"What kind of sessions?"
"Video calls, twice a week. Analyze his behavior, predict his next moves, narrow down possible locations. You know how he thinks better than anyone."
I glance at Maksim, who nods approval.
"Tuesday and Friday afternoons," I agree. "After foundation classes."
The week develops a rhythm.
Mornings (9 AM - 12 PM):Foundation work. Teaching Philadelphia students in person—five enrolled so far, all from difficult backgrounds. Word spread after the announcement at the October Bratva meeting. Dancers escaping abuse, recovering from injuries, seeking legitimate careers away from family crime connections.
I teach modified classes, respecting my healing ankle and early pregnancy. Natasha assists, taking over demonstrations when I need to conserve energy.
Afternoons (1 PM - 3 PM):New York students via video call. Three enrolled there, working with a local studio space we're renting. I teach remotely, Natasha plans to travel there twice a week starting next month.
Late Afternoons (3 PM - 5 PM):Strategy sessions with Mariana on Tuesdays and Fridays. The rest of the week, foundation planning—using Maksim and Alexei's Bratva connections to expand reach, leveraging my gallery network for funding and legitimacy.
Evenings:Pregnancy, marriage, the ordinary life we're trying to build.
By Wednesday, I'm exhausted but fulfilled. This is what I wanted—purpose beyond survival, building something that helps others.
Thursday at 2:00 PM, I'm teaching a Philadelphia class when the nausea hits differently.
Not the gentle morning queasiness I've managed all week. This is sudden, overwhelming, undeniable.
I excuse myself mid-demonstration, make it to the studio bathroom just in time.
Maksim finds me there five minutes later—he'd been watching from the doorway as always.
"Everyone’s okay out there?" I ask weakly, leaning against the sink.
"Natasha took over." He wets a paper towel, hands it to me. "You okay in here?"
"Morning sickness. Except it's afternoon." I press the cool towel to my face. "Seven weeks pregnant is glamorous."
He gathers my hair back gently as another wave hits and holds it while I'm sick, then helps me rinse my mouth after.
When I'm steady enough to stand, he turns me to face him. Kisses my neck softly, right below my ear.
"Even like this," he murmurs against my skin, "you're magnificent."
"I just threw up."
"You're growing our child. Teaching students. Hunting a serial killer. You're magnificent."
His hand settles on the small bump, protective and reverent.
"I need to get back to class," I say, but don't move away from his touch.
"Natasha has it. Take five more minutes."
We stand in the bathroom together, his hand on my stomach, my back against his chest, stealing a moment of quiet in the middle of everything.
Friday afternoon, 3:00 PM. Second strategy session with Mariana via video.
She's in the federal building conference room. I'm in Maksim's study, laptop open, notes spread before me.
"Walk me through his pattern," Mariana says. "Seven victims over fifteen years. What's the common thread beyond ballet and Bratva connections?"
