Page 78 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“You shouldn’t be sorry.” I reach for her hand. “You protected our children and our future. That’s exactly what any good mother would do.”
“That’s not how people expect women to feel about killing someone.” Zita’s observation reveals she’s been thinking about social expectations and judgments. “They expect me to be haunted or damaged by the experience.”
“You’re not most women.” I bring her hand to my lips. “You’re someone who does what’s necessary to protect what matters most, and that’s one of the reasons I love you.”
“I feel powerful.” Zita’s admission carries wonder, like she’s discovering something new about herself. “For the first timesince we got married, I feel like I have real agency in my own life.”
“You’ve always had agency,” I disagree gently, “But now you know you have it.”
“There’s a difference between having power and knowing you have it.” She shifts position to accommodate her pregnancy. “Today showed me I can shape what happens to us instead of just reacting to what other people do to us.”
The insight reveals how much she’s changed since our wedding day. The woman who once felt trapped by circumstances beyond her control has become someone who takes decisive action to create the outcomes she wants.
“What do you want to shape next?” I’m genuinely curious about her priorities now that the immediate threats have been eliminated.
“I want to shape how we raise our children.” Zita’s answer comes without hesitation. “I want to make sure they grow up knowing they have choices, and they’re not limited by other people’s expectations or traditions they didn’t choose.”
“What kind of choices?”
“Mostly, the choice to be involved in family business or pursue completely different paths. I want them to inherit opportunities, not obligations.”
“Even if that means they choose lives that involve theBratva?” The question tests how far her thinking extends.
“I hope they choose lives that have nothing to do with theBratva.” Zita’s response is immediate and certain. “I want themto have the freedom to build something entirely different if that’s what makes them happy.”
“What if they want to continue what we’ve started?” I explore the opposite scenario. “What if they choose to be part of transforming the family business into something legitimate?”
“Then we make sure they’re prepared for that choice too.” Zita’s pragmatism balances idealism with reality. “We give them the education and experience they need to make informed decisions about their futures.”
“You’re talking about raising children who are completely different from how we were raised.” I point out the magnitude of what she’s suggesting.
“I’m talking about breaking the cycle that trapped both of us.” Her voice carries conviction. “Our children will never question if they’re valued for themselves or just for what they can provide to the family organization. They’ll certainly never be saddled with a marriage contract they don’t want.”
I nod. “It turned out well, but they should have choices. Do you really think we can give them that kind of childhood?”
“I think we can give them better than that.” She leans forward despite the limitations of her pregnancy. “We can give them love, security, and freedom that creates people who can change the world.”
“Six children who could change the world…” I repeat her words, testing how they sound.
“Six children who will definitely change our world.” She smiles with certainty. “They’ll inherit the best parts of what we’ve built and improve on everything else.”
29
Zita
The pain starts at three in the morning, pulling me from sleep with an intensity that’s different from the false contractions I’ve been experiencing for weeks. This isn’t the uncomfortable tightening that Dr. Kozlova warned me about but a sharp, demanding pain that makes me gasp and clutch the sheets while my body prepares for something I’m not ready for.
“Tigran.” I shake his shoulder, trying to keep panic out of my voice even though we’re still two weeks away from the target delivery date. “Something’s happening.”
He’s instantly alert. “What kind of something?”
“Labor.” The word comes out between contractions that are already closer together than they should be for early labor. “Real labor, not practice contractions.”
Within minutes, he sweeps me from our bedroom in the Wisconsin estate to the birthing room that doubles as an operating room in the medical wing. Dr. Kozlova appears fromher private suite here, followed by the team of specialists we’ve had living on the property for the past month. The rotating shift of neonatal nurses and pediatric doctors that Tigran hired several weeks ago mobilizes with the efficiency of a military operation.
“How far apart are the contractions?” She checks her watch while a nurse, Patricia, begins taking my vital signs.
“Three minutes.” I can barely speak through the latest wave of pain. “They started ten minutes ago.”
