Page 195 of Blood & Snow
"I'll handle it," I say, unwilling to let future complications ruin tonight's celebration.
Irina emerges from the kitchen carrying a platter of pelmeni, steam rising from the dumplings in fragrant clouds.
She's warmed to me considerably over the past weeks, though I still catch her studying me occasionally as if searching for cracks in the persona I've constructed.
"Dinner is ready," she announces.
"Everyone to the table."
We gather around the dining room table I purchased specifically for this occasion—large enough to seat eight comfortably, made from solid oak that will survive whatever chaos children bring to meals.
Nadya sits at my right hand, her sister across from us with the children on either side.
Igor takes the seat at the far end, looking distinctly out of place among the arrangements.
The meal begins with traditional toasts and blessings.
Irina leads a prayer of gratitude that feels foreign to my ears but moves me, nonetheless.
These are rituals I never experienced growing up in the Bratva, but I respect them deeply, and I want to carry them forward for our child, or children.
"To new beginnings," Irina says, raising her glass.
"And to the family we choose as much as the family we're born into."
We drink, and the children dig into their food with enthusiasm that makes conversation temporarily impossible.
I watch Nadya eat, noting how she picks at her plate with the selective appetite pregnancy has given her.
"Not hungry?" I ask quietly.
"The baby doesn't appreciate Russian dumplings today," she murmurs.
"Maybe tomorrow."
"What does the baby appreciate?"
"Ice cream. Pickles. Chocolate at three in the morning."
She smiles, and the expression transforms her face into something luminous.
"Your son has expensive tastes already."
The reference to our child as my son fills me with pride and terror in equal measure.
In seven months, I'll be responsible for another human being, someone who will depend on me for protection and guidance.
The thought of failing him keeps me awake some nights.
And while we don’t know if it's a boy, I'm pinning all my hopes on it, though I won't be angry if Nadya births a daughter for me either.
"I've been thinking about names," I say, loud enough for the table to hear.
Nadya's eyebrows rise. "Have you?"
"Xavier. It's traditional, dignified. A strong name for a strong child."
"Another name that starts with the letter you favor," she teases.
