Halfway through the meal, I stand to make a toast.
"To family," I say, raising my glass. "Blood and choice, past and future. To Elena's memory, honored in this house and in the foundation bearing her name. To Sonya, my wife, carrying the next generation. To Alexei and Mila, binding Chicago and Philadelphia. To Sergei and Natasha, who stand beside us not from obligation but from choice. And to all the children—present and future—who will inherit everything we've built: the good and the complicated."
"To family," everyone echoes.
We eat, talk, laugh. For a few hours, we're just people sharing a holiday. Not Bratva, not targets, not hunters or hunted.
Just family.
At 6:00 PM, after the meal is finished and everyone is settling into post-dinner exhaustion, there's a knock on the front door.
Sergei answers, returns moments later with a small package. Plain brown wrapping, no return address, postmarked from Manhattan two days ago.
"Addressed to Sonya," he says, setting it on the study desk.
My blood goes cold.
"Don't open it," Alexei says immediately. "Could be anything."
But Sonya is already reaching for it. "It's from him. I know it is."
She opens the package carefully. Inside: a single item.
An ultrasound photo.
Her ultrasound photo. From week six, after Halloween. The first ultrasound Dr. Petrov did when we confirmed the pregnancy.
On the back, handwritten in elegant script:
Congratulations on your little dancer. I'll be watching them grow. - A
The room goes silent.
"He hacked medical records," Sonya whispers.
I took the photo from Sonya's shaking hands. The violation is profound—not just knowing about the pregnancy, but having this image, this private moment, possessing it for weeks while we thought we had secrets.
"He's escalating," Alexei says grimly. "Breaking the silence on Thanksgiving, sending proof he's been watching all along. This is psychological warfare."
"This is a threat," I correct. "Against our child."
Sonya's face has gone pale. "I need—I need air."
She leaves the study quickly. I follow, find her on the back terrace in the cold November evening, breathing hard.
"He has that ultrasound from week six. He—" she says when I reach her, and her voice breaks. "He's been watching everything."
I pull her against me. "We'll find him. This was a mistake on his end. He revealed he's still in the area, still focused on you, still planning. That gives us information."
"He knows where we live. Knows everything." She's trembling now, rage and fear mixing.
"He won't get near you. Or our child. I swear it."
We stand in the cold, holding each other, while inside our family processes the latest violation.
Anton's silence is broken.
And the message is clear.
