Chapter 26 - Misha
The estate looks different in daylight.
We arrive mid-morning, the convoy rolling through gates that now bristle with additional security.
Men patrol the perimeter in pairs, their movements crisp and professional.
New cameras dot the walls, their lenses tracking our approach.
The damage from the assault has been cleared away—broken windows replaced, bullet holes patched, the grounds swept clean of debris and blood.
But the scars remain. I can see them in the fresh mortar between old stones, the raw wood of repaired doors, the patches of earth where grass hasn't yet regrown over trampled flowerbeds.
The gargoyles on the roofline stare down at us with their eternal grimaces, silent witnesses to the violence that unfolded here.
This is what my life costs. This is what loving me costs.
I glance at Bianca, asleep against my shoulder.
She's been drifting in and out since we left the medical facility, her body demanding rest even as her mind resists surrender.
In sleep, she looks younger. Softer. The bruises on her face are fading to yellow-green, her wrists wrapped in clean bandages, her breathing slow and steady.
She fought her way through half of Sergei's compound. Killed two men with a stolen gun. Nearly escaped on her own before they recaptured her. And through all of it, the baby held on.
She's alive. The baby is alive. That's all that matters.
The SUV stops at the front entrance. I ease out from under Bianca's weight and circle to her door, lifting her into my arms before she can fully wake.
"I can walk," she mumbles, her eyes still closed.
"I know."
She doesn't argue. Just tucks her head against my shoulder and lets me carry her inside, her body warm and trusting against mine.
Mrs. Novak meets us in the foyer, her face creased with worry. She takes one look at Bianca and starts issuing orders—hot soup, fresh sheets, a warm bath drawn. The household staff springs into action, a flurry of activity centered on the woman in my arms.
"The blue room," Mrs. Novak says. "I've had it prepared."
"My room," I correct her.
A pause. Mrs. Novak's eyebrows rise slightly, but she's too professional to comment. She's been with this family for thirty years. She's seen stranger things than the boss carrying a woman to his bedroom in broad daylight.
"Of course, sir. I'll have everything redirected."
I carry Bianca up the stairs, down the corridor, into the bedroom that has felt empty for as long as I can remember. The curtains are drawn back, afternoon light streaming across the bed where we've spent so many nights tangled together. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like yesterday.
I lay her down gently, pulling the covers over her. She's already asleep again, her face peaceful, her hand curled protectively over her stomach.
Over our child.
I stand there for a long moment, watching her breathe. The reality of it still hasn't fully sunk in. Fatherhood. A baby. A future I never imagined, never planned for, never thought I deserved.
My phone buzzes. Dmitri.
I step into the hallway to answer, pulling the door closed softly behind me.
"You're back," my brother says without preamble.
"Just arrived."
"How is she?"
"Sleeping. The doctors said she's fine. The baby's fine."
A pause. Dmitri didn't know about the pregnancy until I told him during the extraction. His reaction was typical Dmitri—a long silence, followed by a single raised eyebrow and the words "Well, that complicates things."
"We need to talk," he says now. "The Morozov situation."
"I know. Come to the estate. We'll discuss it here."
"I'm already on my way."
***
Dmitri arrives two hours later.
We convene in my study, the room that still bears traces of the assault—a crack in the plaster that hasn't been repaired, a faint stain on the carpet that might be blood, a chip in the window frame where a bullet passed too close.
I should have the whole room redone. Later.
When there's time. When the more urgent repairs are complete.
"Anatoly has gone quiet," Dmitri says, settling into a chair across from my desk. "No retaliation, no mobilization, no public statements. His son is dead, and he's doing nothing."
"He's waiting."
"For what?"
"For us to make a mistake. For an opportunity.
For the right moment to strike." I pour two glasses of whiskey, hand one to my brother.
"Anatoly is patient. More patient than Sergei ever was.
He'll grieve his son in private and plan his revenge in silence.
When he moves, it will be calculated and devastating. "
"So we strike first."
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "Not now. I can't wage a war while Bianca is pregnant. She needs stability, safety, rest. The baby needs—"
I stop. The baby needs. I'm already thinking like a father. The realization is disorienting, like stepping off solid ground into open air.
Dmitri studies me over the rim of his glass. "You've changed."
"Have I?"
"The Misha I knew would already be planning the assault on Anatoly's headquarters.
He would be drawing up lists of allies to cultivate, enemies to eliminate, strategies to ensure total victory.
" Dmitri takes a sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving my face.
"That Misha wouldn't let a pregnancy slow him down. "
"That Misha didn't have anything to lose."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. Dmitri nods slowly, something shifting in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
"So what's the plan?"
"We fortify. We defend. We make it clear that attacking us again would be suicide.
" I move to the window, looking out over the grounds where my men patrol in careful rotations.
The sun is starting to sink toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold.
"And we wait for Anatoly to make a mistake. "
"That could take months. Years."
"Then it takes months. Years." I turn back to face my brother. "I'm not going anywhere, Dmitri. Neither is she. We have time."
Dmitri is quiet for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass. Then he raises it in a mock toast.
"To patience, then. A virtue neither of us has ever possessed."
"Perhaps it's time we learned."
He drains his glass and sets it on the desk. "Anna wants to visit. She's been calling me every hour since the rescue, demanding updates."
"Tell her to wait until Bianca is stronger. A few days, at least."
"I'll tell her. Whether she listens is another matter." Dmitri stands, straightening his jacket. "Take care of yourself, brother. And take care of her. Whatever's coming next, you'll need each other."
I nod, and he leaves without further ceremony. That's Dmitri—economical with words, reliable in action. The brother I can always count on, even when we disagree.
***
The sun is setting by the time the house falls quiet.
I find myself wandering the estate, checking on the repairs, reviewing security protocols, doing all the things a leader should do after a crisis. But my mind isn't on tactical assessments or threat analysis. It's upstairs, in my bedroom, where Bianca sleeps with our child growing inside her.
I still don't know how to feel about any of this.
For seventeen years, I've defined myself by what I do. The enforcer. The commander. The man who keeps the Kashkin family safe through violence and strategic brilliance. It's a role I understand, a purpose I've never questioned.
But fatherhood? That's something else entirely. That's not about strength or strategy. That's about... what? Love? Nurturing? Being present in a way I've never been present for anyone?
I think about my own father. Alexander Kashkin, who wrote love letters to my mother and taught me to shoot and died in a hail of bullets on a deserted road.
What kind of father was he? The memories are faded now, softened by time and grief, but I remember his hands—big and calloused, capable of violence but gentle when they ruffled my hair or steadied my grip on a rifle.
I remember his voice, deep and warm, telling me that a man protects his family above all else. That love is not weakness but strength. That the measure of a man is not in what he takes but in what he builds.
I was fifteen when he died. Fifteen when I stood over his body and swore vengeance. Fifteen when I became the thing I am now—cold, controlled, deadly.
But I'm not fifteen anymore. And the life growing in Bianca's belly deserves better than a father who only knows how to destroy.
I find myself in the greenhouse.
The damage here is worse than in the main house. Shattered glass crunches under my boots. Plants lie trampled and broken, their pots overturned, their soil scattered across the flagstone floor. The restoration Bianca worked so hard on has been undone in a single night of violence.
Sergei's men came through here during the kidnapping. Trampled her sanctuary on their way to take her from me.
But not everything is destroyed.
In the corner, protected by a fallen shelf, the fern she saved still survives. Its fronds are dusty and bent, but it's alive. Persisting. Refusing to die despite everything that's happened around it.
Like her. Like all of us.
I crouch beside it and brush the debris away, setting the pot upright. A small gesture. Meaningless, perhaps. But it feels important. It feels like something she would do.
This is what she does. She nurtures. She heals. She brings dead things back to life.
Maybe she can do the same for me.
***
I return to the bedroom as night falls.
Bianca is still asleep, but she's shifted position, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek. The bandages on her wrists are stark white against her skin. Evidence of what she endured. What she survived. What she fought through to come back to me.
I should let her rest. Should go back to my study, review reports, do the work that never ends. But I can't make myself leave.
Instead, I pull the armchair closer to the bed and sit down, watching her sleep the way I've done so many nights before. Except now everything is different. Now there's a heartbeat inside her that matches the rhythm of my own.
I think about the ultrasound. That tiny flicker on the screen, that whooshing sound that filled the room. Evidence of life, of future, of possibility. A heartbeat where there was nothing before. A person being built cell by cell, breath by breath, inside the woman I—
I stop the thought before it can complete itself. There are words I'm not ready to say. Not even in my own head.
I never wanted children. Never thought I'd have them. The world I live in is too dangerous, too bloody, too full of enemies who would use my family against me. Bringing a child into that seemed cruel. Selfish. A weakness I couldn't afford.
But the child is coming anyway. And I have to figure out how to be a father in a world that doesn't allow for softness.
Bianca stirs, her eyes fluttering open. She blinks at me, disoriented, then seems to remember where she is.
"How long have you been sitting there?" she asks, her voice thick with sleep.
"A while."
"Watching me sleep?"
"It's becoming a habit."
She smiles—small, tired, but real. "Creepy."
"Probably."
She shifts onto her back, wincing slightly at some ache I can't see. I'm on my feet immediately, moving to the bed, my hands hovering uselessly over her.
"I'm fine," she says. "Just stiff. How long was I out?"
"Most of the day. It's evening now."
"God." She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I feel like I could sleep for a week."
"Then sleep for a week. There's nothing you need to do right now except recover."
She looks at me—really looks, her eyes searching my face for something I'm not sure I can give.
"What happens now, Misha?"
It's the same question she asked at the hospital. I still don't have a good answer.
"Now we rest," I say. "We heal. We figure out the next steps when you're stronger."
"That's not a plan. That's a delay tactic."
"It's the best I can offer right now."
She's quiet for a moment, her fingers plucking at the edge of the blanket. Then she reaches out and takes my hand, pulling me down to sit on the edge of the bed.
"I'm scared," she says. "Not of the Morozovs or the danger or any of that.
I'm scared of... this." She gestures between us, at her stomach, at everything the gesture encompasses.
"I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be a mother.
I don't know how to be with you, in this world, building a life I never imagined. "
"Neither do I."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's honest." I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
"I can't promise you I know what I'm doing.
I can't promise you it will be easy, or safe, or anything like the life you planned.
But I can promise you this: I will do everything in my power to protect you and this child. Whatever it costs. Whatever it takes."
Her eyes glisten in the dim light. She doesn't say anything—just squeezes my hand and holds on.
It's not a resolution. Not a plan. Not even a proper conversation about the future.
But for now, it's enough.
I stretch out on the bed beside her, pulling her into my arms, feeling her warmth against my chest. She fits there perfectly, like she was made for this space, this moment, this life we're stumbling into together.
Outside, the night settles over the estate. Guards patrol the walls. Repairs continue in the morning. Enemies plot in the shadows.
But here, in this room, there's only her. Only us. Only the tiny heartbeat growing between us, a promise of something new.
I close my eyes and let myself rest.
Tomorrow, the work begins again. Tomorrow, I'll be the commander, the protector, the man who keeps the wolves at bay.
But tonight, I'm just a man holding the woman who carries his child, trying to imagine a future he never thought he'd have.
It's terrifying.
It's everything.