Page 196 of Blood & Snow
"How predictable."
"What's wrong with the letter X? It served me well enough."
"Nothing's wrong with it. But our son deserves his own identity, not just a variation on his father's name."
Anya giggles into her napkin while Mikhail looks confused by adult humor he doesn't quite grasp.
Irina watches our exchange with open amusement, clearly enjoying the playful argument.
"What would you name him then?" I challenge.
"Dmitri. Nikolai. Alexander."
She counts names on her fingers, each one carefully chosen to avoid the letter I prefer.
"Something that doesn't announce his father's ego every time someone speaks it."
"My ego is perfectly reasonable," I protest with a chuckle.
"Your ego bought ayolkathat barely fits through our door and filled it with presents no one on that side of town could afford," Nadya counters.
"Reasonable isn't a word I'd use to describe you."
Igor snorts into his vodka, earning a teasing glare from me that he ignores.
"Fine," I concede as I roll my eyes.
"We'll discuss names later when you're not ganging up on me with your family."
"Smart man," Irina approves.
"Learning when to retreat is an important skill."
Everyone chuckles, even Mikhail who doesn't understand, and the meal continues with conversation flowing easily between topics.
Mikhail tells me about his school project on aviation history, while Anya demonstrates the dance moves she's learned in ballet class.
Irina shares stories from the hospital that are equal parts heartwarming and horrifying.
Igor contributes occasional observations in his gruff manner, slowly warming to the atmosphere despite his obvious discomfort.
As dinner winds down and dessert appears—elaborate pastries from Moscow's finest bakery—I realize this is what I've been fighting for.
Not territory or power or revenge against enemies, but this.
The sound of children laughing, women talking, the warmth of belonging to something larger than violence and criminal enterprise.
"I need to say something," I announce, setting down my fork.
The table falls quiet, all eyes turning toward me.
Nadya's expression shifts to curiosity mixed with apprehension, probably wondering what pronouncement I'm about to make.
I reach into my pocket and withdraw the ring I've carried for three days, waiting for the right moment to present it.
Platinum band set with a single diamond, elegant without being ostentatious—he kind of ring a businessman might give his beloved.
I told her I want to marry her and she told me shewanted it too, but I never truly asked.
