Even after all this time, after fights and pregnancies and marriage, she still took my breath away. To me, she would always be the beautiful girl who carried herself with other-worldly poise and had a tongue that could rival the Devil’s. She would always be the ethereal creature who shone in this world of mortals.
Adding to her beauty was the bundle in her arms. Our youngest son and newly turned one-year-old, Kazimir Tarkhanov, was watching us all with intensity. Nicknamed little chameleon by his auntie, my son had the uncanny ability to copy everybody around him. He watched and mimicked, mainly copying his older brothers. Because of this, Kazimir’s personality had yet to be decided.
By Elena’s feet, matching his mother’s pace, was my second son. Sevastian Tarkhanov was my mini-me, my junior. He was polite, kinder than his brothers, but had gained his mother’s sharp intelligence. Our more savory traits had mixed together to create a charming little genius, but he wasn’t to be underestimated. The four-year old could start his fair share of trouble–and often got away with it.
Elena believed that, because she had been pregnant with Sevastian while she was in college, he was so smart. Even when he was an infant, he used to sit quietly with her while she did her homework and studied. Sevastian had been her favorite study partner, and sometimes it did look like the baby was listening to what she was saying.
All three of my boys looked so much like each other that sometimes they failed to look like Elena and me. Three little copies, people often told us. Elena often mocked that her uterus was a broken printer that kept printing the same copy, usually to make fun of the people who called them identical. After all, to us, we could see the differences in our boys. Sevastian’s features were more delicate than his brothers, and Kazimir had Elena’s smile.
“Good morning, Daddy,” Sevastian greeted.
I smiled at his formality. “Have you come to watch your brother?”
“You have a meeting at two.” This was Elena. She used the word meeting loosely.
A drug shipment was entering Chicago this afternoon. But it wasn’t a regular transaction. It was a trap…for those who would still wish to see the families of New York and Chicago fall. The Don of the Chicago Outfit had men on the land, Giovanni Vigliano had men in the water and my organization was watching the benefactors in New York. Readying to strike at any moment.
“Indeed, I do.” I kissed Elena as soon as she was in reaching distance, ignoring the whines of disgust from the children. Her lips were soft and warm, and she tasted faintly of coffee and blueberries.
Kazimir reached up and grabbed my shirt, distracting me from his mother. “Dada!”
Elena laughed, the sound music to my ears, even though Elena insisted she had an awkward and broken laugh. “To your father you go.”
As soon as he was in my arms, he crossed his arms over his chest. A direct copy of his mother, who had wrapped her free arms around herself to warm up.
“Go inside if you’re cold, lyubimaya,” I told her.
“No. Niko wants to ride before the snow falls.” Elena glanced over at our son, smiling in pride as she saw him cantering around the arena. “He rides better than you.”
I smiled. “An interesting observation and completely untrue.”
“You’re not to blame. You’re getting older. Less stamina.”
I caught her eyes, smirking faintly. “Are you sure that’s true?”
Elena caught the double meaning to my words, her cheeks reddening. I could tell she was thinking about this morning, the first time we had woken up without the children in bed (thanks to Roman taking them all on an ‘Uncle Roman hike’) and spent hours entwined. I could still feel her hands wrapped around my cock and the feel of her skin beneath my touch.
“Yes,” she breathed, but she had lost the snarkiness to her tone in her fluster.
“Uncle Kostya!” Three-year old Timofei Fattakhov went straight into my legs, laughing in delight when he bounced off them.
“Careful, Timofei,” Elena immediately warned.
He grinned.
Anton Gribkov followed behind him, holding little two-year old Dominick Malakhov’s hand. Anton’s inky black hair shone in the light, the long strands of his fringe covering his face. Roksana and Elena were constantly on him about getting a haircut, but Anton refused, using it as a makeshift shield to hide his eyes.
At ten-years old, Anton was slowly becoming a man. It would be a few more years until he would be inducted into the Bratva but fears already surrounded him. He was traumatized as a child, and despite all the love we had tried to show him, Anton had carried that misery with him. Now it was a part of his personality.
He was a good kid, and I wouldn’t abandon him, not the way his mother did. The relationship between him and Dmitri remained tense, though it was healing slowly, but his maturing only made it more difficult. Anton could hear what the adults were saying and understand–we had never been able to save him from the truth.
But he did seem to like his little cousins. Anton had always been patient with their pestering questions and insistence on following him everywhere. Especially Dominick Malakhov, Danika and Roman’s firstborn, who thought Anton was simply the most awesome person alive.
Many children had been born and I’m sure a few more would grace our family. Roman and Danika were planning their second as we spoke–probably working on it right now–and Roksana was due to give birth to her third child and second daughter any day now. She was to be named Fayina Fattakhov, and Roksana theorized she was already a dancer.
I can feel her moving around gracefully, she would tell Artyom, who would say that it was impossible to tell now who Fayina would become, but we could all see his secret delight that one of his children might take after their mother.
Some days I felt amazed how large my family was now, how many people I loved and cared for. I could still remember that day when I had killed my father, how my brothers so easily fed me to the wolves and my father was prepared to kill me at a moment’s notice.
I had already decided years ago that when Nikolai came to claim his throne, I would surrender. I would hold out my hands and save him the pain of killing me.
But that was a problem for the faraway future. And sometimes when I caught sight of Sevastian, I wondered if it would be Nikolai who came for my crown, or my second-born.
“Mama!” Nikolai called. “Did you see that jump?”
“I did.” Elena clapped. “It was very good. You look like a professional.”
Nikolai sat up at little straighter at the praise, smile growing.
That’s the one thing they never warned you about sons: they were constantly trying to impress their mothers.
Even as I thought that, Sevastian lifted his hand, holding out a flower to his mother. “Look, Mama, some cyclamen.”
“How beautiful.” Elena took the flower, holding it delicately between her fingertips. “Do you remember what family it is a part of?”
“Primulaceae,” he said quickly. “And it’s a part of the Ericales order.”
“My smart boy.”
Sevastian glowed under the praise.
Since Kazimir couldn’t copy his oldest brother and ride a horse–he had already tried to escape my arms to try–he stretched down to the ground. I bent to help him, allowing him to grab a handful of flowers. Like his brother, Kaz held them out to his mother.