ENEMIES WITH BENEFITS ... AND A BABY

Eva Ivanova didn’t cry, not when her father bled out on the snow, eyes open, lips parted like he still had one last word.

Not when her uncle handed her a gun on her tenth birthday instead of a doll and said, “Happy training.”

Not even when she pulled her best friend out of a car wreck with a baby screaming in her arms.

But now? Sitting in a government office that smelled of printer ink and bureaucratic death—a stench she knew well from her uncle’s parole hearings, just without the blood.

She did what any emotionally repressed ex-Bratva soldier turned criminal defense attorney would do. She clenched her jaw until it ached.

“You’re saying I have…legal custody… of a baby? I was expecting jury duty. Or a subpoena. Not… this.”

The court liaison didn’t blink. “Yes.”

Eva blinked for her. “You sure?”

The woman tapped the manila folder like it contained the Ark of the Covenant. “Guardianship, per the Riccis’ will.”

“No offense,” Eva said, leaning back in her chair with a dry laugh, “but I was expecting, you know, a fruit basket. Not a f**king baby.”

“Fruit baskets don’t come with legal clauses,” the woman replied, sliding the paperwork across the desk. “You signed this.”

Eva glanced at her signature. Beneath a clause that read:

In the event of death or incapacitation, legal and physical custody will transfer to the named guardians…

“And they went and got themselves both,” Eva muttered.

Her stomach flipped. Her mouth tasted like ash.

She didn’t cry, but she wanted to throw up.

“I was at the crash site,” she said, throat tightening. “Before the EMTs. I held Hanna’s hand while she—” She cut herself off, swallowing. “So don’t explain this like I haven’t bled on that baby’s blanket.”

The woman adjusted her glasses. “Then you understand why she’s yours now.”

Eva’s eyes dropped to the form.

Sophia Ricci. Six months old, orphan. Next of kin: Eva Ivanova and another name

Eva’s spine stiffened. “Who’s the co-guardian?”

A knock at the door answered for her—three heavy, arrogant knocks.

“No,” Eva said before the door even opened. “No. You didn’t.”

The door creaked, and in walked the b*st*rd.

Alessandro Bianchi.

Italian-American. Mafia prince. Now, a corporate lawyer in a suit that costs more than Eva’s rent.

“Mr. Bianchi,” the clerk said.

Eva closed her eyes. “God hates me.” Which was fine; she’d hated Him first.

“Same,” Alessandro muttered.

They stared at each other like two cats in a burning alley.

They’d gone to war in courtrooms across three states. Left wreckage. Ruined each other’s cases. Possibly ruined each other’s s*x lives.

But this?

This was personal.

Alessandro folded into the seat beside her, not looking at her. “This is a bad joke.”

“Agreed.”

“I’m not qualified to raise a plant.”

“Don’t be modest. You’ve killed one before.”

He gave her a sideways look. “They’re saying I have custody of a baby.”

“Same.”

“Who gave us this baby?”

“Luca and Hanna.”

“Our dead friends?”

“Our very dead friends,” she said, voice sharper now. “Whose ashes are probably still warm.”

Alessandro turned to the clerk. “There’s no one else?”

“No,” the woman said. “They were explicit. Guardianship to you two. Their best friends. Their ride-or-dies.” She air quoted it.

“Jesus Christ,” Alessandro muttered. “They trusted us?”

Eva scoffed. “They were not in their right minds.”

There was a pause.

Then the clerk nodded toward the baby carrier outside the office door. “Would you like to meet your child?”

“Not,” Eva said.

But the door opened anyway.

The social worker wheeled in a tiny, peach-colored carrier and set it on the floor like it contained a bomb.

Inside: Sophia Ricci.

Six months old. Big eyes. No emotion. Just… watching.

Eva looked down.

The baby stared at her.

Not cried. Not fussed. Just stared.

“…Is she broken?” Eva asked quietly.

“She’s just quiet,” the social worker said.

“She’s too quiet,” Alessandro said, frowning. “Babies cry. They snot. They scream.”

“She doesn’t do that,” the woman said. “Not since the crash.”

Eva bent slowly, knelt. Their eyes met.

Sophia reached out. One small fist closed around Eva’s finger with terrifying intent.

Eva froze.

“She doesn’t even know me,” she whispered.

“She knows something,” the clerk said.

Alessandro crouched beside her. “This is a mistake.”

Eva didn’t answer.

Because the baby wasn’t crying.

She was watching both of them like she was deciding if they were worth the trouble.

“Do you want to contest?” the clerk questioned.

They looked at each other.

“We could,” Eva said. “Let the state place her.”

“You trust the system?” Alessandro asked.

She hesitated. “…No.”

“Neither do I.”

They both turned to Sophia. She blinked, yawned, and frowned like an old man who’d just read disappointing news.

Alessandro sighed. “This kid is going to hate us.”

“Only if she survives us. The Bratva had a 50/50 survival rate, better odds than she’d had.” Eva said, reaching for the pen. “Where do I sign?”

****

Later Parking lot

They walked to Eva’s car with a baby carrier between them like it was radioactive.

“She needs structure,” Alessandro said. “Routine. Safety. I have a nursery. Guards. A Swiss nanny.”

“She’s a baby, not an international war criminal.”

“She might be both.”

“She needs me,” Eva declared.

“You said you weren’t maternal.”

“I’m not,” Eva snapped. “But I’m not handing her over like dry cleaning either.”

Sophia whimpered.

Eva froze.

Alessandro stepped back. Hands up. “Okay. You win. You’re the human blanket.”

“I’m the emotional trauma support animal. Great.”

“She has a will like her mother,” he said quietly. “God help us all.”

Eva opened the door, slid the carrier inside.

Sophia’s hand curled around her finger again.

Alessandro watched her. “This is going to be hell.”

Eva exhaled, eyes on Sophia’s tiny, terrifyingly calm face. “Yeah,” she whispered. “But at least she won’t go through it alone.”

Sophia blinked, then smiled just a little, and Eva’s heart did something stupid.

She shut the door before anyone saw and drove off into the wreckage of her new life.

Eva was one coffee and one nervous breakdown away from setting something—or someone on fire.

Sophia lay on the living room floor, nestled into a folded throw blanket like she’d claimed the apartment as her throne. Six months old. Silent. Her brown eyes were too still, too wide, too damn knowing. She didn’t babble or cry, watching them like she was trying to figure out if these two broken idiots were even worth trusting.

Eva had once held pressure on a gut wound while two men bled out beside her in a stairwell. That had been less stressful than this baby.

Then it came: two short knocks, followed by another, longer one.

Her whole body tensed, like it remembered how to kill before it remembered how to breathe. A Bratva code. She hadn't heard it in a year—not since the last time she’d answered it with a pistol in one hand and a cake in the other.

She moved without thinking, muscle memory born of too many nights spent waiting for death. Her Glock was in hand