. I pretend like it does, at least, and peek at the menu. “Hm. Where are the salads?”

“We’re not eating salad.”

“Well, I mean, you don’t have to eat a salad. But I do, and⁠—”

Pasha closes his menu and motions for the waiter. “You’re not eating a salad.”

“Excuse me?”

But before I can rail into him about dictating my dining choices, the waiter appears with a broad smile and welcomes us to this magical evening. And when he asks us if we know what we want to start with, Pasha orders one of everything off the appetizer menu.

“We’ll let you know when we’re ready for pizza,” he adds.

I blink at him until the waiter leaves. Then: “Are you insane? We can’t eat all that food!”

Pasha simply shrugs. “We’ll box up whatever’s left. It won’t go to waste. Besides, you deserve to have what you want.”

“I want a salad.”

“No, you want to make your mother happy and maintain some demented idea of what your figure is supposed to look like.”

“I… don’t have a rebuttal to that.”

He smiles at me and nudges the basket of buttery breadsticks toward me. “Eat up. Live a little. Fuck your figure. I did, and now, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“I’m not taking that bait, Mister.” I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m also perfectly capable of deciding what I should and should not eat.”

“I’m sure you are. But are you capable of shutting off all the nagging voices in your head and allowing yourself to do whatever the fuck you want?”

“What’s it to you?” I hate that he seems to know more about me than I’ve let on. I hate that he’s right—I’m constantly eyeing the good stuff while forcing myself to enjoy salads because I’d rather not have to deal with Mother’s nagging over my weight. “Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re pregnant. With my baby.” Pasha unrolls his silverware and tucks the cloth napkin on his lap with practiced movements. “I promised you I’d take care of you. Apparently, that starts with making sure you don’t starve yourself and our child.”

The waiter returns with platter after platter of appetizers that do, in fact, make my mouth water. Fried ravioli, bruschetta, spinach dip, stuffed mushrooms—I want it all.

Until now, I never got to have any of it.

I glance up at Pasha, who nods for me to dig in. So, against everything I’ve ever been taught since childhood, I do. Starting with the fried ravioli and mozzarella sticks because dammit, I’m a cheese addict.

At one point—somewhere between the spinach dip and our supreme deep dish pizza arriving—Pasha frowns at something over my shoulder. Then he barks something—in Russian, I think—before returning to his own plate.

“What was that about?”

He shrugs it off. “Just needed to remind my men to keep their eyes to themselves.”

I playfully waggle a brow. “Ooh. They gettin’ flirty with the waitress?”

“No. I don’t pay them to ogle you.”

That makes me set my fork down and stare at him. “What? What does that even mean?”

Pasha is completely unbothered by how bothered I am. “It means I do pay them to show you respect as the mother of my child.”

“And so… they’re not allowed to look at me?”

“Not like that.” He tucks into his bruschetta like this is a totally normal conversation. “Not at what’s mine.”

“Excuse me?”

Pasha just continues eating. And looking at me. Which, apparently, he’s allowed to do because he’s the one who fucked a baby into me.

I can’t help it—I actually laugh. “Wow. Okay. What are you, some sort of mob boss?”

He doesn’t answer at first. The clink of silverware and the whooshing of the A/C is all I can hear for a long, long minute.

Finally, Pasha says, “I would like to discuss with you the logistics of hiring bodyguards. Just for work, shopping, basically any time you leave your apartment.”

Cue another bout of laughter. “You can’t be serious.”

One look at his face says he is.

“I mean, there’s no way my bosses will allow it. Or our clients.” I dab my mouth with the napkin just to feel like I’m wiping away the smirk because holy shit, this man is coming on more than a little strong. “They expect a certain level of anonymity and privacy, and we pride ourselves in giving it.”

“Fair enough.” He nods. “Then you can come live with me.”

I nearly spray him with the sip of water I just took.

Pasha sets his fork down and leans back in his chair with a sigh. “I’ll cut right to the chase. Especially since you’ve all but figured things out. You asked me if I was a CEO or something⁠—”

“I mean, I just guessed from the money you literally burned,” I mumble.

“Right. Well, to answer your question, I’m both. I’m a CEO of a multi-billion dollar defense contract company. And… I’m something else.” He glances at a table full of serious-looking men quietly enjoying their lasagna near us.

I follow his glance. Then I notice the faded tattoo below his ear.

And it all clicks into place.

He’s Russian.

He’s insanely wealthy.

He’s all sorts of crazy-possessive and overprotective.

He’s surrounded by men who look like they enjoy a good gangland murder every bit as much as a good bruschetta.

“Shit.” I slump in my own chair. “Holy… shit. You are totally a mob boss.”

Pasha has the gall to smirk. That’s all the answer I need.

I press a hand to my stomach. “Shit. Shit shit shit. Shiiiiiiiiit. This is your baby. I’m pregnant with your baby.”

“So now, you understand why I need to keep you safe. You and our baby. As much as I’m working on making friends with the government, I have plenty more enemies who wouldn’t lose sleep over harming you so long as it harms me.”

His words sound garbled in my ears. I’m trying to just draw in the next breath, exhale, and repeat.

I’m pregnant. With a Russian mob boss’s baby.

I fucked a mob boss. A criminal.

An insanely hot criminal, but this is not the time to split hairs.

“I just… I just got my new apartment!”

I don’t mean to yell and I hope it’s not actually coming out as yelling. The last thing we need is every eye in the restaurant on Don Corleone here or whatever the Russian version is.

But I’m panicking. I’m panicking and struggling to maintain a grasp on whatever shred of control over my life I have left. “I paid a deposit and everything! Do you know how cutthroat the real estate industry is in this city?”

Oh my God, he’s actually laughing at me.

This man has the balls to laugh at me.

Pasha waves at me to sit back down when I move to stand up and march the hell out of here. I don’t obey because I want to—I obey because I’m surrounded by, like, twenty-plus armed men who take their marching orders from him.

Shit.

Fuck.

My baby. My baby’s gonna be a mob boss one day.

Better that than a debutante, right?

And that momentary thought is how I’m suddenly snorting up and coughing on my raspberry sweet tea. Now, Pasha’s the one being waved back down because no, I do not need his help; I just need a moment.

Come to think of it, I don’t want his help.

“Thanks, Pasha, really.” I offer him my most magnanimous smile so he knows there’s no hard feelings. “For everything. You’ve been wonderful, and you’re absolutely right—this food is too amazing to skip for salad. So again, thank you.”

He casually lofts a brow. “But…?”

“But I don’t need your help. Or your money. Or your protection.”

The other brow joins his hairline. “Oh, really?”

Why do I have this sinking feeling that he’s not taking me seriously? “Really really. I’m a big girl. I can tie my own shoes and everything. I’ve got a great job with great employers, and a solid paycheck⁠—”

“I will provide for my child. And you.”

The tone of his voice brooks no argument. He’s not raising his voice or expressing any anger, but the muscle in his jaw is ticking and I think—I think—I’m actually starting to irritate him.

“With respect,” I offer, “I am grateful to you for your generosity. And your willingness to be part of my baby’s life. However⁠—”

“Our baby.”

“Yes. Well. I have no desire to become a kept woman. I sure as shit have no desire to bow to some archaic, misogynistic notion of being barefoot and pregnant while the father of my children goes out and does… whatever the hell it is you do.”

“Weapons dealing, mostly.”

“Weapons dealing. Fantastic. Truly the stuff role models are made of.” I tap my finger on the table the same time my leg starts shaking; it’s a nervous tic I developed after a certain traumatic event occurred to make me hate guns with every fiber of my being. “So tell me, Pasha, what exactly are your plans for our child? Raise them up to be your… what? Heir? Prince-in-waiting? Take over the family business someday?”

His gaze doesn’t leave mine as he nods. “That’s the general idea.”

“Cool. Great. No thanks.” This time, I shove my chair back hard. I’m done. Out of here.

“Sit down.”

“Fuck off.”

I turn to march straight the hell out of here, but I’m blocked by the slow rise of three of his men. They only look at me to silently suggest I listen to the boss man and play nice, but otherwise, they wait respectfully for his orders.

“I realize this is difficult to understand.” Pasha’s voice moves with him as he rises and steps up behind me. Once his hands rest on my arms, his men step back and give us plenty of space. “So here are the notes: yes, I am a mob boss. These are my men, from my Bratva, and I am their pakhan. They do as I say. Everyone in my household does as I say. And since you, moya plamya, are carrying my child, you are now part of my household. Which means you do, in fact, need to do as I say.”

Tears sting my eyes. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want them to see me cry.

I just want to go home and hide under the covers until all this blows over. Until he forgets about me. Until I no longer matter to him.

But what then? Will he take my baby?

“You should have told me.” It’s the only thing I can manage through the lump in my throat.

Pasha turns me around and wipes my fallen tear away with his thumb. “You’re right; I should have. But I cared too much. I didn’t want to ruin your life with mine.”

He… cares about me?

No. Don’t. Don’t let him love-bomb you and railroad everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve.

That’s the same shit Conrad did.

“I… I just don’t need the stress. Not right now. It’s bad for the baby.”

He genuinely seems to take that into consideration. “Of course. Speaking of which: I’m coming to your next appointment.”

“I don’t…” My cheeks heat. “I don’t have one scheduled yet.”

He sucks in a breath that sounds like the tail end of his patience. “I will arrange for⁠—”

“No, thank you. I can manage.”

His face shifts like he’s putting in a ton of effort not to steamroll me into whatever it is he wants instead. “Then you’ll let me know when and where to be.”

I nod even as I swallow past the huge knot in my throat. “I’ll text you.”

“See that you do. And Daphne…” Pasha’s face hardens. “I’m not heartless. But I am a man who has no choice when it comes to protecting my own. As of now, that includes you.”

I don’t acknowledge his words with my own, or even a nod. I’m too scared that, if I do, I’ll be entering into some Faustian bargain I’ll never be able to escape without groveling at his feet for crumbs.

“I just want to go home, please.”

I hear him sigh again. But he nods and signals for his men to let us through, and they part without hesitation.

Against everything in my self-preserving instincts, I replace myself enjoying his arm around me as we wind our way toward the exit. The way he helps me dodge a chair here, a table corner there. He’s not a happy camper, but he’s still showing a great deal of care and consideration for me.

My heart squeezes.

I know better than to want more with him. He’s too dangerous, too unpredictable.

That doesn’t stop my heart from wishing.

Pasha walks me to my car. His men trail at a respectful distance. When he sees the champagne roses peeking through the passenger window, he stops and his face darkens at once. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

“I’m not seeing anyone. For all you know, they could be from work.”

When I open the door to toss my handbag in, he snatches the card from the vase and narrows his eyes. “Conrad.” His stifled glare shifts to me. “You’re going back to him?”

“Fuck no.” I snatch the card from his fingers and rip it into tiny shreds. “He wishes.”

“Then explain why they aren’t in the trash.”

I roll my eyes. “Because they didn’t do anything wrong. And they happen to be some of my favorite kinds of flowers. So excuse me for wanting to enjoy a little beauty in my life—hey!”

Pasha grabs the vase from my car without asking.

“Give them back!” I yelp. “I don’t want to throw them out!”

“I’ll take good care of them,” he spits. “You can come see them whenever you want.”

“Pasha—”

“No.” He steadies his gaze on me again, but instead of anger or impatience, it’s a very targeted possessiveness that hits straight at my core. “If you want flowers, tell me. I’ll send you flowers. I’ll deliver them myself. But no way in hell is another man going to fill your home with some pathetic attempt to woo you away from me.”

I should slap him.

I should run.

I shouldn’t feel the way I suddenly do, all… hot and fluttery, wanting to climb him like a tree and beg him to make me his good girl.

I mask the shake of my head with a scoff. “Fine. Whatever. Asshole.” I fumble with my keys inside my purse, yank them out, and stomp over to the driver’s side. Hopefully, he’ll interpret the tremor in my fingers as anger, frustration, grief. Something other than aching arousal.

We don’t bid each other goodnight. Surprisingly, Pasha doesn’t even attempt to shoulder his way into my car. I honestly half-expect him to, either to wrestle the steering wheel out of my hands or… ahem… “wrestle” me in the back seat.

Instead, he simply stands off to the side and watches me drive away. No wave, no shouted second thought.

But I think, in the dim light of the security lamp, I see him smirk.