Knocked Up by the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #3)

Chapter 20 - Ivan

It was inevitable that they'd be arguing again, Ivan realized as he watched Amy go. And as much as he loved her, there were times like this when it left him feeling hollow instead of alive.

Regret and guilt left him standing in the hallway, his mind in turmoil as he reflected on everything that had happened that afternoon: the phone call, the package, Amy's tears, their argument, and a sense of failure when he'd realized Paisley and her children had been dragged into this.

He'd broken his word, and the self-loathing felt like a sucker punch. There was no excuse; he knew he'd made a mistake... made many, actually. But he couldn't figure out where exactly he'd gone wrong that afternoon. Things had been fine in the mall; it was after that fucking phone call that everything started to spiral.

He'd needed to get his wife to safety, and so that's what he'd done. The Pakhan needed his negotiator, and so that's what he'd done. But his argument with Amy meant he'd been late to the meeting, and it was clear by the looks on the other men's faces that they'd taken that as a sign of disrespect. Was it stupid to think he'd be able to leave without explaining everything to Amy? Maybe. But in their line of work, there were times when he could answer questions, and there were times when he couldn't. He hated it, but Nikolai or not, he was his brother's lieutenant—and the Bratva didn't wait for anyone.

Mikhail had been furious when he arrived in the office. Some of that fury had been aimed his way, but not all. The Bratva had questions that not even their Pakhan could answer. They'd found out about the threats with the latest package, and things were going to hell in a handbasket. A threat to the Pakhan's family.

The men were angry first, appraising second. A weak Pakhan was a dead one, and there were more than enough men who wanted his place. This made them look weak. That was far more dangerous than anything that had happened so far. Whoever was behind this bullshit was going to pay when their luck ran out and the Nikolai brothers caught up with them.

Shoes scuffed purposefully on the floor behind him, pulling him from his thoughts. Ivan ran his fingers through his hair, ignoring his brother's presence as he dropped his stare to the floor. He'd had no choice. Amy knew he was Bratva first. He'd had no choice.

"Are you ready to go?" Adrian muttered beside him, and he shrugged. He didn't have any choice about that either.

"She'll forgive you," Adrian said when he didn't move, but Ivan wasn't so sure of that. He found the will to move and walked out, leaving a piece of him behind with his angry little bear.

Kostya was waiting by his G-Wagon, a jacket disguising the Kevlar vest he'd been wearing. "We need to be quick," he muttered, checking the bullets in his gun. With the latest threat, they needed to be ready for anything.

Ivan felt sick at the memory of the bullets in the package, the names he'd spotted on it. Both men beside him seemed to feel the same. Things had felt serious before, but now it was like a timer had been set—and they didn't know how many hours were left until the next thing happened.

They got into the car silently, and Ivan drove them to the apartment. They'd have their work cut out for them over the next few days. Though he couldn't help but wish they'd done more sooner.

"Tell me what information we have," he muttered again, running his fingers through his hair as they reached the underground parking. Only the Bratva should've been able to get in, as far as they were aware. But the shattered windshields of the vehicles around made the blood boil in his veins.

"Motherfuckers," he spat as Kostya called Lev.

"I need to check the camera feeds," Adrian stated as they strode toward the elevators. "We don't have long; grab what you can. We need to get back to the compound."

The compound—the Nikolai brothers' loving term for the mansion that Mikhail called home. Ivan let out a snort as he thought of it.

Riding the elevator to the penthouse floor, he met Ilya and the rest of Adrian's team upstairs and quickly advised them of what was going on as he grabbed the clothes and things they'd need for the next few weeks. Whatever it took, they'd have to figure this out—and soon.

***

Ivan got back to the compound sometime after midnight, blood on his clothes. Adrian had found out who was behind the mess in their underground parking lot, and they'd received permission to investigate. Unlike the first meeting his wife had accidentally walked into, this one was conducted near the docks, and he'd had the chance to let a lot of steam out onto the man in question. There hadn't been as many answers as they'd hoped for, and another underboss had been fed to the pigs.

His bruised knuckles ached as he stepped into the room Mira had directed him to, his eyes falling on his sleeping wife. He didn't want to wake her and moved on silent footsteps to the bathroom, leaving a gap when he closed the door so that he could hear if anything happened. The whole family was on high alert. He wouldn't let anything happen to his wife. Couldn't. It would ruin him.

He wasn't expecting her to join him ten minutes later. Her fingertips touched the skin of his back in question as he scrubbed his white button-down shirt in the basin.

"It isn't mine," he muttered, referring to the blood spilling down the drain.

"Then whose is it?" she answered, her voice heavy with sleep but unafraid. A smile came to his lips unbidden.

"No one important, Mishka."

His smile fell as he felt the air around her draw tense. Ivan let go of the shirt, wiping his hands on his pants as he turned to face her. His eyes scanned her face for answers and found resentment in the depths of her green eyes. It gutted him.

"Tell me what's wrong, Mishka," he murmured, pulling her closer.

Her brow furrowed as she looked up and into his eyes. "You avoided my questions earlier too," she muttered softly, and he spotted the hurt behind her anger.

He'd fucked up. Again.

Sighing, Ivan cradled her face and drew her in for a kiss. Her lips stayed firm, but he persisted, and she softened.

"I'm sorry, Mishka," he said softly when he pulled away. "I made a mistake. Lots of mistakes. I can't blame you for hating me for that."

"I don't hate you, you oaf!" she scowled up at him, her little finger poking into his chest. "Do you think I'd come to check up on you if I hated you?"

"Probably not," he smirked, catching her hand in his and drawing it to his mouth for a kiss. She didn't seem to appreciate his teasing, but she didn't pull away either, and that made it easier to breathe.

"Tell me what I did wrong," he murmured, kissing her fingers softly. Her expression grew frustrated.

"You make it so hard to stay angry," she said grumpily, and he chuckled, dropping a kiss on her nose that she wiped away with a scowl.

It fell as he waited, and finally, she took a step back, a vulnerable expression on her face.

"I—I needed you. In the car." His heart thudded, and she cleared her throat and added, "To answer questions. I had so many fucking questions, Ivan. Something was wrong, and you were dead fucking quiet. Do you know what was running through my mind?"

Ears ringing, he swallowed, remembering the words stuck in his throat. Her tears.

"I'm sorry, Miskha," he muttered gruffly. He'd been so stuck in his head that her questions had felt distant—he had heard them, though. He just didn't have the answers she needed, and something about that made the failure feel worse.

Her eyes grew watery, and his heart ached.

"You can't keep controlling everything, Ivan," she whispered finally, her fingers wiping away the tear that had just fallen. His hands clenched on the bathroom counter to stop himself from overcrowding her. From taking control. Everything in him ached to make it better, but he knew that would only make it worse.

"I'll do better," he promised, and she let out a trilling laugh, palms pressing to her eyelids.

"No. I'm just ex—" She blew out a breath, then seemed to change her mind. "Never mind, I'm going to bed," she sighed finally, stepping out of the bathroom, away from him.

"Amy," he called, trailing behind her. She looked back at him, one hand on the doorknob and a frown on her face. "What were you going to say?"

She blinked. "When?"

"Right now. What were you going to say?" he asked, hands aching to hold her again.

Looking at the floor, she muttered, "I'm expecting too much. This thing between us, it's only for the next few months. Until everything's sorted out. I'm sorry. I don't know why I got frustrated."

His face dropped, heart clenched tight in his chest. Fucking idiot. He was a fucking idiot.