Chapter 26 - Misha
The estate looks different in daylight.
We arrive mid-morning, the convoy rolling through gates that now bristle with additional security. Men patrol the perimeter in pairs, their movements crisp and professional. New cameras dot the walls, their lenses tracking our approach. The damage from the assault has been cleared away—broken windows replaced, bullet holes patched, the grounds swept clean of debris and blood.
But the scars remain. I can see them in the fresh mortar between old stones, the raw wood of repaired doors, the patches of earth where grass hasn't yet regrown over trampled flowerbeds. The gargoyles on the roofline stare down at us with their eternal grimaces, silent witnesses to the violence that unfolded here.
This is what my life costs. This is what loving me costs.
I glance at Bianca, asleep against my shoulder. She's been drifting in and out since we left the medical facility, her body demanding rest even as her mind resists surrender. In sleep, she looks younger. Softer. The bruises on her face are fading to yellow-green, her wrists wrapped in clean bandages, her breathing slow and steady.
She fought her way through half of Sergei's compound. Killed two men with a stolen gun. Nearly escaped on her own before they recaptured her. And through all of it, the baby held on.
She's alive. The baby is alive. That's all that matters.
The SUV stops at the front entrance. I ease out from under Bianca's weight and circle to her door, lifting her into my arms before she can fully wake.
"I can walk," she mumbles, her eyes still closed.
"I know."
She doesn't argue. Just tucks her head against my shoulder and lets me carry her inside, her body warm and trusting against mine.
Mrs. Novak meets us in the foyer, her face creased with worry. She takes one look at Bianca and starts issuing orders—hot soup, fresh sheets, a warm bath drawn. The household staff springs into action, a flurry of activity centered on the woman in my arms.
"The blue room," Mrs. Novak says. "I've had it prepared."
"My room," I correct her.
A pause. Mrs. Novak's eyebrows rise slightly, but she's too professional to comment. She's been with this family for thirty years. She's seen stranger things than the boss carrying a woman to his bedroom in broad daylight.
"Of course, sir. I'll have everything redirected."
I carry Bianca up the stairs, down the corridor, into the bedroom that has felt empty for as long as I can remember. The curtains are drawn back, afternoon light streaming across the bed where we've spent so many nights tangled together. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like yesterday.
I lay her down gently, pulling the covers over her. She's already asleep again, her face peaceful, her hand curled protectively over her stomach.
Over our child.
I stand there for a long moment, watching her breathe. The reality of it still hasn't fully sunk in. Fatherhood. A baby. A future I never imagined, never planned for, never thought I deserved.
My phone buzzes. Dmitri.
I step into the hallway to answer, pulling the door closed softly behind me.
"You're back," my brother says without preamble.
"Just arrived."
"How is she?"
"Sleeping. The doctors said she's fine. The baby's fine."
A pause. Dmitri didn't know about the pregnancy until I told him during the extraction. His reaction was typical Dmitri—a long silence, followed by a single raised eyebrow and the words "Well, that complicates things."
"We need to talk," he says now. "The Morozov situation."
"I know. Come to the estate. We'll discuss it here."
