I take Sonya's hand. "It means we raise them knowing the truth. Both sides—the violence and the love, the crime and the family, the ghosts and the futures. We don't hide what we are."
"But we also don't force them into it," Sonya adds firmly. "Our child gets to choose. That's the whole point of the foundation—giving people choices our families never had."
Alexei nods slowly. "Agreed. But while they're choosing, they need protection. Anton knowing about the pregnancy changes everything. He killed Elena at seven months. He's obsessed withpregnant ballerinas. Your child is a target before they're even born."
The reality settles heavy in the room.
"We've increased security," Sergei reports. "Philadelphia mansion is fortress-level now. Sonya doesn't go anywhere without two guards minimum. Foundation classes are monitored. Medical appointments have advanced teams."
"Good. Chicago can provide additional resources if needed." Alexei pauses. "There's something else we need to discuss. The foundation is getting attention—good attention. Students enrolling through Bratva networks, families seeing legitimate paths. But that visibility also draws Anton. When you do the public launch—"
"He'll surface," I finish. "We know. We're counting on it."
"Counting on him attacking?" Mila's voice rises slightly.
"Counting on him revealing himself," Sonya clarifies. "Right now he's a ghost. We can't fight a ghost. But the foundation launch, the pregnancy becoming public knowledge, me being visible—that draws him out. And when he surfaces, we end him."
"You're using yourself as bait," Alexei says flatly.
"I'm refusing to hide." Sonya's voice is steel. "He's controlled my life for five years through fear. I won't let him control my child's life the same way."
The room is quiet for a moment.
Then Alexei smiles slightly. "You're more Morozov than I gave you credit for. Stubborn, brave, slightly insane."
"That's why I married her," I say.
At 8:00 PM, we move to the dining room for dinner.
Irina has prepared traditional Russian dishes—borscht, pelmeni, beef stroganoff, black bread. Not Thanksgiving food, but family food. The kind Elena's grandmother used to make.
Over dinner, the conversation shifts to lighter topics. Foundation plans, baby names (too early but we speculate anyway), Natasha's teaching schedule, Chicago's winter already brutal while Philadelphia is mild.
But underneath the normalcy, we all feel it: the weight of waiting. The knowledge that Anton is out there, planning, watching.
After dinner, around 9:30 PM, I find Sonya in the third-floor studio. She's not dancing—doctor's orders to be careful with the pregnancy—but standing at the barre, going through gentle port de bras, keeping her body moving.
"How are you feeling?" I ask from the doorway.
"Grateful. Terrified. Both." She completes the arm movement, lowers her hands. "I keep thinking about what Alexei said. Our child inheriting both families. What kind of world are we bringing them into?"
"A complicated one. A dangerous one. But also one with a family who'll protect them, love them, give them choices."
"And a serial killer obsessed with their mother."
I cross to her, pull her against my chest. "Not for long. We'll find him. End this."
She leans into me, and we stand in the quiet studio, both processing the evening's weight.
Thursday, November 25th. Thanksgiving.
We wake up at 8:00 AM to the smell of turkey already roasting—Irina started at dawn, preparing the American holiday meal Sonya requested. Blending traditions, she called it. Russian and American, old and new.
The morning is peaceful. Alexei and I drink coffee in the study while the women coordinate kitchen logistics. Sergei oversees security rotations. Natasha sets the table for six.
At noon, we gather for a meal.
Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce. And borscht, because Mila insisted. Blending traditions indeed.
