Across the table, my mother sits with Kirill, apparently teaching him Italian.
“No, no,” she says, waving a finger at him like a schoolteacher. “It’svorreidel vino, not vo-ray de weeno.”
Kirill raises an unimpressed brow, muttering something in Russian, and my mother gasps.
“Was that a curse word?” she demands, laughing even as she swats at him with a cloth napkin.
“I will try again.” Kirill clears his throat and butchers it again. “That’s it. I give up.”
“Eh.” My mother scoffs. “Giving up is for pussies.”
“Mom!”
Kirill laughs, while my father looks mortified.
“Porca miseria, Angelica! Come on.”
“What? I speak the truth.”
They go on like this back and forth, Kirill teaching her some Russian, and her with Italian.
I stare at my dad for a bit as he sips on his wine, looking genuinely relaxed for the first time in forever. This is our life now, and they can finally breathe a little easier.
Across from Dad, Emilia rests her head on Konstantin’s shoulder. When she catches my eyes, a smile spreads.
I love you, she mouths, and I give it right back.
My gaze then drifts to Lev, his small body curled over a thick book, fingertips gliding across the page as he reads to himself, completely absorbed, his headphones snug over his ears. He glances up briefly, his eyes scanning the room until they find mine.
He doesn’t smile or wave, simply looking at me, and it’s enough to make me wonder what it would feel like to have a son of our own. A child with Aleksei’s eyes and my stubbornness, or maybe the other way around.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I catch myself, smoothing down my blouse instead.
As the table erupts in laughter again—this time at my father trying to pronounce “zdrastvuyte” and butchering it worse than Kirill did Italian—I lean into Aleksei’s side, my head resting on his shoulder as he slides an arm around me.
It’s not just love I feel. It’s home.
But the thought that’s been building in my chest for days won’t stay down any longer. My pulse beats faster as I tilt my head toward him.
I’m terrified. I don’t know what he’ll do with this news, but I’ll burst if I keep it to myself any longer.
“Can we talk? Privately?” I ask him.
His brows knit, that protective edge already sharpening behind his eyes. “Of course, lyubov moya. Come.”
He stands, his palm warm against the small of my back as he leads me out of the dining room, the laughter and chatter fading behind us. The kitchen is quiet, and for a moment, I can’t seem to find the right words. My palms are clammy, my throat dry.
“I know this is too soon.” I glance down at the marble counter before meeting his curious stare. “And we’ve never really discussed it, but I think I forgot the pill a few days, and?—”
He stiffens instantly. “What?”
My heart races as the words tumble out. “Ya beremenna.”
His eyes widen, the Russian catching him off guard. “Did you just say…” He cradles my cheek. “Fiona, what are you saying?”
“I’m pregnant, Aleksei.” My voice trembles, despite my best efforts to steady it. “You’re going to be a daddy.”
For a moment, there’s only silence. The air between us is heavy enough to crush me. His expression shifts with shock, disbelief, maybe even fear, and my stomach recoils.
