Page 73 of Forced Mafia Bride
“Well,” Timur continued, his grin growing wider, “I lost. And now I have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to your son in true Russian style.”
Anatoly barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “He said he’d nail it with the accent and all if he lost. So, now he has to do it.”
Timur shot him a playful glare, then shrugged, clearly not too upset about having to follow through. “I’ll give the little man a performance he’ll never forget.”
I smirked, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all. When Timur and I were younger, we always managed to turn every occasion into a spectacle, and while presently I wasn’t much for theatrics, today…today, I didn’t mind. Today was special.
The world I knew had always been black or white. Every other color was deemed irrelevant. Not today, though. Today, the world was bright and full of the best things I never thought I could have and enjoy.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden light across our backyard.
Balloons swayed in the breeze, and the smell of grilled meat filled the air. Family and friends gathered, laughing, talking, and celebrating our son’s first birthday. It was one of those rare moments where the world felt at peace, and for just a few hours, I could let the weight of everything else disappear.
I glanced across the yard to where Rosalyn was standing, surrounded by Nadia, Freya, and a few friends she’d met at an early mother’s antenatal care group she joined. She was glowing in that soft way she always did when she was pregnant. The early stages, but we already knew. The doctors confirmed it a few weeks ago—it was a girl. The thought of having a daughter stirred something deep inside me. Another child. Another life we’d bring into this world.
And I couldn’t help but feel…happy. Really happy. That kind of happiness that felt dangerous, like it might slip away if I looked at it too closely. But today, I let myself enjoy it.
I watched her for a moment longer, the curve of her stomach barely showing under her dress, her hand resting there protectively. She caught me staring and smiled, her eyes soft, full of warmth that I knew I didn’t deserve but would spend the rest of my life trying to live up to.
I walked over, wiping my hands on my apron. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, Niko. You don’t have to ask every five minutes.”
I placed a hand on her lower back, leaning in close enough to catch the faint scent of lavender on her skin. “You’repregnant with our daughter. I think I have the right to be a little concerned.”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and she laid her hand over mine. “She’s fine, too. I promise.”
I nodded, feeling the same swell of pride and protectiveness I always did when I thought about our growing family—a boy and now a girl. Cian and Cielle—everything I never knew I wanted.
Timur’s voice suddenly cut through the hum of conversation, calling everyone to attention. “Alright, alright, everyone! Gather round for the big moment!”
Anatoly was laughing, clearly enjoying the show, as Timur cleared his throat dramatically and gave a small bow before launching into a boisterous, exaggerated version of the Russian-style “Happy Birthday” song.
He nailed everything else, but his theatrics were over the top. That didn’t stop the entire crowd from breaking into laughter.
Even I couldn’t help but grin. Watching a grown, hard-headed man such as himself stumble through a birthday song, his arms wide and his voice booming, was more entertaining than I expected. Rosalyn giggled beside me, shaking her head at the sight.
When Timur finished, the crowd erupted into applause, and our son clapped his hands excitedly, oblivious to the chaos but clearly enjoying the attention. I scooped him up, feeling his tiny arms wrap around my neck as he babbled something only he and his mother understood.
Rosalyn leaned into me, her head resting on my shoulder, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. The weight of the world, the deals, the risks, the life I lived—it all felt distant, almost irrelevant in the face of this—my family, my son, my unborn daughter.
I kissed the top of her head, holding her and our son close. “A girl,” I murmured, almost to myself, but I knew she heard me. “She’ll have your eyes.”
Rosalyn smiled against my chest. “And your temper, probably.”
I chuckled softly. “I’ll make sure she has everything she needs. Anything.”
“I know,” she whispered, her voice soft and full of that same faith in me that always caught me off guard.
After a short moment, she took Cian with her to greet Hannah, who’d only just arrived, while I glanced around the yard, taking it all in.
Egor and Freya were off near a bench under the tree by the pathway.
Alina, Alexei, and more of their friends were playing with a few toys on the grass, Freya watching them with that gentle smile she always had. It was good to see them happy, especially Egor. The years he’d lived before meeting his wife hadn’t been easy, but today, he was more relaxed, more at ease.
Hannah was standing with Rosalyn, the two of them lost in conversation, and Freya moved with the children to join them.
Egor waved me over, and we went back to meet the guys, settling ourselves near the patio, kicking back with beers, and watching the evening unfold. Anatoly was telling some ridiculous story about a Mexican who came looking for a job at one of our hotels, and we were all half-listening, half-lost in our own thoughts.