Page 144 of 10 Days to Surrender

Nat’s the easy one. She does not play when it comes to nursing time. Eyes on the prize like a wartime general, sometimes even with a fist raised in victory. Leo, my restless revolutionary, keeps unlatching to glare at the world that dared remove him from the warmth of the womb.

I look up at the wall to check the time. Mama’s French cuckoo clock, the one Sasha fixed, is perfect down to the second.

Leo frowns and starts murmuring at the shift in my posture. “Shh, little man,” I whisper, stroking his cheek. “Your sister’s being so good. See?”

He sighs and settles back in, thank God.

Once they’re comfortably nursing again, I return my attention to my computer screen, where a Word doc has my story waiting for today’s words. It’s hard enough to type with one baby, much less one in each arm, but I find a way. Feliks calls it “double dribbling.” I think that’s a basketball joke, but I’m not completely sure. To be honest, I don’t think he knows, either.

My fingers hover over the keys as I stare at the scene I’m trying to write. The church in Roccastrada looms dark in my memory—rain and mud and broken saints watching from above. Hard to believe these same babies entered the world in such chaos. Sometimes, I wake up gasping, thinking I hear thunder. But then I feel Sasha’s arms around me, hear the twins breathing in their bassinet, and reality settles back into place.

I look down at my children—ourchildren. Natalie with her father’s ice-blue eyes, Leo with my green ones. Both of them with Sasha’s nose and my stubborn chin. They’re our best story yet, written in flesh and blood instead of words.

My fingers fly across the keyboard again, weaving fiction from truth. Some details, I keep exactly as they happened—the weight of Sasha’s hands as he helped me breathe through contractions, the way Jasmine’s violin sang just before our world imploded.

Others, I soften, blur, transform into something less sharp-edged.

The truth is in there, though, between the lines. In the spaces where I pause to remember. In the moments when my handsgo still over the keys, and I simply watch my children nurse, marveling at how something so gentle could come from so much violence.

The clock ticks on, keeping perfect time. Outside, Brooklyn wakes up slowly, but in here, it’s just us—me and my babies and our story, unfolding one word at a time.

Leo’s fist raps on my sternum. “I know,agapi mou,” I murmur, adjusting his angle. “The world’s unfair. Write a strongly worded letter to management.”

Natalie pops off with a satisfied smack. I shift her to my shoulder, patting the gas bubbles she’ll deny having. The motion jostles Leo again, who retaliates by clamping down.

“Malysh,” I hiss through clenched teeth, “we talked about this.”

Footsteps creak in the hall. My mother appears with two mugs, her silk kimono whispering against the doorframe. “They’re conspiring against you,” she remarks, setting my coffee down for me.

I sniff the steam—hazelnut creamer, heavy on the cinnamon. “They’re Sasha’s children. Scheming’s in their DNA.”

She hovers, because doting is inherDNA. Her fingers twitch toward Leo’s wayward foot. “Do you need?—?”

“You can steal them from me once they’re done.”

She grins guiltily, caught red-handed in Grandma Mode, then nods and slips back down the hall. When the door clicks shut, I exhale slowly. Natalie’s head lolls against my neck, milk-drunk and dreamy. Leo’s grip on my thumb loosens as sleep claims him, too.

The cursor blinks, waiting.

Eventually, I run out of both words and milk. When Mama knocks on the door to check on me, I offer her the children. She scoops them both up with obvious glee and starts singing as she ferries them away.

Time to do some of my other work. The screen is a maze of notifications, mostly from The Phoenix’s Slack channel, where Gina and Lora are tag-teaming updates about our latest story’s impact. Our exposé on Midwest Pharmaceuticals’ price-fixing scheme has exploded. Major networks are picking it up, citing our reporting. My chest swells with pride. Twelve months ago, The Phoenix was a sleazy tabloid printing celebrity nip slips. Now, we’re making corporate giants sweat.

A message from Gina pops up:CNN wants an interview!!!! Call me when the tiny humans release you from boob duty.

I can’t help but unleash a goofy grin, even though I’m all alone in my mother’s den. They’ve been invaluable—Gina’s razor-sharp editing, Lora’s surprising talent for following money trails. Who woulda thought that Lora the Ditz knew accounting so well?

Together, we’ve built something meaningful from the ashes of the trashy rag Sasha bought me.

Speaking of meaningful transformations, there’s a text from Feliks:Latest sweep came up empty. No sign of the Serbian snake anywhere. If he survived, he’s long gone.

My fingers tighten around the phone. Part of me wants to believe Dragan died in that church, crushed beneath that poor, torturedPeugeot that the rental company will never see again. But bodies have a way of turning up —or not—in our world.

Still, six months of silence speaks volumes. I choose to believe he’s gone for good.

I scroll down to find a video in the family group chat from Jasmine. She’s at her new studio in Manhattan bright and early this morning, helping a young student correct their bow grip. The difference between this Jasmine and the one who fled to France is stark. Her shoulders are straight, her smile genuine as she guides small hands into proper position.

First student showcase next Friday,reads her caption.You’re all coming, right?

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