"Your HCG levels are elevated. Significantly." He pauses, letting that settle. "You're pregnant. Four to five weeks based on the levels."
The room tilts slightly.
Pregnant.
Actually pregnant.
"We suspected," Maksim says, his voice steady despite the tension I can feel in his hand.
Dr. Petrov is quiet for a moment, processing the implications. Then: "I need to run additional tests. Ultrasound to check fetal development, more blood work for pregnancy hormones and stress markers. After tonight's physical exertion, I want to make sure there's no threatened miscarriage."
The wordmiscarriagemakes my stomach drop.
The next hour passes in a blur of tests.
Ultrasound—cold gel on my stomach, wand pressing, searching. Maksim holds my hand through it, both of us staring at the grainy black and white screen.
"There," Dr. Petrov says, pointing to a tiny flickering spot. "Heartbeat."
I can't breathe. Can't process. That tiny flicker is a heartbeat. A life.
Our child.
More blood work. More waiting. Maksim doesn't leave my side, doesn't let go of my hand.
At 4:30 AM, Dr. Petrov returns with results.
"Fetus appears healthy," he says. "Heartbeat is strong. Development is consistent with four weeks gestation. However—" his tone becomes serious, "—your stress hormones are dangerously elevated. The physical exertion tonight, the adrenaline, the trauma—your body has been under significant strain."
"What does that mean?" Maksim's voice is tight, controlled.
"Complete rest. Not just for the ankle—for the pregnancy. I want to monitor you closely. Any bleeding, cramping, unusual symptoms—seek medical attention immediately."
The instructions settle over me—bed rest, monitoring, careful management. It's real now. Not just a possibility Anton taunted us with, but actual pregnancy that needs protecting.
Maksim's face has gone pale, but his voice is absolute steel. "I failed Elena and our child. I won't fail you."
Dr. Petrov watches this exchange, understanding more than we're saying. He's treated Bratva long enough to know the history.
"You're young, healthy, strong. You survived tonight. The baby survived tonight. That's resilience. But now you rest. Let your body recover from the trauma. Give this pregnancy the best chance," he says gently
I nod, not trusting my voice.
At 5:00 AM, we're cleared to leave. Prescriptions filled, instructions given: bed rest one week minimum, follow-up appointment in three days at a facility in Philadelphia that Dr. Petrov will coordinate, and call immediately if there are any concerns.
"I'll arrange the follow-up with Dr. Volkov in Philadelphia," Dr. Petrov adds. "He's excellent with high-risk pregnancies and Bratva-connected. You won't need to return to New York for routine monitoring."
Maksim carries me to the car waiting outside.
The drive back to Philadelphia takes two hours.
One of Maksim's men drives our SUV—Maksim and me in the back, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder. A second SUV follows with Sergei, Natasha, and the Mount Sinai nurse, the back seats converted for medical transport. The third SUV carries the remaining two Philadelphia security men.
Dr. Petrov arranged everything: Mount Sinai released Natasha into Sergei's care with a nurse escort, the back seats converted to a makeshift medical transport with IV equipment and oxygen. Proper evacuation, discreet and efficient.
I'm quiet during the drive, processing.
Pregnant. Four weeks. A baby growing inside me.
