But Anton is out there, running. Wounded. And if his words are true, if Sonya is carrying my child, then everything just became infinitely more complicated.
And infinitely more dangerous.
Chapter fifteen
Revelations
Sonya
We arrive at the private medical facility at 1:00 AM.
Not a hospital—those have questions, paperwork, mandatory reporting. This is a Bratva-connected clinic in a nondescript building in Midtown, the kind of place that treats gunshot wounds without calling police and knows how to keep secrets.
My ankle has swollen to twice its normal size. I can't bear the weight on it. Maksim carries me from the car through a private entrance, past security who nod recognition.
Dr. Petrov meets us in the lobby—distant family relative, sixties, gray hair and steady hands that have treated New York Bratvafor decades. His eyes take in my torn white costume, the blood spatters (Anton's, not mine), the way I'm clinging to Maksim.
"Exam room number three," he says without preamble. "X-rays and standard trauma panels. Make sure tonight's stress didn't cause internal problems."
Maksim carries me down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and old money. Everything here is expensive, discreet, and efficient.
The exam room is sterile and quiet. He sets me carefully on the padded table.
"I'll be right outside," Dr. Petrov says, handing me a hospital gown. "Change, then we'll assess."
He leaves. Maksim helps me out of the costume—unwinding the tulle, unclasping the bodice, peeling away layers that just hours ago made me look like a ghost. Now they're just torn fabric and dried blood.
When I'm in the shapeless hospital gown, reality hits.
We survived. Natasha is safe at Mount Sinai being treated. Anton escaped.
And his words echo:Pregnant. You're carrying his child.
I start shaking. Can't stop. Delayed shock, adrenaline crash, everything I held together during the performance suddenly falling apart.
Maksim pulls me against his chest immediately. "I've got you. You're safe. We're safe."
"He got away," I whisper into his shirt. "We had him right there and he—"
"I know. But you're alive. Natasha's alive. That's what matters right now."
I cry into his chest for a few minutes, letting the fear and exhaustion pour out. He holds me through it, one hand in my hair, the other on my back, steady and solid.
By the time Dr. Petrov returns at 1:45 AM, I've pulled myself together enough to sit upright.
"Let's see the ankle," he says.
The X-rays at 2:00 AM show an old injury aggravated, no new breaks. Severe soft tissue damage, inflammation on five-year scar tissue where Anton destroyed me the first time.
"Complete rest for a minimum of two weeks," Dr. Petrov says, studying the images on the light board. "Then physical therapy. Dancing is out for six weeks minimum."
"Six weeks?" The devastation must show on my face. "But the foundation students start in three weeks. I wanted to teach the first session—"
"You're lucky it's not broken." His tone is clinical but not unkind. "Ballet at your level, with a compromised ankle, fifteen minutes of high-stress choreography plus combat? Pushing it this hard had consequences. If you want to dance again at all, you need to rest now."
He's right. I know he's right.
But six weeks feels like forever.
