And for the first time since this pregnancy began, I'm not afraid.
Just excited. Just grateful. And ready for whatever comes next.
Chapter twenty-four
Bloodlines
Maksim
Friday, March 18th, 1:00 PM.
Vladislav Morozov arrives from Moscow—Alexei's distant cousin, high-ranking in the Russian Bratva, interested in replicating the foundation model in Russia.
We meet at the mansion. Lunch in the formal dining room—Sonya, Alexei (flew in from Chicago yesterday), Vladislav, me, Sergei.
Sonya is twenty-five weeks pregnant now—six months, visibly and undeniably so. The bump is prominent even in the elegant maternity dress she chose for this meeting. She's been teachingmodified classes, managing foundation operations, negotiating partnerships. Pregnancy hasn't slowed her down.
Vladislav is fifties, gray-haired, sharp-eyed. Traditional Russian Bratva—formal, careful, assessing everything.
"The Morozov-Petrov Foundation," he says after we've explained the structure. "Thirty-eight students, two cities, federal partnerships. Impressive in such a short time."
"Sonya built it," I say. "I just provided resources."
Vladislav's eyes move to her, reassessing. "And now you're building a family as well."
"Twenty-five weeks," she confirms, one hand on her bump. "Due end of June. A boy."
"Congratulations. Children are blessings." He pauses. "The foundation model—I'd like to pilot it in Moscow. Smaller scale initially. Five students, one instructor. See if it translates to Russian culture."
"It will," Sonya says with certainty. "Ballet culture in Russia is even stronger than here. The need is just as great, maybe greater. We'd be honored to share our framework."
"There would be financial arrangements, of course. Licensing fees, consulting—"
"No fees," Sonya interrupts. "This is Elena's legacy. We're not profiting from helping at-risk dancers. You cover operational costs, we provide the framework free. That's the deal."
Vladislav blinks, surprised. Then smiles. "Bratva queen negotiating like a businesswoman. Alexei, you didn't mention she had teeth."
"She negotiated the Morozov-Petrov alliance herself," Alexei says, amused. "Without either of us present. I learned not to underestimate her."
"Smart." Vladislav turns back to Sonya. "If not licensing fees, what do you want?"
"Nothing for the foundation. But—" She pauses, calculating. "I own a gallery in Manhattan. Art dealing, high-end clientele. I'm selling it. Too much to manage with pregnancy, foundation, family. If you know Russian collectors interested in established New York gallery with existing inventory and client base—"
"Keep controlling interest," Vladislav says immediately, understanding where she's going. "Sell operational control but maintain ownership stake. Russian investors love New York real estate and legitimate businesses. I can broker that."
"Fifty-one percent ownership retained," Sonya negotiates. "Operational control sold, I remain as a silent partner with veto power on major decisions. The gallery continues operating under its current name and reputation."
"Done. I'll have buyers by next week."
They shake hands across the table—Bratva boss and pregnant foundation director, negotiating international expansion and business deals like seasoned partners.
After lunch, Vladislav speaks privately with me and Alexei. "The new generation is strong. Your wife—she's formidable."
"She is," I agree.
"And the baby? Healthy?"
"So far. Six months along, everything is progressing normally."
