Page 71 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
"Both punish arrogance."
He carried Mac toward the bathroom where he’d had a changing station installed. I followed.
Artem removed his cufflinks, rolled his sleeves to the elbow, and undid the nappy. While he reached down to get cleaning wipes.
Ivan sat up, hair flattened on one side, carrier straps still crossing his chest. "Careful. He—"
But it was too late. Mac produced a fine arc across Artem's shirt cuff.
"—has range."
Artem stared at his sleeve.
No one spoke.
Maeve's laugh came out in a rush, bright and helpless. "Good aim."
Artem looked at our son. His expression should have been offended. But it went soft instead. Which I had only seen directed at Maeve, and now at the small creature who had just urinated on his shirt.
"It was an excellent aim," he told Mac. "You’ll fire a gun very well."
"Absolutely not."
He leaned down and whispered, "We'll discuss it when you're older."
"Also no."
Artem fastened the clean nappy, tucked Mac against his shoulder, and began pacing the aisle, murmuring low Russian. Mac's fist closed around his collar. Within a minute, the baby had settled. Within two, Artem had forgotten his shirt, his suit, and the fact that he was the head of a criminal empire, because a ten-day-old had him by the lapel and wasn't letting go.
Maeve sat back beside me and pulled a blanket over her lap while her gaze drifted to Mary, who was across the aisle scrolling through an iPad with the concentration of a scholar.
It appeared when Mary laughed too loudly. When she slept late. When she stood in the doorway of Mac's nursery pretending she'd wandered in by accident. Maeve measured each sound against years of silence.
"I'm worried about her," Maeve murmured. "She's eighteen. She shouldn't be wrapped up in a fake mafia wedding, flying to Vegas to forge documents. I should be—"
"I can hear you," Mary said without looking up. "And you don't need to protect me. I'm getting a new passport, a new name, and enough money to buy a private island. I’m vibrating with freedom. Don't ruin my vibe with older-sister anxiety."
"You don't understand the risks."
"I understand the scariest men in Europe are currently debating whether to armor-train a pony for an infant."
“A stallion,” Artem quipped.
She glanced up and flashed a grin that was pure McCarthy. "Besides, I'm going to be a fake Bratva bride for ten minutes, then I'm hitting the Strip. Margaritas. Gambling. Showgirls."
Maeve's eyebrow went up. “I said no.”
"I'm a free woman," Mary insisted. "I'm going to party."
"Mary," I said.
She looked at me. "Yes, Gregor?"
"The drinking age in the United States is twenty-one."
Silence.
She turned to Maeve. "Is he serious?"
