The Glazov family crowded around Natasha’s hospital bed, admiring the two tiny additions to the family: the beautiful boy who had entered the world first, Alexander Nikita Glazov III, and his twin sister, Sasha Vladimira Glazov. Just two days old, they were already the center of attention.
Today the little family was leaving the hospital and heading home. As the doctor gave Natasha final instructions for her return home, her father-in-law Alexander Glazov stood behind his sister, Vladimira. He peered over her shoulder at his infant grandson who lay cradled in her arms. He offered his fussy grandson his little finger and was rewarded with a surprisingly strong grip. At the infant’s abrupt silence and unblinking gaze, Glazov’s lips tilted in a small smile. He nodded down at little Alex as if acknowledging some secret understanding.
As Pakhan, he had dominion over the Russian mafia’s presence in the U.S. His Bratva cell had originally operated from New York but was now located in quiet, little Louisville Kentucky – a clever business decision that had kept his activities under the FBI’s radar. Sure, the feds still stuck their bureaucratic nose where it didn’t belong every now and then, but he had made sure it was a pain in the ass for the FBI to allocate resources so far off the beaten path, so they rarely did. He saw it as a win-win.
“Your son is strong,” Glazov murmured with an approving glance at his son Nikita. Nikita’s face flushed with pride as he nodded in agreement.
“He’s sweet,” Vladimira corrected him. “He can be strong later. For now, he need only be sweet. Isn’t that right, my little prince?”
“I thought I was your little prince,” Nikita drawled from where he stood at his wife Natasha’s bedside.
“Always, darling, you know that,” she replied before smiling down at the infant to whisper, “A little prince for my little prince.”
At the Pakhan’s discreet nod, the doctor excused himself with his best wishes but no one really noticed. He had done his job and could breathe easy now that he had been dismissed with Alexander Glazov’s blessing. More than once the man had had nightmares about something going wrong with the birth of the Glazov twins. He’d even gone so far as to double up on Natasha’s prenatal appointments and assign extra staff in the delivery room, just in case.
Friends and colleagues had questioned his sanity for taking on his newest patient, asking him, “Aren’t you scared to deliver mafia babies?” or “What if something goes wrong?” Of course, he had lied and said he wasn’t worried in the least, but in all reality, he had been terrified. But he refused to let the unspoken threat of Alexander Glazov’s wrath cause him to be off his game. Every child he helped bring into the world was precious and received the utmost care. And yet, as the Glazov family celebrated the miracle of life, the doctor quietly rejoiced in still having his own.
Vladimira smiled indulgently down at her great-nephew as she lightly bounced him in her arms. “Look at that face. He even scowls just like his dedushka,” she said slyly, garnering a narrow-eyed glare from her brother. She pulled the baby closer and rested her cheek against the top of his head. “Simply perfection. And that baby smell… Oh, Nikita, your son is positively edible.”
Nikita couldn’t help but notice the heated look Yafon was giving Vladimira from where he stood by the door. The longtime Bratva guard made no secret of his devotion to Vladimira Glazov, and their status as a couple had been enthusiastically embraced by the family. But old habits die hard and he still insisted on maintaining his usual discreet distance during intimate family moments such as this one. Like everyone else, Nikita assumed the older couple wouldn’t be starting a family of their own, but it seemed that the sight of Vladimira with a baby in her arms may have inspired Yafon to want to practice anyway.
Nikita grinned and held out his arms to take his son from his aunt. “Who are you and what have you done with my aunt? Hand him over. Time’s up,” he said, then lowered his voice as he settled his son in his arms and tilted his head in Yafon’s direction. “It looks like you have more pressing matters to attend to….”
The transformation was immediate when Vladimira glanced over to the door and caught Yafon’s eye. Gone was the indulgent great-aunt and in her place was a raven-haired seductress. “Indeed,” she mused aloud as she stepped away from the bed and joined Yafon.
Meanwhile, Glazov’s daughter Roksana cooed over her niece as she cradled her in her arms, playfully mourning the fact that the baby wasn’t a redhead and instead took after her blonde parents. “I guess I’ll just have to have my own if I want a raging, redheaded little Bratva girl to spoil,” she said as she cut her eyes at her husband Oleg.
“I highly recommend them myself,” he said quietly. “I’m ready when you are, devotchka. You’re the one who’s a workaholic.”
“Amen to that,” Glazov growled, although his eyes were warm as he looked at his daughter. “He’s right, you know. That decision to wait is on you, little girl.” The endearment brought a touch of heat to her cheeks as she handed the baby back to Natasha.
“Alright, everyone. It’s time for Nikita to take his family home,” Glazov declared, skillfully changing the subject. He would leave the family planning discussions to Roksana and Oleg.
A young nurse with short, black hair and a soft smile entered the room pushing a wheelchair, followed by Pavel, Glazov’s longtime bodyguard. At 6’5” and nearly 300 pounds of solid muscle, the older man’s imposing size and grim demeanor had the nurse gulping audibly as she invited Natasha to get in the wheelchair so she could be transported down to the waiting SUV.
As he discussed logistics for the departure with Nikita, Pavel’s brow was furrowed. His bald head gleamed under the harsh lights. He was a great beast of a man who rarely spoke and when he did his voice was deep and husky from lack of use.
The nurse and Natasha were engaged in a lively debate about the pros and cons of wheelchair travel when Glazov stepped away to stand next to his wife by the window. He watched the proceedings with some amusement as he pulled Kathleen against his side. He clasped her hip and gave it a discreet squeeze, his thumb moving softly back and forth over the familiar curve of her body.
“Any word yet?” she asked quietly even as she smiled encouragingly at her daughter-in-law, who had her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest and seemed determined to refuse the wheelchair. Kathleen knew Natasha would learn soon enough to set her pride aside and accept help. In the meantime, the wheelchair was hospital policy so she hoped Natasha would decide to pick her battles.
“Nothing yet,” he murmured against her skin as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “It’s not entirely unexpected. Patience, my Ptichka.”
“I don’t like this. It’s not like Kodiak and Logan to not check in. Look at what they’re missing.” She cleared her throat, blinking hard. “The babies. And Christmas is coming--”
“Shhh, shhh… Christmas is still weeks away. All will be well,” he said as he tilted her chin toward him with his free hand. Quickly losing herself in his icy blue depths, she marveled at the supreme confidence that came so easily to him. They had come a long way since their unconventional marriage began, and that confidence had been a constant companion during the best and worst of times.
With Yafon there in a personal capacity, Pavel was acting as security for Natasha and the babies for the journey home. Although seemingly occupied with carrying her bags and overseeing the logistics of the new mother’s departure from the hospital, Pavel’s duties included all aspects of the family’s security. At his direction, guards had been positioned discreetly throughout the hospital with orders to shoot to kill if any Bratva enemies proved stupid enough to pose a threat.
Pavel understood how important today was to the Pakhan and he would lay down his life without a second thought to ensure the Glazov family’s safety. He had no one waiting for him at home, no one who would suffer if he were to sacrifice himself in the line of duty. Pavel had no family ties to concern himself with and he liked it that way.
“You let me worry about that, Ptichka. In the meantime,” Glazov continued quietly, addressing his wife as he exchanged a solemn nod with Pavel, “we have grandbabies to spoil. Natasha will need your strength in the coming days.”
She nodded her head silently and took a slow, deep breath as she nestled closer against him and rested her head on his shoulder. She let his quiet, brutal strength wrap itself around her, secure in the knowledge that he didn’t mind when she leaned on him, especially at times like this.
Glazov kept his thoughts to himself, unwilling to acknowledge out loud that he shared his wife’s concern about the young couple. He knew Kodiak and Logan’s work in Colombia wasn’t without risk. The diamond business could be every bit as deadly as running guns and gambling. Any time money was involved, blood could be spilled. He had been relieved to welcome Roksana and Oleg home from Colombia only a few days earlier, but Kodiak and Logan had remained behind and there had been no word since then. The peace treaty with the Colombian cartel was holding firm, but the Pakhan knew there were other parties involved, other variables in play. There was nothing to be done for the moment except wait.
Alexander Glazov fucking hated waiting.
As Pavel stoically navigated the chaos that was the Glazov family, Nikita secured the babies in their infant car seat/carriers, then helped his stubborn wife get settled in the wheelchair. He bent down to kiss her and whispered in her ear something that had her blushing when he straightened. He brushed the nurse aside and took up his position behind the wheelchair, gesturing for her to lead the way.
Roksana and Oleg were engaged in their own quiet discussion in a corner of the room. Vladimira and Yafon were nowhere to be seen, having slipped from the room while Natasha was being convinced of the merits of a wheelchair-bound departure.
As he surveyed his growing family, the Pakhan looked to the future. It would take some getting used to, being a grandfather. No matter how powerful he was, even Glazov couldn’t stop the relentless passage of time. The wave of protectiveness that had consumed him since the birth of his first grandchildren intensified, nearly stealing his breath.
As Glazov’s arm tightened around his wife, she looked up at him reassuringly. His Ptichka saw through his impassive façade, instinctively sensing the dark direction of his thoughts.
Each day that passed ramped up Glazov’s desire to preserve his legacy for future generations, and presented new enemies – or sometimes old ones, usually motivated by greed or revenge -- to ensure that it wasn’t.