Seven months. Our baby is only seven months along. Too early. Too small. Too fragile.
And Sophia, bleeding and in pain, made me promise to save our baby if it came down to a choice.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the image of her pale face, the fear in her blue eyes mixed with that fierce determination.
She’s already a mother, already willing to sacrifice everything for our child.
But I can’t lose her. I won’t.
“Mikhail.” Melinda’s voice cuts through my spiral. I look up to find her rushing through the waiting room entrance, her blonde hair disheveled, her eyes red-rimmed. “Tony called me. How is she?”
“They took her for an emergency C-section.” The words taste like ash.
Melinda sinks into one of the plastic chairs, her hand over her mouth. “Oh god.”
“She made me promise.” I resume pacing, unable to look at her. “If they have to choose, she made me promise to save the baby.”
“She’s going to be fine.” Melinda’s voice is steady despite the tears streaming down her face. “Sophia’s a fighter. She’s survived everything else. She’ll survive this too.”
I want to believe her.
Want to cling to that certainty.
But I’ve seen too much death in my life to trust in happy endings.
Tony appears with coffee I don’t remember him leaving to get.
He presses a cup into my hands, and I stare at it without drinking.
The heat seeps through the cardboard, grounding me slightly.
“She’s strong,” Tony says, echoing Melinda’s words. “My sister doesn’t give up. Not ever.”
I think about the woman who defused a bomb strapped to her chest.
Who walked into Lorenzo’s trap to save me.
Who stood beside me as we rebuilt my organization into something better.
He’s right.
Sophia doesn’t give up.
But sometimes strength isn’t enough.
The minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. Every time the double doors open, I’m on my feet, my heart in my throat. But it’s always someone else’s family being called, someone else’s crisis being resolved.
Half an hour passes, then an hour.
“This is taking too long,” I say, my voice rough. “Something’s wrong.”
“Emergency C-sections can take time,” Melinda says, but I hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Especially with complications.”
I resume pacing, my mind conjuring every terrible possibility. Sophia bleeding out on the operating table. Our daughter too small to survive. Both of them slipping away while I stand here helpless, unable to do anything but wait.
I’ve built an empire through intelligence and ruthlessness. I’ve survived assassination attempts and gang wars.
I’ve stared down men twice my size without flinching.
