Page 42 of The Bratva Contract
It isn’t long before I’m gowned, my epidural is set and the hellish pain uncoils to let me breathe again.
“Thank you,” I tell Dima, “They wouldn’t have given it to me yet?—”
“Thank you. For having our child. That is nothing compared to what you are doing. You’re a warrior. Although I may have a scar from the way you dug into my arm this morning.”
“Oh, the poor delicatepakhan.Do you need a bandage?” I tease.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He kisses my forehead.
In two pushes she is here. She. Our daughter. I look at Dima, bite my lip. We thought it would be a son to carry on his name, his bratva. I love our daughter with a fierce rush of devotion, but I hesitate. What if he is disappointed?
“She is perfect, Karinka,” he croons, placing her in my arms. She’s red and furious, crying with her toothless mouth wide open, and she’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Tears blur my eyes. “Listen to her shout. Won’t she be a magnificent head of the bratva?”
“You mean?—”
“I’m not so old-fashioned as your father. You must know that. She will inherit it all. She will make the Petrov organization her own and make us all proud. Just like her mother.”
I burst into tears and lift my face for his kiss. He has made me completely happy.
“What should we call her?” he asks.
“Dimitra,” I say. “Dimi.”
“Dimi Petrov, welcome to the bratva,” he says and kisses her forehead. Instantly she quiets, blinks at him with solemn eyes that are not dark like mine, but an icy blue like his.
She is just as she should be. She will sled and ride and swim, cause every kind of mischief, and then lead the family organization as heir when she is ready. This joy is a bright thing, and my husband’s face is full of wonder and adoration. We are luckier than we ever dreamed of being, together.
EPILOGUE
KARINA - SIX YEARS LATER
I’m sitting on the living-room rug with Anatoly, helping him arrange his toy animals exactly the way he wants them just so. He’s remarkably exacting for a two-year-old, so much like his father. The door clicks open, and our daughter’s bright laughter spills in before she does.
“I’m a butterfly!” she crows. “Madame says I’ll be the lead, and I even get a solo!”
“That’s wonderful, baby. I’m glad you’re happy with your part,” I say, hugging her. “Careful,” I add when she squeezes her little brother. He squawks in protest, then dutifully offers her his elephant. She flops onto the rug beside him and joins his game.
I lift my gaze over their heads and trade a smile with my husband. He lowers himself to the rug, and I lean into the solid warmth of his shoulder. Everything inside me settles into perfect alignment whenever he’s close. I never tire of it.
We play with the animals for a few more minutes before the nanny appears. “Time for Dimi to practice her piano,” she says.“And you, Anatoly, it’s bath time.” Once she shepherds the children upstairs, Dima and I gather the scattered toys and sink onto the couch.
I tuck my legs beneath me and nestle into Dima’s side as his arm drapes over my shoulders.
“She was the best dancer in the class by far,” he says, conviction humming in his voice.
“And you’re suddenly an expert on children’s ballet?” I tease.
“I know talent when I see it,” he says. “And did you notice Anatoly gave her his favorite elephant? He won’t even let me touch it when we play animals.”
“They have a very close bond,” I say happily. “The meeting went well. All the shipments are on schedule and the projections for next quarter are up again.”
“The bratva is thriving. More than it ever did under me alone,” he says.
“That’s because we make a good team.” I tell him.
“How was the rest of your day?”
“Better. The morning sickness is finally easing,” I say with a relieved smile. Our third baby is due this winter.
