8. Anastasia
8
ANASTASIA
T he family chapel stands empty at this hour, gray morning light filtering through stained glass to cast colored shadows across centuries-old icons. The heavy scent of beeswax candles and lingering incense fills my lungs as I sink to my knees on the cold stone floor. My fingertips trace the worn grooves where generations of Markov women have knelt in similar desperation, seeking divine intervention for situations no mortal could resolve.
My great-grandfather built this small Orthodox sanctuary when he first established the Markov compound, believing—like many Bratva leaders—that proximity to God might somehow balance proximity to violence. The irony doesn't escape me as echoes of last night's "business meeting" filter through my memory.
"Please, Mikhail Alexandrovich, my family can pay ? —"
The dull thud of my father's signet ring connecting with flesh. Blood spattering across imported Italian marble.
"The time for payment has passed, Yegor. Now we discuss consequences."
I'd slipped away before witnessing the inevitable conclusion, but the man's pleading eyes had locked with mine for just a moment—a silent witness to one more Markov brutality. By morning, another body would likely wash ashore in the Moscow River, another "tragic accident" for police to file away without investigation.
I stare up at the severe face of Saint Michael, patron saint of warriors and protector against evil, his gilded sword raised in eternal battle. Appropriate, perhaps, that I seek refuge beneath his unflinching gaze as my carefully constructed world collapses around me.
Three positive pregnancy tests hidden in my bathroom. Three weeks of morning sickness explained away as a stubborn stomach virus. Three weeks of calculating, planning, panicking while maintaining perfect composure in my father's presence.
"What am I supposed to do?" I whisper to the impassive saint, my voice catching on the words as another wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm me. No answer comes, only the hollow echo against ancient stone and the distant murmur of Orthodox prayers from a recording that plays continuously in this sacred space.
My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach—still flat, still hiding its devastating secret. Viktor's child. The thought sends another wave of dizziness through me, vision blurring as reality shifts once more. Saliva floods my mouth with the metallic taste that now signals impending sickness.
I grip the wooden pew, knuckles whitening as I fight for control. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. The simple rhythm my mother taught me for managing fear. I've employed it countless times during tense Bratva negotiations, during my father's cold-eyed assessments, during the moments I felt the walls of my gilded cage closing in.
Never like this. Never with such devastating stakes.
A thin sheen of cold sweat breaks across my forehead as I struggle against the relentless nausea. The chapel's stone walls seem to close in, the saints' severe expressions morphing into accusation. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat a painful reminder of the second heart now forming within me.
My phone vibrates against my thigh—Lena's familiar tone. The fifth call this morning. I've been avoiding her, avoiding everyone, since the bathroom revelation three days ago. But isolation offers no solutions, only the endless spiral of the same terrified thoughts.
This time, I answer.
"Where the hell have you been?" Lena demands without preamble. "I've been calling for days. Did you fall into the Moscow River?"
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the lie hollow even to my own ears as I swallow hard against another surge of bile.
"Bullshit." The rustle of movement, a car door slamming. "I'm on my way to you now. Your father's at the Izmailovo meeting all morning, so we’ll have privacy. Whatever's wrong, we'll figure it out."
Panic surges through me. "Lena, don't?—"
"Twenty minutes." She hangs up before I can protest further.
I press my forehead against the cool wooden pew, fighting another wave of nausea that leaves me trembling. The bitter taste of stomach acid burns the back of my throat as I fumble for the emergency mints I've taken to carrying. Lena knows me too well to be deceived by vague reassurances. And perhaps I need her now—need someone who sees me as Anastasia, not just the Markov heir.
By the time her Mercedes pulls through the gates, I've composed myself enough to meet her in the east garden—the one place on the compound without surveillance cameras due to my father's inexplicable fondness for the rose varieties my mother once cultivated here.
Lena takes one look at my face and stops short. "Oh, shit. This is worse than I thought."
The morning sunlight illuminates her perfectly styled blonde hair and designer outfit—the carefully cultivated appearance of a Bratva princess. Few would guess that beneath her socialite facade, Lena Volkova carries scars both literal and figurative from her father's brutal enforcement of traditional values.
"Let's walk," I suggest, glancing meaningfully at the main house where staff might overhear us.
We move among the late-blooming roses in silence, their fading petals clinging to life against the approaching Russian winter. When we reach the stone bench at the garden's far end, I finally turn to face her.
"I'm pregnant."
The words hang in the cold air between us. No preamble, no softening. Just the devastating truth.
Lena's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise toward her hairline, her mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise. She blinks once, twice, her mind visibly processing this bombshell. Then, instead of the shock or judgment I half-expected, her expression shifts to one of focused determination.
"Paris guy?" she asks simply.
I nod, throat too tight for words.
"Does he know?"
"No." My laugh holds no humor. "I don't know how to get in touch with him, Lena. We… went our separate ways the morning after." I pause, that panic-filled escape flashing through my mind. “It seemed necessary, at the time.”
Understatement of the century.
"And your father?"
"If he finds out..." I can't finish the sentence, the possibilities too horrifying to articulate.
"He'd do exactly what my father did to Katerina," Lena says, her voice dropping to a whisper as her hand unconsciously traces the thin scar along her collarbone—a reminder of her attempt to intervene when her father discovered her cousin's pregnancy three years ago.
The unspoken hangs between us: Katerina, sent to a remote "wellness facility" in Siberia, returning months later hollow-eyed and childless, married off within weeks to a brutal Bratva captain twice her age. The official story—a needed rest for "nervous exhaustion." The truth—a forced abortion and sterilization to ensure no further "embarrassments" for the Volkov family.
Lena takes my cold hands in hers, her grip surprisingly strong. "He won't find out unless we want him to. Now, how far along?"
The practical question cuts through my spiral of panic. "About seven weeks."
She nods, mind already shifting into problem-solving mode. "Options?"
"I don't know." The admission feels like failure. I've always prided myself on strategic thinking, on seeing multiple moves ahead like my mother taught me. But this—this feels like checkmate with no warning, no preparation.
"Bullshit again." Lena's voice sharpens. "You've been hiding in this mausoleum for three days. You've thought about options."
She's right, of course. Every waking moment has been spent mentally calculating possibilities, each more impossible than the last.
"I could..." I swallow hard. "I could terminate."
The word feels wrong in my mouth, though I've never judged others for making that choice. But something fierce and protective curls inside me at the thought—an instinct I never knew I possessed until those two pink lines appeared on the test.
"But you don't want to," Lena observes, reading my expression with the ease of long friendship.
"No." The admission comes easier than expected. "I don't."
"Even knowing what happens to women who defy the Brotherhood's rules?" Lena's tone hardens, her fingers unconsciously tracing her scar again. "This isn't a fairy tale, Nastya. Our fathers trade daughters like commodities. Purity defines our value in their world. An unwed mother with a bastard child would be worthless currency in their transactions."
Her stark assessment makes me flinch, but she continues relentlessly.
"Remember Irina Sorokina? Pakhan Sorokin's daughter? She kept her baby against her father's wishes. Her child was taken the day after birth, given to some distant relatives. Irina was declared mentally unstable and has spent three years in that private asylum outside Saint Petersburg."
The chill that runs through me has nothing to do with the autumn air. I've met Irina at Bratva functions—once vibrant and defiant, now a medicated shell trotted out for appropriate appearances, always under the watchful eye of her "caretakers."
"I'm not Irina," I say, steel entering my voice. "And my father needs me functional—I'm his only heir since Alexei's death."
"Then we plan for the only viable alternative." She pulls out her phone, fingers flying over the screen. "My cousin Marya had a similar situation two years ago. Her father's even more traditional than yours. She managed to hide the entire pregnancy by studying in Geneva."
I stare at her in disbelief. "You've thought about this before?"
"Sweetheart, I've had a pregnancy contingency plan since I was sixteen." She doesn't look up from her phone. "Every Bratva daughter should. Our fathers auction our wombs to the highest bidder; we need backup plans."
The blunt assessment shouldn't shock me, but it does. Not because it's untrue, but because we so rarely speak this truth aloud. The sophisticated facade of the modern Bratva—with its legitimate businesses, political connections, and cultural philanthropy—masks the medieval attitudes toward women that persist at its core.
"Here." She shows me a contact on her phone. "Dr. Petrova. Discreet, competent, no connections to any Bratva medical networks. She can confirm the pregnancy and discuss options without reporting back to your father."
I take the phone, studying the information with a strange sense of removal, as if this is happening to someone else. "How do you know her?"
"She helped Marya. And three other girls from families like ours." Lena reclaims her phone, her expression darkening. "At seventeen, I thought I might need her services myself, after Dimitri Kuznetsov's son decided my 'no' meant 'convince me' at his father's birthday celebration."
Cold fury washes through me at this revelation. "You never told me."
"What could you have done?" She shrugs, the practiced nonchalance belying the pain beneath. "His father controls three districts and half the heroin trade in Moscow. My father called it 'building business relationships.'"
The familiar shame courses through me—that despite my rebellious thoughts, I've benefited from the protection my father's name provides. Women like Lena, despite their families' status, still serve as pawns in the Bratva's power games.
"I'll arrange an appointment for tomorrow," Lena continues, redirecting to the immediate problem. "Use the ballet class excuse; your father never questions that."
The methodical approach calms me, giving shape to the formless panic that's consumed me for days. "Thank you," I manage, voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably something dramatic and ill-conceived." Her smile softens the words. "Now, let's think bigger. Pregnancy is nine months. That's a long time to maintain a deception."
"I need to leave Moscow," I say, the conclusion I've been circling for days finally articulated. "Somewhere my father can't watch my every move."
"Somewhere with excellent medical care, privacy laws, and no Bratva connections," Lena adds. "Switzerland fits the bill. Neutral territory, banking secrecy culture extends to medical confidentiality, and excellent private clinics."
My mind races ahead, strategic instincts finally engaging. "Educational cover. A language program or international relations course. Something that benefits the family business enough that Father might approve."
"The International Diplomatic Academy in Geneva offers an exclusive nine-month program starting in January," Lena says, already searching on her phone. "Perfect timing for your... situation."
"How do you know these things?" I ask, genuine amazement cutting through my anxiety.
Her smile turns razor-sharp. "Unlike you, I never expected to be allowed real freedom. I've spent years researching escape routes, just in case my father decides to follow through on his threats to marry me to Viktor Petrov to settle their territory dispute." She shivers visibly. "The man's buried three wives already, all in 'tragic accidents.'"
The statement hits me with uncomfortable truth. Despite my internal rebellions, I've been largely compliant with my father's expectations—accepting the boundaries of my gilded cage, pushing only in small, ultimately meaningless ways. Paris was my first significant act of defiance and look where it led.
"I need a story he'll believe," I say, mind already constructing possibilities. "One that appeals to his business sense, not his paternal instincts."
"The diplomatic angle is perfect." Lena scrolls through the academy's website. "International connections, political influence, legitimate front for Bratva operations abroad. And diplomatic immunity never hurts."
I nod, the outline of a plan forming. "I'll need medical documentation for the application. Prior health records. Nothing that raises flags."
"Dr. Petrova can help with that." Lena pockets her phone, expression turning serious. "But Nastya, you need to be prepared. Your father won't let you go easily. Not without ensuring you remain under some form of control."
"Security detail," I predict grimly. "At minimum."
"Which means you'll need to lose them occasionally for doctor's appointments."
"One problem at a time." I stand, new determination straightening my spine. "First, we confirm everything with Dr. Petrova. Then I prepare my case for Switzerland."
Lena rises beside me, studying my face with unexpected tenderness. "You're going to be a mother, Nastya. That's... huge."
The simple observation hits me with physical force. A mother. Not just pregnant—a mother. To a child who will inherit my blood, Viktor's blood, the complicated legacy of both.
"I can't think about that part yet," I admit, voice barely audible. "It's too overwhelming."
"Fair enough." She links her arm through mine as we walk back toward the house. "One step at a time. Doctor tomorrow. We'll figure out the rest."
Dr. Ekaterina Petrova operates from a small, elegant office in a converted pre-revolutionary apartment building far from the usual Bratva medical facilities. Tasteful abstract art hangs on walls painted a calming sage green. No receptionist, no waiting room filled with other patients. Just a single entrance with a discreet biometric security system.
"Miss Markov," she greets me, extending a hand as I enter. "Lena mentioned your situation requires absolute discretion."
Dr. Petrova is younger than I expected, perhaps early forties, with intelligent eyes behind stylish glasses and a no-nonsense demeanor that immediately puts me at ease. Nothing in her manner suggests judgment or fear, despite clearly understanding who I am.
"Yes," I confirm simply. "Complete confidentiality is essential."
"Of course." She gestures to an examination chair. "Shall we confirm your condition first?"
The examination is thorough but efficient. Blood drawn, vitals checked, ultrasound performed. Throughout, Dr. Petrova maintains professional detachment paired with unexpected kindness.
"There," she says eventually, turning the ultrasound monitor toward me. "Seven weeks, as you suspected. Everything appears normal."
I stare at the small gray shape on the screen, barely recognizable as human. So tiny, so vulnerable, yet already causing seismic shifts in the foundations of my life.
"It seems impossible," I whisper, surprising myself with the admission.
Dr. Petrova's expression softens. "It does, every time. Even with all our medical knowledge, the beginning of life remains somewhat miraculous."
She prints several images, then wipes the gel from my stomach. "Now, let's discuss your options."
The conversation that follows is detailed, carefully neutral, and mercifully free of the emotional weight crushing me since the bathroom revelation. Dr. Petrova outlines medical considerations, timeline expectations, and practical recommendations with the air of someone who has navigated these waters before.
"Switzerland is an excellent choice," she confirms when I outline my plan. "I have colleagues at several private clinics in Geneva. The quality of prenatal care is outstanding, and privacy is considered sacrosanct."
"My father cannot know," I emphasize, the fear behind this statement evident despite my controlled voice.
Dr. Petrova's eyes sharpen, understanding the unspoken implications of a Bratva leader discovering his unmarried daughter's pregnancy. "I understand. Nothing in your medical records will indicate pregnancy. As far as any official documentation is concerned, you're receiving treatment for mild anemia—common enough to explain occasional fatigue but not serious enough to prevent travel or study."
"And the application to the diplomatic academy?"
"I'll prepare health clearance documentation that raises no red flags." She hesitates, then adds, "However, there is the matter of your regular physical with Dr. Roman Kuznetsov next week."
My blood runs cold. I'd forgotten about the quarterly examination my father insists upon—his way of monitoring my health with the same rigorous attention he gives to his business assets.
"He'll discover everything," I whisper, panic threatening to overwhelm me again.
"Not necessarily." Dr. Petrova's calm voice cuts through my fear. "We'll create a controlled situation. I'll provide you with medication to temporarily suppress the hCG levels in your blood—not enough to harm the fetus, but sufficient to give you negative results on standard testing. For one examination only."
"That's possible?" Hope flickers, fragile but present.
"It's not standard practice," she admits. "But in cases where the mother's safety is at risk, certain accommodations can be made. Your physical is five days from now, correct?"
I nod, calculating the timeline. "Monday morning. Ten o'clock."
"Return here Friday afternoon. The medication requires forty-eight hours to reach maximum effectiveness." She makes notes in a secure tablet. "And Anastasia? After this, you should avoid all Bratva-connected medical facilities. The risk of discovery increases with each interaction."
"Understood." I straighten my clothes, mind already racing ahead to the next challenge. "What about symptoms? The nausea, fatigue..."
"Manageable with proper intervention." She hands me a small package. "Ginger supplements, vitamin B6, acupressure wristbands. All can be explained as treatments for your 'anemia' if questioned."
As I prepare to leave, Dr. Petrova stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. "One more thing, Anastasia. If you intend to carry this child to term in secret, you will need absolute commitment to your story. One slip, one inconsistency, and the entire construct falls apart."
"I understand." The weight of this undertaking presses down on me, simultaneously terrifying and clarifying.
"Good." She presses a secure phone into my hand. "For emergencies only. My direct line. Memorize it, then destroy the device."
I nod, tucking the phone into my purse. "Thank you, Doctor."
"Don't thank me yet." Her smile holds grim knowledge of the path ahead. "This is just the beginning."
* * *
Monday morning arrives with bitter wind and threatening snow, the Moscow winter establishing its dominion early this year. I arrive at Dr. Kuznetsov's clinic fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointment, having taken the medication exactly as Dr. Petrova instructed.
Still, my heart pounds erratically as the nurse directs me to a private examination room. The antiseptic smell turns my already sensitive stomach as I perch on the edge of the examination table, the paper crinkling loudly in the silent room. If the suppression fails, if Dr. Kuznetsov orders non-standard tests, if my father happens to accompany me as he occasionally does...
Stop. Breathe. Focus. I smooth invisible wrinkles from my austere gray dress, selected specifically for its conservative cut and serious appearance. The perfect costume for Anastasia Markov, dutiful daughter, future Bratva asset.
"Miss Markov." Dr. Kuznetsov enters with his customary briskness. At sixty-two, he retains the military bearing from his former career as Soviet army medical officer. "Routine physical today, yes?"
"Yes, Doctor." I offer a polite smile, hands folded in my lap to hide their slight trembling.
The examination proceeds normally—weight, blood pressure, reflexes tested. When he draws blood for standard testing, I force myself to watch calmly, as if the vials filling with crimson liquid don't contain evidence that could destroy everything.
"You've lost weight," he observes, making notes in my file. "Three kilos since your last visit."
"I've had some stomach upset recently." The partial truth comes easily. "Nothing serious."
He frowns slightly. "Eating regularly?"
"When possible. The nausea makes it difficult sometimes."
This catches his attention. "Nausea? For how long?"
I calculate quickly, constructing a timeline that doesn't align with pregnancy. "About ten days. Started after the business dinner at the Metropol." A known event where several attendees reported food poisoning afterward—a convenient anchor for my fabrication.
"Hmm." He makes additional notes. "And fatigue?"
"Some." I shrug dismissively. "I've been working longer hours on the European portfolios. Father has increased my responsibilities."
Dr. Kuznetsov nods, seemingly satisfied with this explanation. "I'll run comprehensive blood work. Check for parasites, bacterial infection, vitamin deficiencies. The usual panel."
My heart rate spikes. "Is that necessary? It seems excessive for simple stomach upset."
His bushy eyebrows rise at my question. "Your father insists on thorough care, Miss Markov. You know this."
I backtrack smoothly. "Of course. I just hate to waste resources on what's likely a minor virus."
"Better to be certain." He continues his examination, palpating my abdomen with practiced hands.
I hold my breath as his fingers press near my uterus, irrational fear that he might somehow feel the tiny life growing there. But he moves on without comment, finishing the physical portion with professional detachment.
"Results should be ready by tomorrow afternoon," he says, finalizing his notes. "I'll call with any concerns."
"Thank you, Doctor." I rise, relief making me slightly lightheaded. "I appreciate your thoroughness."
He looks up, something almost paternal in his gaze. "You're important to your father, Anastasia Mikhailovna. Therefore, your health is important to all of us."
The reminder of my position—valuable asset, protected investment—sends a chill through me. Not concern for me as a person, but for what I represent to the Markov organization.
One more reason why this child must remain secret.
I dress quickly once he leaves, eager to escape the clinic's sterile confines. As I step into the hallway, a wave of nausea hits without warning—violent and immediate. I barely make it to the nearby restroom, fingers fumbling with the lock as I collapse to my knees on the cold tile floor.
The retching is painful, my empty stomach yielding little but acid and bile. Wave after wave of violent sickness leaves me trembling, tears streaming down my face. Just as the worst seems to pass, the bathroom door handle rattles.
"Anastasia? Are you in there?" My father's voice, unexpected and terrifying, filters through the door.
I flush quickly, panic giving me strength to rise on shaking legs. "Just a moment, Father." My voice sounds strained even to my own ears as I frantically rinse my mouth, checking my appearance in the mirror. Pale, too pale, with a sheen of sweat on my forehead.
When I open the door, Mikhail Markov stands in the hallway, his imposing figure somehow filling the space entirely. His cold eyes assess me with the same calculation he'd give a business prospect.
"You look unwell," he states flatly.
"Just a lingering stomach issue," I manage, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Dr. Kuznetsov is running tests."
"And you didn't think to inform me of this... health concern?" His voice holds that dangerous edge I've learned to fear—the tone that precedes violence when used with his subordinates.
"It seemed minor." I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly as showing weakness would only increase his suspicion. "I didn't want to trouble you with trivialities when you're handling the Odessa situation."
The reference to current Bratva business creates the desired effect—a slight shift in his focus from my condition to the organization's larger concerns.
"What did Kuznetsov say?"
"Likely a minor virus. Possibly from the Metropol dinner." I allow a hint of annoyance to color my tone. "Several others reported similar symptoms."
His eyes narrow slightly. "I received no reports of food contamination."
"Karim mentioned it when we spoke yesterday," I reply smoothly, referencing the restaurant owner who owes my father significant favors. "He's investigating internally, wanting to resolve it before bringing it to your attention."
The lie flows easily, building on established relationships and reasonable assumptions. My father values competent problem-solving among his subordinates, preferring they handle minor issues without involving him.
"Hmm." His gaze remains assessing, but the dangerous edge recedes slightly. "You'll recover quickly. The Geneva application requires medical clearance."
The casual reference to my Switzerland proposal startles me. "You've considered it then?"
"Konstantin is reviewing security." He steps aside, gesturing for me to precede him down the hallway. "We'll discuss details once your... health issue... is resolved."
Relief makes my steps unsteady as we leave the clinic. Not approval yet, but not rejection either. And more importantly, no suspicion about the true nature of my "illness."
As we reach the parking area where separate vehicles await us, my father pauses. "Anastasia."
"Yes, Father?"
"Take care of your health." His voice holds no warmth, only pragmatic concern. "Your mother's fragile constitution caused... complications. I expect you to manage yourself better."
The reference to my mother—who died from what people think were complications during my brother's birth —sends ice through my veins. The official story released was that she “died” in a car accident. Another reminder that in my father's world, women are valuable only if they function as expected.
"Of course, Father," I answer quietly. "I understand."
The week passes in agonizing slowness. Dr. Kuznetsov calls with blood results that show mild anemia and vitamin deficiency—exactly the conditions Dr. Petrova arranged to appear in my tests. Nothing to indicate pregnancy.
Meanwhile, I devote every private moment to researching and planning. The International Diplomatic Academy's application requires extensive documentation, academic credentials, and letters of recommendation. I gather these methodically, constructing a narrative of passionate interest in international relations and diplomatic strategy.
Not entirely false—I've always been fascinated by the intricate dance of global politics. But now this interest serves a more urgent purpose.
I also research private clinics in Geneva, secure housing options outside regular Bratva territories, and financial arrangements that won't trigger my father's monitoring systems. Each element must connect seamlessly to create an unassailable cover story.
Throughout it all, morning sickness persists despite Dr. Petrova's remedies. I become expert at hiding sudden nausea, at explaining pallor as work-related fatigue, at maintaining perfect composure while internally battling waves of physical distress.
On Friday morning, I request a formal meeting with my father. Not in his study where business is usually conducted, but in the small sitting room where he occasionally entertains political connections. A neutral territory, a public setting that might moderate his response.
"This must be important," he observes as I enter, already seated in his preferred armchair. "You've never requested a formal appointment before."
"It is important, Father." I take the chair opposite him, back straight, portfolio of materials in my lap. Every detail of my appearance has been perfectly arranged for this moment—conservative but fashionable business attire, subtle makeup to hide the pallor of morning sickness, hair styled in a sophisticated chignon that suggests seriousness of purpose.
"I was hoping we could agree on the Switzerland opportunity. I’m feeling much better since my visit to Dr. Kuznetsov. It’s a good educational opportunity to complement my increased responsibilities in our European operations," I begin, opening the portfolio to display the academy's prestigious materials. "The International Diplomatic Academy in Geneva offers an exclusive program in Strategic International Relations beginning in January."
My father's expression remains inscrutable as I outline the program's benefits—international connections, diplomatic training, intelligent positioning within European political structures. All framed in terms of advantage to the Markov organization rather than personal development.
"Nine months is a significant commitment," he notes, examining the brochure I've provided. "Your work here would suffer."
"On the contrary." I slide forward the detailed proposal I've prepared. "This presents an opportunity to establish stronger footholds in neutral territory. Swiss banking relationships, diplomatic connections, legitimate business fronts—all valuable assets for our organization's Western European expansion."
He studies the document with the careful attention he gives all business proposals. I wait in silence, heart thundering behind my composed exterior.
"You've put considerable thought into this," he observes finally. Not approval yet, but acknowledgment of the work involved.
"I take my responsibilities seriously." I meet his gaze steadily. "This isn't about personal preference, Father. It's about creating an advantage."
He leans back, studying me with those cold, assessing eyes that have made hardened Bratva captains tremble. "And your sudden interest in Switzerland has nothing to do with your time in Paris?"
The question hooks beneath my carefully constructed facade, threatening to tear it open. Has he discovered something about Viktor? About that night?
"Paris demonstrated the value of understanding European social and political structures firsthand," I answer smoothly. "This program builds on that foundation in a more formal, structured environment."
Not technically a lie, though far from the complete truth.
"Hmm." He taps the academy brochure thoughtfully. "Dmitri would need to accompany you. Full security protocols would remain in place."
I'd anticipated this. "Of course. Though the academy has strict regulations about security presence on campus. Perhaps modified arrangements during academic hours?"
"Negotiable." He sets aside the materials, studying me with uncomfortable intensity. "You've changed, Nastya. Since Paris."
I hold my breath, fighting to maintain neutral expression. "How so?"
"More focused. More advanced in your thinking." His lips curl slightly—the closest he comes to a smile these days. "It suits you. Reminds me of your mother."
The unexpected comparison to my mother—who he rarely mentions—throws me momentarily. "Thank you," I manage, uncertain if it's truly a compliment.
"She was brilliant at seeing the larger picture." His gaze turns distant, remembering. "Making connections others missed. I see that quality developing in you."
The rare personal insight creates an uncomfortable mixture of emotions—pride, confusion, and underlying it all, fear that this moment of connection might somehow lead to discovery.
"I'll consider your proposal," he says finally, returning to his usual business demeanor. "Prepare a detailed security assessment with Konstantin. If he approves the arrangements, and if Dr. Kuznetsov clears you medically, I'll make my decision within the week."
"Thank you, Father." I gather my materials, forcing my hands not to tremble with relief. Not approval yet, but not rejection either.
"And Anastasia?" he calls as I reach the door. "If this is approved, I expect regular reports. Detailed. Comprehensive. On all activities."
The implied surveillance sends a chill through me. "Of course."
As the door closes behind me, I release a shaking breath. The first hurdle cleared—not easily, but cleared, nonetheless. Now comes the complex dance of satisfying enough of my father's control mechanisms to maintain the illusion while creating the space I desperately need.
Later that evening, I slip away to Lena's apartment under the pretense of helping her prepare for an upcoming charity gala. It's a flimsy excuse, but one my father accepts with minimal questioning—Bratva social appearances matter to him, and Lena's family holds sufficient standing to make the association appropriate.
"You're sure this is secure?" I ask, eyeing the burner phone Lena has procured.
"Purchased with cash by my housekeeper's teenage son," Lena confirms, setting up noise-cancelling devices around her bedroom. "No connections to either of our families. And we're sweeping for bugs every six hours."
The level of paranoia would seem excessive to most, but in our world, such precautions are merely prudent. I've seen men executed for less significant security breaches than the one I'm about to commit.
With trembling fingers, I dial the number Dr. Petrova gave me for her Geneva colleague.
"Clinique des Alpes," answers a discreet female voice in French.
"This is Anastasia Ivanova," I respond, using the alias Dr. Petrova arranged. "I need to schedule a consultation regarding specialized obstetric care beginning in January."
"Of course, Ms. Ivanova. Dr. Petrova mentioned you might call. We can arrange everything discreetly."
As I confirm details, schedule preliminary virtual consultations, and arrange financial transfers through anonymous banking channels, a strange calm settles over me. The plan is forming—fragile still but taking shape.
Lena watches from her position by the window, keeping a vigilant eye on the street below. The daughter of a Bratva captain, she understands surveillance better than most.
When I end the call, she immediately takes the phone, removing its battery and SIM card. "I'll have these destroyed separately," she says, practical as always. "No digital footprint."
My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat beneath my silk blouse. For the first time since those two pink lines appeared, I allow myself to truly acknowledge the life growing there. Not just as a complication, a crisis to be managed, but as a person. My child. Viktor's child.
"I'll protect you," I whisper, promise hanging in the air like a prayer. "Whatever it takes."
Lena squeezes my shoulder, rare tenderness in the gesture. "We'll protect you both," she corrects softly. "That's what family does—the real kind, not the Bratva kind."
As we prepare to return to the Markov compound, my phone vibrates with a message from my father: Meeting tomorrow morning, 9 AM. Final discussion regarding Switzerland.
I show Lena the text, heart racing with equal parts hope and fear.
"Phase one nearly complete," she murmurs, helping me gather my things. "Just need to convince the pakhan."
"And maintain the deception for seven more months," I add, the enormity of this undertaking suddenly overwhelming.
Lena's smile carries surprising confidence. "One day at a time, Nastya. One lie at a time."
As we leave her apartment, I touch my abdomen once more, silent promise renewed. Seven months of lies, careful planning, and constant vigilance. Seven months to create a future for this child away from the dangerous legacy of the Markov name.
Seven months to decide whether Viktor Baranov—whoever he truly is—deserves to know he's going to be a father.