Page 42 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
For a moment, I see the old days—the two of us at the start, hungry for power, chasing dreams that tasted like blood and smoke.
I let the folder fall closed, flattening my palms against the desk. I meet Lui’s gaze and let him see what this means to me.“We go,” I say. “We watch. We make sure. If it’s her, we move fast. No mistakes.”
Lui nods, already planning. “I’ll get the plane. Keep it quiet. Just you and me, maybe one other. We don’t want word getting back to her before we’re ready.”
I nod, eyes never leaving the folder. I picture her on a beach, wind in her hair, a child at her side. I wonder if she ever thought I would give up. I wonder if she ever dreamed I would find her.
The hunt has been long. The losses have been many. As I sit in the quiet office, the world outside dark and restless, I know one thing for certain—this time, I am not letting her go. Not ever again.
Lui stands, stretches his back, and gives a last nod. “I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave.”
As the door clicks shut behind him, I reach for the photo once more. My hand shakes, just a little, as I trace the outline of her figure, the tiny form in the stroller. My child. My legacy. I will cross continents, oceans, empires for them. I will tear the world apart and put it back together if that is what it takes.
For the first time in years, I feel alive. The emptiness lifts, replaced by purpose sharp enough to cut. I will have her. I will have my child. And nothing, not the law, not fate, not even her stubborn fear, will keep us apart.
I sit alone for a long while, eyes fixed on the photo, planning every step, every shadow. Somewhere warm, he said. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere she thought I would never find her.
She was wrong. The hunt has begun again. This time, it ends with me.
Chapter Twenty-One - Jessa
Sunlight slips through thin white curtains, painting golden stripes across the scuffed wooden floor of my little coastal house. The air is thick with the salty tang of the sea, drifting in from an open window and swirling with the scent of oatmeal bubbling on the stove and coffee brewing in its chipped pot.
This is the quiet rhythm of our mornings now: slow, bright, and full of small comforts I never thought I’d get back.
In the square of sunlight by the table, Liana and Sofia play with a jumble of old blocks. Liana sits straight-backed, her tiny hands moving with careful precision as she stacks the blocks higher and higher.
She bites her lip in concentration, her blue-gray eyes intense and older than they should be for a three-year-old.
Beside her, Sofia is pure joy and mischief. She giggles as her tower topples, sending blocks skittering across the floor, then claps for herself like she’s won something big. Liana frowns and starts over without a word, stubborn in a way that makes my heart ache.
I stand at the stove, stirring oatmeal, the steam rising into my face, my hair twisted up in a messy bun. My T-shirt is faded, my leggings soft from too many washes. I keep one eye on the girls, my other senses always tuned for the smallest sign of danger or change outside our little haven.
Here, right now, I allow myself to hum—an old Russian lullaby, the words mostly lost but the melody part of me.
“Well done!” I call, encouraging her in Russian. “That’s so tall! Sofia, let’s try again, sweetheart. Can you make it even bigger this time?”
Sofia flashes me a grin and pushes the blocks together, determined to outdo her sister. Liana just glances up at me, eyes serious, and nods before returning to her building. I smile to myself, caught between pride and a fierce, aching love. They are the anchor that keeps me steady in this uncertain world.
I glance out the window. The sea is distant but always there, its blue-gray horizon reminding me of everything I’ve left behind. I let myself enjoy it for just a second. This life is so small, so fragile, but in these moments, I feel safe. I feel real.
Their names are prayers I whisper every night: Liana, for grace and strength, and Sofia, for wisdom and hope. I want to believe that by choosing these names, I’ve set something sacred in motion.
They are the reason I’ve kept going, through exhaustion and fear. Every day, I promise them silently:I’ll keep you safe, I’ll keep you free, I’ll never let the past steal your future.
I scoop oatmeal into three mismatched bowls, drizzle honey, and add cut fruit from the market. The girls scramble up to the table, feet swinging. Sofia grabs her spoon first, her words tumbling out in eager, half-finished English. “Mama, can we go to the market today? I want the biggest orange ever. The really big one!”
“We’ll see,” I reply, switching between English and Russian with barely a thought. “If you finish your breakfast.”
Liana sits quietly for a moment, then asks in Russian, “ Can we draw after?”
“Of course, baby,” I say, smoothing her hair. “Art time, then English lesson later.”
Sofia hums a tune between bites, and Liana nods, content, her attention turning back to her oatmeal. I sit across from them and talk through the day: my little photography job at the harbor, our art lesson, the English I’ll teach them and a few neighbor kids after lunch, story time tonight with our favorite fairy tale. I marvel at how these routines have become sacred, how something so ordinary can feel like a miracle.
A neighbor’s dog barks outside. I turn to see Mrs. Evans, wrapped in her shawl, waving as she hobbles by the window. I wave back, smiling, grateful for her kindness and the way she’s quietly welcomed us here. It’s the closest I’ve felt to belonging in years.
As I wipe oatmeal from Sofia’s cheeks, I think about the choice to raise them bilingual. I never explain it to anyone, never tell the shopkeeper or the other moms at the playground why my girls slip from English to Russian and back again.
