“Dispatch a soldier to remain here,” I said to Bogdan.“I want to know of anyone who visits this grave.”
With a heavy heart I walked back to the car, trying to leave the past in the ground where it belonged so I could focus on what came next.
I almost convinced myself.
Until I entered my silent home.
Makari Dragunov had a loving mother who put me to shame.
Chapter 52
Iskra
The constant travelling never tired me out, not when I was learning so much about eastern culture and seeing historic sites I had only ever read about. I thought for certain I would end up in Thailand or Malaysia, but when the early bouts of morning sickness hit, I ended up in Istanbul.
I got lucky with a studio apartment overlooking the Bosphorus Strait. The water changed colour depending on the light—steel grey at dawn, deep blue by midday, something close to gold in the evenings when the sun dropped behind the minarets.
Then there were the churches. The structure and beauty of them made me reconsider my assumption that only Chernograd had the best-maintained places of worship. Even the mosques’call to prayer was lyrical and soothing—although the early morning ones required earplugs.
I secured a remote position with a law firm doing the same work I had done in Russia. It was tricky at first—a few words lost in translation, the distinct precision of legal English requiring adjustments I hadn’t anticipated. I made the adjustments.
My travelling was over now. The only thing I could focus on was nourishing the new life resting in my womb.
Not Makari. But a brother or sister for him.
Some of the soil from his grave lay in a heart-shaped pendant of glass and gold that I wore against my skin. I didn’t know why, but it made me glad that his memory and the new baby were close together. Carried in the same body. Kept near the same heartbeat.
In the warm summer nights I lay on the decked balcony beneath a starry sky and touched my belly in the dark.
My stomach.
My baby.
No Pakhan.
No Bratva rule.
Fresh food was abundant in the city and I took care with the supplementary vitamins. I read pregnancy books from front to back and began again from the beginning. The initial dread had become something I hadn’t expected — sheer joy. I understood it was the change of environment, the absence of walls that weren’t mine, the specific freedom of waking in a room where no one held the key. Here, I was in the height of summer and my skin held a glow unlike anything I had known before.
Every interaction, every taste, every new experience—all of it magnified.
I felt alive.
I knew the baby couldn’t hear me yet, but I talked to it every day. From morning to night, unless I was working or outside. I didn’t want people to think I was going mad.
Then one morning my belly simply appeared. Announced itself without warning, the way the baby would likely announce most things in the future. I cradled that bump as it filled my palm and thought—good. You’re here. I know you’re here.
At the edges of my happiness the darkness tried to creep in and I shut it out. Slammed the door on it. He came into my dreams every so often—pleasant at first, before it turned dark, the way everything with him eventually did. Those were the days fear took over, making me restless, making me consider moving deeper into Asia. Making me hesitate to contact Ruslan.
My work would allow me to live anywhere. I hadn’t decided yet if that was a comfort or a warning.
As the air grew crisp and the vibrant colours turned golden, I found out I was having a daughter.
I knew I had to let Ruslan know that I was not only surviving but thriving. I had neighbours now. I knew many of the staff in the shops nearby. Everyone was warm and curious—especially when they could tell I wasn’t a native. Their curiosity turned to delight when they learned I lived here rather than passing through. That I had chosen to stay in their city.
Avito was the closest Russian equivalent to Craigslist—not a social media account where a pattern of activity could be traced, but a message board where a listing could be found and deleted and leave nothing behind. Even so, now that the stakes were higher, I became more nervous about making contact.
I would sit at my laptop, hands poised, and change my mind. That was how five months passed—me staring at a screen, drafting messages I didn’t send, calculating risk against the ache of silence.
