"Vasya," Valentina snaps at her youngest son, "pull out my chair."
Vassily pulls out his mother's chair, still playing the role of the dutiful son. After he settles her in, he takes his own seat beside her, carefully avoiding eye contact with me.
The staff brings out the first course, a chilled soup that smells of cucumber and dill. I take a small spoonful, my stomach still a bit sensitive from the morning sickness that's been plaguing me.
"Tolya," Valentina says, dabbing her lips with a napkin, "are you aware that Taras Volkov has been raising absolute hell about the murder of his son in this very house?"
I feel Anatoly stiffen beside me, but his face remains impassive.
"I thought I taught you better. It's highly improper to spill family blood in this house," she continues, her voice carrying the weight of supposed tradition. "What were you thinking?"
Anatoly sets down his spoon with deliberate care. "Grisha was neither blood nor relation, mother. He's an outsider who tried to hurt my wife."
The tension in the room builds like a gathering storm. I take another spoonful of soup, trying to appear calm despite my racing heart.
Valentina's face contorts with rage. She slams her palm against the table, making the silverware jump and clatter against the fine china.
"Your wife is Lola, not this whore you picked off the streets!" she spits, finally looking directly at me with undisguised hatred.
My entire body goes rigid at Valentina's words. I'm tired of her venom, tired of being called a whore in my husband's house. A calm clarity washes over me as I set down my spoon.
"For all your misgivings about my status," I say, my voice steadier than I expected, "I'm still pregnant with Anatoly's child."
I place my hand protectively over my stomach, feeling a surge of fierce love for the tiny life growing inside me.
"And nothing can change that."
The words hang in the air between us, simple but undeniable. Valentina's face transforms before my eyes. Her perfectly composed features contort, her skin flushing an angry red that spreads from her neck to her hairline. Her knuckles turn white as she grips her napkin so tightly that I think she might tear it.
For a moment, I see raw hatred in her eyes, so intense it sends a chill down my spine. Then something else flickers there too. Fear. It's one thing for her to threaten me on my own. But to hear the confirmation in this house in front of her son. In front of her pakhan.
The silence stretches uncomfortably long. Vassily shifts in his seat, eyes darting between us.
Finally, Anatoly speaks, his voice dangerously calm.
"Mother," he says, the word somehow sounding like both an endearment and a threat. "Is it true that you threatened to hurt Indigo's child?"
For a split second, Valentina's carefully constructed facade cracks. Her eyes widen slightly, her lips parting in surprise that he knows. But she recovers quickly, years of practice allowing her to rearrange her features into something resembling indifference.
"What of it?" she asks with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I was simply acting to keep the bratva safe. That's always been my priority, Tolya. The family. Our legacy."
I hold my breath as Anatoly's eyes darken with fury. His voice remains dangerously calm, each word precisely measured.
"Our legacy," he says, placing his hand over mine on my stomach, "is with the child growing in Indigo's belly. Son or daughter, that is our future."
Valentina's nostrils flare, her chest heaving with barely contained rage. "You fool," she hisses. "It's because of her that the Volkovs are now fully committed to war! Taras isn't just mobilizing his men he's actively participating in the investigation of Grant Bennet's death."
Her eyes narrow as she studies Anatoly's face. "A death that you made happen Tolya. Or are you going to deny that as well?"
Anatoly's silence speaks volumes. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't deny it.
"Tell me," Valentina says with a bitter laugh. She snatches up her knife, pointing it directly at me across the table. "Did youmurder the man who could've given us the key to the city for this whore?"
"I've warned you," Anatoly's voice drops lower. "About calling my wife a whore."
"What else would you have me call a girl with no claims to power or wealth, who worked in a barbershop, who had nothing to her name suddenly rising to become a pakhan's wife?" Valentina counters, still holding the knife. Her eyes bore into mine with undisguised hatred. "If that's not the definition of a whore, then what is?"
I feel each word like a physical blow, but I refuse to flinch or look away. Instead, I meet her gaze steadily, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me hurt.
