Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

On the way to the restaurant after a quick pit stop at the cell phone store, I send out texts to give the important people my new number. Hazel, Mel, Jameson, Pasha. I download an app that lets me spin up a secondary VoIP number and I give that one to Todd and Keith, because I’ll be damned if they farm my shit out to Conrad and Brittany again.

I hardly trust them to pay me these days. They’ve been so jumpy, so easily startled, like they’re constantly hovering over something top secret.

I consider extending an olive branch to my parents—but the thing is, one too many olive branches given away makes a tree bare.

So on second thought, forget that.

When we arrive at Chez Moliere, Lev helps me out of the car and holds the restaurant door open for me. It looks like I’m the first one here—aside from the birthday lady herself.

Asya beams at me and sweeps across the room to wrap me up in her warm embrace. “Look at you! So radiant!” She gushes and examines me all at once. “How are you feeling? Are you sleeping well? Is my son being supportive?”

I can’t help but blush under her care. Isn’t this what a mother is supposed to be like? “I’m fine. The nausea is gone, thank goodness. Baby is kicking my ribs and giving me acid reflux, but only when I don’t give her what she wants.”

Asya rests her hands on either side of my rounded tummy and coos. “Well, that would be my son’s influence, no doubt. Always so demanding, especially when he doesn’t get what he wants.”

Tell me about it.

“You seem tired, though,” she adds. “You’re sure you’re sleeping well?”

I nod. “I am, really. I think it’s just stress. I get my eight hours of sleep every night, or darn near, but then I have to go to work and deal with a pair of bosses who haven’t exactly left the 1950s.” I let her guide me to a long banquet table and sit in the chair she pulls out for me. “It’s been worse since they found out I’m pregnant. I’m surprised I still have a job, to be honest.”

Asya sits down next to me and rests her hand over mine. “I know it’s a difficult time. The world is spinning out of control while you’re focused on bringing new life into the chaos. I know! I was there!”

“And you did it three times. I am in awe.”

“Each was harder than the last. Kostya, my late husband, was not a family man. Once he had his heir, everyone else I birthed was just spare parts to him.”

Oh, God. “That’s horrible.”

She tilts her head to one side. “You want to know how I pulled through?” Asya flicks her eyes to where a line of guards stands along one wall. “The Family. The Bratva.”

I follow her gaze. “I know they’re hired to protect us, but⁠—”

“They are paid as compensation for their time, yes. But no one is ‘hired’ in the traditional sense. These are all people who believe in us as much as we believe in them. Loyalists to our family and to the brotherhood. Most of them are born into this life, and this family. So when they see the mother of their future leader struggling, they will not hesitate to step in and help.”

I turn to look at her. “Is that how you survived?”

It takes a moment to realize what I just blurted out.

Shit.

A shadow passes over Asya’s face. She blinks, and it’s gone. In its place is a softer, more nostalgic smile. “For the most part, yes. Kostya may have been a despicable man, but the world is filled with good ones.” Her smile suddenly brightens and her gaze focuses once more on me. “Which is a huge difference for you, my darling. You have a good man with a good head on his shoulders. You can tell by how loyal his people are.”

“That I can. You raised a good man.”

“And your parents raised a good woman.”

I wince. “I’m not sure how much credit should be given to them. We’re basically… estranged.”

Asya rubs my arm and kisses my cheek. “Then their loss is my gain, no? Besides, adversity forges us in the fire. My granddaughter needs a strong mother, and I think she has the best one.”

We’re interrupted by a sudden rush of relatives arriving all at once, from Sofiya and Makari to cousins and siblings of Asya’s I’ve never met before. Each of them exclaims their happy surprise to finally meet me, and not a single person allows me to stand to greet them.

Instead, I am lovingly ordered to stay off my feet, then smothered in equally loving hugs and kisses to my face.

“I like you already,” remarks a man with a thick handlebar mustache whom Asya introduces as her cousin. To Asya, he says, “Clearly, she is a clever woman! Smart and witty! Who else could get that son of yours to settle down?”

“It’s true,” chimes in another cousin, an older woman busy untying her silk scarf from around her head. “We were all convinced our Pasha would never meet someone who could handle his, how you say…”

“Stubborn ass?” Sofi offers.

The family descends into a cacophony of conversation as they settle into their seats, handing Asya beautifully wrapped gifts and thick cards. I feel somewhat embarrassed at how small mine is compared to everyone else’s. Maybe no one will notice.

After a few more minutes of listening to the family shift between English and Russian with ease, I feel a familiar presence slip in behind me and take the adjacent seat.

“You look beautiful,” Pasha murmurs as he kisses my cheek.

“You’re looking handsome yourself.” I feel my smile broaden and the fluttering in my chest picks up.

“Why did you change your number?”

I glance around—no one is paying attention to us, so I lean into Pasha to whisper back, “Conrad and Brittany got my old one.”

Pasha’s jaw tightens with unspent violence. But then he glances over at his mother and thinks better of it. “Did you save screenshots?”

I nod. “Every last call log and text message.”

“Good girl.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my brow. “Tell me the second either of them gets a hold of your new number, okay?”

“I will. Promise.”

The table erupts into greetings for Pasha, who bows appreciatively and does his best to redirect the attention to his mother. It’s sweet, endearing even, to see him momentarily stop being Bratva Boss and become Tetushka Mila’s “sweet nephew.”

It’s even more fun to hear their endless comments about how he better treat me like a queen if he doesn’t want his ears boxed in by his uncles and cousins.

He seems so at ease here. I like watching him like this. Calm, confident, poised, but not working the way he seems to be sometimes. He rests his arm on the back of my chair and happily answers questions about our daughter’s health, growth, trimester stage, all of it. I almost catch him smiling once or twice.

I turn to Asya to ask her a question about plans for next week… when I see the look on her face.

She’s pale.

Wide-eyed.

Frozen.

Pasha notices, too, and soon the whole table follows her shocked stare to see what—or who—has her so spooked.

The man casually approaching us with a devastatingly handsome smile on his face is the literal definition of “silver fox.” Tall, well-built for his age, with streaks of dark hair ribboning through the elegant silver. It matches the flawless beard and practically-glowing gray eyes.

And he’s staring at Asya like she hung the moon and stars.

“Arlo…” she breathes, rising—more like stumbling—to her feet.

Sofi and I exchange a look across the table. We don’t need a translator for that tone.

The man scans the table until he finds Pasha. “Good to see you again, Pasha. Makari, Sofiya.” He doesn’t wait for their response before turning back to their mother. “Asya, you look…”

I’m holding my breath while he sighs out his.

“Incredible. Beautiful as ever, dorogoya.” He flourishes a breathtaking bouquet of champagne roses tipped with pearls and sets it on the table. When he takes her hands in his, I swear the woman is going to melt.

“Um… what did he just say?” I whisper to Pasha, who is openly glaring at the man.

“‘Sweetheart.’”

“Oh.”

… Oh.

Asya, you goddess! Get it!

She’s gone from ghostly pale to bright pink in mere seconds. Arlo, I think she said his name is, leans in close to kiss either cheek. But that’s all he does before he eases himself away.

He gives the table a polite nod, one last lingering look for Asya, then leaves as quickly as he came.

With the way she needs help sitting back down, I think Mama Chekhov has just received the best birthday gift. Bar none.

“So, Mama…” Mak leans in with a conspiratorial grin. “Care to share with the rest of the class?”

“Huh?” Asya blinks a few times, glances around at the table of very curious relatives, then tries to laugh it off with a very unconvincing titter. “Oh! That? Him? He’s, ah… just an old friend.”

“Right. Right. Because old friends show up out of nowhere with roses.”

She grabs her glass of water and practically chugs it down. “They do when it’s my birthday.”

Pasha pokes at an oyster shell on his plate with a fork. “He flew an awfully long way to celebrate your birthday.”

“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

Again, Sofi and I share a look. But she wisely chooses to not join the interrogation and instead pours her mother a hearty glass of wine.

Which Asya starts chugging without hesitation.

Eyebrows are floating to the ceiling around the table, joining the whispers about how “it’s been forever” since anyone saw that man. How Asya “must be pleasantly surprised to see him.” How “it’s a good thing” her dead husband is exactly that: dead.

Only when the main course arrives does the conversation shift to other important things, like whether the stroganoff comes with beet caviar, regular caviar, or a mixture of both. Are beets good for the baby? Of course they are; beets have fed every baby in this family for twelve generations.

And so on and so forth. It never stops.

I smile up at Pasha. He’s pensive, quiet. His foot nudges mine under the table, and I nudge him back.

“Daphne! What are you naming the baby?”

I have no idea who asked the question, but the whole table erupts into a lively debate over who gets to name our baby and who she’ll be named after. My attempts to explain I haven’t chosen a name yet, let alone discussed one with Pasha, are drowned out by the loving arguments between “going old school” and “letting the poor girl have an American name,” so long as “Babushka doesn’t find out.”

I let them chatter; I don’t mind.

I love this. For the first time in my life, I get to see what a real family feels like.

And for the first time, I feel confident in letting Stewart and Ophelia Hamish slide into the part of my mind they should have always been.

Forgotten.