He moves from the desk to sit beside me on the bed. "The foundation will still be there when you're cleared. The students will still need you. This is temporary."
"Everything with this pregnancy feels temporary. Temporary relief between scares. Temporary celebration between threats."
His hand settles on my small bump—more visible now at ten weeks, a definite curve under my nightshirt. "Then we celebrate the temporary victories. Today you didn't bleed. Today the baby is thriving. Today you're safe in our bed planning the future. That's enough."
I lean into him, letting his certainty steady me.
We fill the days with conversations.
I teach him more ballet vocabulary—arabesque, grand jeté, fouetté—explaining the French terms and Russian techniques that shaped my training. He absorbs it all, asking questions, wanting to understand the world that made me.
He explains his Bratva connections around the world. Moscow, St. Petersburg, Vladivostok in Russia. Chicago obviously. New York, Boston, Miami along the East Coast. Even international reach—London, Berlin, Tokyo. The network is vast, complex, carefully maintained.
"When the baby is older," he says on Wednesday afternoon, "we'll need to decide how much they know. About all of this."
"Everything," I say immediately. "We don't hide it. We explain it honestly, age-appropriately. Let them understand what their family is—both families—so they can choose their own path."
"Even if they choose to leave? To reject both Bratva worlds?"
"Especially then. That's the point of choice."
We plan the nursery—not decorating yet, too early, but discussing location (room next to ours), style (gender-neutral until we know), safety measures (bulletproof windows, reinforced door, panic button). Balancing normal parenting with the reality of our lives.
We discuss names, though it's far too early.
"If it's a girl," I say, "Elena for the middle name. Honor her directly."
"And if it's a boy?"
"Something strong. Russian. Connected to both our families."
"Alexei?" he suggests. "After your cousin?"
"Maybe. We have time to decide."
The conversations are intimate, comforting, building a future in our minds while my body heals.
Wednesday afternoon at 3:00 PM, Sergei visits our bedroom with updates.
"Foundation enrollment is exceeding projections," he reports, sitting in the chair by the window. "Sixteen students now between both cities. Natasha is handling the teaching schedule admirably."
"She's excellent," I confirm. "Patient, skilled, exactly what the students need."
Sergei's expression softens slightly when I mention Natasha's name. The change is subtle but noticeable.
"You're pursuing her," I say, not a question.
He looks mildly surprised to be called out so directly. "Is it that obvious?"
"To me, yes. The question is: does she know?"
"I've made my interest clear. She's—considering." He pauses. "It's complicated. She's recovering from trauma. I don't want to pressure her."
Maksim speaks from the desk. "Petrov men fall hard for broken dancers. Elena taught me that. Now Sonya reinforces the lesson."
"Natasha isn't broken," I correct. "She's healing. There's a difference."
"Agreed," Sergei says quietly. "And I'm willing to wait while she heals. However long it takes."
