“NICU,” the nurse answers.
And after a moment that rips my heart in two—a moment that feels like a betrayal of Amara, of every promise between us—I turn to the nurse. “Can I see him?”
She nods and leads me out.
I take one more look at Amara as I stand in the doorway. I don’t want to walk away. I’ve already walked away too many times.
But she would tell me to go. So I do.
The nurse leads me to the clear box holding my son.
My son.
“That’s him,” she points, though there really wasn’t any need. I’d recognize the baby I made with Amara anywhere. He has her button nose, her upturned eyes. The chin is mine, but the rest is all her.
He’s so small, though. Smaller than almost all the babies in the nursery.
“Is he healthy?” I manage to ask.
“He’s a few weeks early,” she explains. “But the labor was trauma-induced. The other woman who came in with your wife is getting checked out too. For assault, from my understanding. She said that she and Amara were in a car accident.” Her gaze turns back to the baby. “He’s struggling, but hanging on.”
I nod one time, doing my best to process the information. “How long can I stay in here?”
Usually, I’d demand to stay. I’d dare anyone to get between me and my son. But tonight has drained me, and there must be other babies on this floor—babies who need to be safeguarded as much as mine. No doubt, it’s past visiting hours. And hospitals are very prudent about protocol.
The NICU nurse looks around. There’s no one else in the room. Only my son and me. “As long as you’d like, for now,” she tells me.
And so I stay. I stand over him like a statue, my eyes locked on his tiny body. He’s thin, not chubby like you picture babies. His skin is also a little paler than it should be. I don’t even know that his fingers would wrap around my thumb.
Eventually, the nurse pulls up a chair for me while she works. The room is in the middle of the hospital, so there are no windows, making it impossible to know what time it is. My eyes burn from exhaustion. From the emotion I refuse to show. My son is fighting for his life. The love of my life is in a coma. I’m not about to be the one in tears.
“Ransome.” The soft voice comes through the door of the NICU unit, and it’s almost enough to make a liar out of me.
“Mom.”
I turn and see her walking in. “Don’t get up,” she says, and I listen.
She comes right up to my side. Looks over the baby with a small, sad smile.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” She shakes her head. “My first grandchild, and he’s just beautiful.”
“He’s weak,” I say shakily, and my mother nearly assaults me with her eyes.
“He is a Rozanov,” she says. “He is sick. He is small. But he is not weak. Do you understand me?”
I nod.
The nurse pulls over another chair with a small smile. My mother takes a seat next to me. For a long moment, we’re both quiet while we look at the baby.
When Mom speaks again, her voice is level and strong, as it always has been. “Do you have any idea how hard it is being a parent?” she asks.
“I think I’m getting an idea,” I answer.
“And it’s even harder in the Bratva.”
“What isn’t?” I mutter.
“I carried so much pain,” she goes on. “It’s like we live in another world. A world nobody knows about and no one could imagine if they tried. And it’s odd, isn’t it? On one hand, we live in luxury. Never in want of anything. And on the other, we sleep with one eye open. Never knowing who is lurking, but knowing someone is there. Never knowing when we will lose someone we love, but knowing that it’s awhen,not anif. There’s no way around that.”
