Page 79 of Savage Beauty

A server comes over, carrying a gigantic bowl. I’m about to say we haven’t seen a menu yet, but he speaks first.

“The restaurant is only open for your party, and your food was pre-ordered,” he says. “Enjoy.”

He places the gnocchi dish on the table, along with three smaller plates, and Sasha digs the spoon in, serving up the food.

“I never once came here without you, Josie. It was too hard.” Mom closes her eyes as she chews. “But they make the best gnocchi ever.”

“When it comes to excellent Italian food, I’d reserve judgment if I were you,” I say, nudging Sasha. “My husband’s restaurant may be small, but he’s getting rave reviews. It was in the New Yorker,” I wave a hand in the air, “Piccolo Cuocois the new Mediterranean dining experience to savor.”

Mom looks suitably impressed. “Why that name? Is it something meaningful?”

Sasha nods. “Very meaningful, yes. Someone who loved me used to call me that.”

A quiet moment passes in memory of Sasha’s mother, who loved her children fiercely and never let her circumstances hold her down.

We chat over seltzer water and good food. Mom looks younger every minute, as though the mere sight of me has taken years off her.

I don’t know what I did to deserve a second chance, but Sasha ensured I got it. How could I ever have considered trading my happiness for safety when Sasha gives me more of both than I could ever need?

* * *

Eventually, we put Mom in a cab home, with a promise to meet her tomorrow and take her to view properties. We showed her the photos of our new riverside apartment—modest, by Sasha’s standards, but perfect for a little family just starting out. She cooed over them until Sasha casually said he would buy one for her, which led to their first in-law argument. Sasha won in the end, and Mom eventually got excited at the prospect of a beautiful home a stone’s throw from me and the baby.

Our cab pulls up outside the obstetrician’s office, and Sasha helps me out, catching me as I sway.

“Steady,” he says, concerned. “Is your center of gravity thrown off by food?”

“It’s thrown byyourchild,” I laugh, holding onto his arm. “I’m not made of glass, you know. You don’t have to fuss.”

Sasha wrinkles his nose. “Yes, I do. You two,” he strokes my stomach, “are the most precious people in the world. If I don’t look after you, who will?”

He’s right, of course. And he means it—he’s more than made his point.

Sasha’s edge will always be there. You can take the man out of the bratva, but you can’t take the bratva out of the man. I’m confident he could be in his kitchen, cheerfully sautéing scallops, and then the next minute, the spatula will be through someone’s head. But only if they look at me in a way that displeases him.

I try not to squeeze Sasha’s hand as we sit side by side in the waiting room, but a cold roll of fear makes the food sit heavy. Every scan is terrifying to me. After everything we went through, I have check-ups regularly, but now that I think about it, I don’t know when I last felt the baby move.

We don’t wait for long. Dr. Conn calls us through, and I assume the position on the examining couch, lifting my shirt in readiness for the ultrasound wand. A chilly squirt of KY jelly, and she’s away, moving the sensor over my skin.

“Your baby is very still today,” she says. Her voice is steady, but a tiny line appears between her brows. “Let me see if I can get some movement going here.”

I can see the heartbeat, but it’s fluttery, strange. At this stage, my baby should be wriggling all the time, but there’s nothing to see, and Dr. Conn’s prods are to no avail. I start crying quietly, and Sasha stands closer so I can lean on him. He’s so tense that he feels like a statue.

“Give me a minute,” the doctor says. She leaves the room abruptly, and panic rises in my throat.

No.Not after everything we’ve been through. I can’t get Mom back and lose my baby on the same day. Surely that’s not how the universe works?

Sasha pulls up a chair and sits, leaning forward until his face is near my stomach. He speaks softly, his words warm and coaxing.

“Moye ditya,” he murmurs. “Il mio bambino. You’re scaring your Mama, little one. Wake up.”

I almost jump out of my skin as the baby gives an almighty kick, almost clocking Sasha in the jaw. “Takes after me,” he says with a grin. “Sorry about that.”

We’re both laughing when the doctor returns with a colleague in tow. She checks again with the ultrasound, sighing with relief at the sight of the baby tossing and turning happily.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she says. Her colleague ducks out again, glad not to be involved. “He gave us all quite the scare!” She claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh no. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

We didn’t want to find out the gender until the birth. I search Sasha’s face, wondering if he’s angry, but he’s too happy to care. He speaks to my bump again.

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