Chapter 10 #2
The nurse noticed.
She softened her tone.
“Just for cleaning — we’ll remove the blood and fluids. Then we’ll weigh her, measure her, and give her vitamin K and the eye ointment.”
Her smile reassured me.
“It will only take a few minutes. She’s perfect.”
Perfect.
The word echoed in my chest.
I nodded reluctantly.
“Okay.”
They carefully lifted her from my arms.
My hands resisted letting go.
My fingertips lingered on the blanket until the very last second.
Then she was carried to the side station.
And instantly —
My chest felt empty.
I watched every movement.
Every touch.
Every adjustment.
My eyes tracked her constantly.
As if looking away would somehow break the fragile miracle.
Then—
A sudden disturbance at the door.
Heavy footsteps.
Metal chains rattling loudly.
Boots striking the tile with authority.
My heart skipped.
Ruslan.
He appeared in the doorway flanked by four burly correction officers.
His wrists were shackled.
Chains connected to his waist.
Leg irons forced controlled, measured steps.
He looked thinner.
Harder.
Prison had stripped away some of the raw power he once carried effortlessly — but it hadn’t erased his presence.
His dark eyes scanned the room instantly.
They landed on me first.
Then moved.
Falling slowly.
Deliberately.
To the warming table.
To the tiny figure wrapped in white.
To our daughter.
“Elena...”
His voice cracked — rough from disuse or emotion, maybe both.
The chains clinked as he tried to step forward.
“I tried to get here sooner.”
His jaw tightened.
“Paperwork. Approvals. Security clearance. They dragged it out on purpose.”
His gaze never left the baby.
The senior nurse finished bathing her and wrapped her in fresh warm blankets.
She lifted the newborn carefully.
Ruslan saw.
His entire body shifted.
His hands extended instinctively — as far as the cuffs allowed.
He couldn’t reach her.
The nurse approached cautiously.
She placed the baby into his arms.
Slow.
Measured.
Careful.
The moment her weight settled against his chest —
Everything changed.
Ruslan froze.
Completely.
He looked down at her.
Not like a crime boss.
Not like a prisoner.
Not like a man who had killed.
But like a father encountering life for the first time.
His large hands — still restrained by metal — adjusted awkwardly around her tiny frame.
He held her like she was made of glass.
Like one wrong movement might shatter her.
His throat moved.
Swallowed.
His dark eyes glistened — something raw and unfiltered surfacing.
“She’s...”
His voice broke.
“...small.”
The word came out almost in disbelief.
Then softer:
“She’s perfect.”
His thumb — rough from prison life — moved slowly near her cheek but stopped just before touching.
Afraid.
Respectful.
Overwhelmed.
He glanced up at me briefly.
And in that look —
There was something I hadn’t seen from him before.
Not power.
It was vulnerability.
Shock. Love.
All tangled together.
He lowered his head slightly and whispered to her:
“I’m your father.”
A single tear slipped down Ruslan’s cheek.
It caught in the rough stubble along his jaw before disappearing into the collar of his prison uniform.
“She’s back,” he whispered — voice cracking under the weight of something raw and undeniable.
“Our little girl... she’s back.”
The words didn’t sound strategic.
They didn’t sound calculated.
They sounded like a man standing at the edge of grief and redemption at the same time.
I understood exactly what he meant.
The child we had lost four years ago — the one who never took a breath — haunted us both.
Her absence had lived between us like an invisible wound.
A silence that never healed.
Now...
This baby was warm.
Breathing.
Real.
Alive in his arms.
The nurse stepped forward gently.
“Sir, we need to take her for final measurements and documentation.”
Ruslan hesitated.
His arms tightened instinctively around the baby.
Not possessive.
Protective.
Reluctant.
After a beat — after forcing himself to accept that this wasn’t a moment he could freeze in time — he slowly relinquished her.
His fingers loosened one by one.
He let her go.
The nurse carried our daughter carefully back toward the station.
Ruslan’s gaze followed every movement.
Every step.
Every breath she took.
Then — as if remembering reality — his eyes lifted to mine.
They were raw.
Pleading.
“Elena...”
His voice dropped, rougher now. “I have to get out of this prison.”
His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking beneath strained skin. “For her. For Yannis.”
The words began to spill faster, urgency cracking through the restraint he usually wore like armor.
“Testify for me at the trial. Challenge the footage. Prove it was manipulated.” His chains shifted as his hands moved, metal clinking softly in the silence. “If you do that, they’ll reduce the sentence.”
He leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed.
“I can come home.”
His eyes locked onto mine — not fierce now, not commanding.
Almost pleading.
“To both of you.”
The room felt smaller suddenly.
The monitors seemed louder.
The steady beep of equipment almost mocking the intensity of the moment.
I met his gaze without hesitation.
“No.”
The word was firm.
Final.
It wasn’t screamed.
It wasn’t emotional.
It was absolute.
His expression faltered — just slightly.
“Elena—”
“I will raise her myself.”
My voice didn’t shake.
“I don’t need you.”
The words hit harder than any scream could have.
Around us, the nurses continued working — pretending not to absorb every painful syllable.
They adjusted equipment.
Checked charts.
Maintained professionalism.
But tension filled the air like static.
Ruslan looked thinner than I remembered.
His face sharper.
His cheekbones more defined.
There were faint bruises along his neck.
Small scars I didn’t recognize.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
Prison had stripped away comfort.
It had stripped away power.
Maybe it had even stripped away arrogance.
But it hadn’t erased who he was.
And it certainly hadn’t erased what he had done.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
“I want to hold her every day.”
His gaze flicked toward the bassinet where our daughter was being weighed.
“I want to protect her.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“Protect you.”
The words hung between us.
Heavy. Dangerous.
I studied him carefully.
My sister’s image surfaced suddenly — vivid.
Chained.
Bruised.
Broken.
The memory sharpened my resolve instantly.
Cold steel replacing softness.
“You have no conscience, Ruslan.”
My voice was steady.
Measured.
“You deserve every single day you spend behind those bars.”
His jaw clenched — pain flashing across his face.
I turned slightly.
“Take him away.”
The officers didn’t hesitate.
They stepped forward immediately.
Strong hands gripped his arms.
The chains rattled loudly as they pulled him back.
“Elena...” he called.
His voice cracked again — desperation breaking through control.
“I’m not the worst person alive.”
His steps were forced backward. “I made mistakes — terrible ones — but I love you.”
His eyes locked onto mine as they dragged him toward the door.
“I love our children.”
His breathing grew heavier. “Please...”
His voice broke entirely. “Forgive me.”
His body resisted the officers for one final second.
“Elena...”
The doors opened.
Chains echoed against metal frames.
“Elena!”
His pleas stretched down the corridor.
“Elena—!”
And then —
The doors shut.
Silence swallowed the sound.
The echo of his voice lingered for a few seconds before fading completely into the sterile hospital hallway.
I stood frozen for a moment.
My chest tight.
My throat burning.
Regret tried to claw its way through my certainty.
Had I been too harsh?
Had I pushed away the one man who could actually help protect our children legally — strategically — financially?
Was there a version of this story where forgiveness and accountability coexisted?
Yet doubts lingered.
They didn’t demand attention.
They simply existed — quiet but persistent — like dust settling over unfinished business.
The post-pregnancy haze was approaching.
I could already sense it.
Sleepless nights.
The sharp ache of recovery.
The hormonal storms that would crash over me without warning.
The exhaustion that no amount of rest could fully erase.
New motherhood wasn’t just joy.
It was physical pain.
Emotional vulnerability.
Identity reshaping itself around someone else’s needs.
Would it have been easier if Ruslan were here?
A dangerous question.
Even if part of me — the wounded, tired part — sometimes imagined what it would feel like to have him standing beside me during those long nights.
To share responsibility.
To share weight.
But imagination wasn’t reality.
And reality had cost me too much already.
If not for Yannis —
I would have left months ago.
I would have packed my luggage, gathered what remained of my independence, and returned to New York.
The city called to me in a way California never could.
Skyscrapers rising into endless sky.
Anonymous crowds.
Freedom hidden inside noise.
No mafia surveillance.
No constant reminders of my past.
No empire built around a man who once controlled every aspect of my life.
New York represented reinvention.
Escape.
Control over my own narrative.
A place where I could exist without being defined by Ruslan Baranov’s shadow.
Ten months living here — under protection but still confined — had worn me thin.
I had adapted.
I had survived.
But I had not thrived.
My energy had gone almost entirely into Yannis.
And watching him transform over the past nine months had been the only true reward.
He had changed.
Drastically.
The silent, haunted boy who once flinched at loud noises and avoided eye contact was slowly disappearing.
In his place was a child rediscovering himself.
He spoke more now.
Not just words —
But thoughts.
Opinions.
Questions.
He would call from the garden.
His voice excited.
Alive.
He would hold up drawings — messy sketches of airplanes, imaginary superheroes, or sometimes family portraits where he always placed me in the center.
At school, his teachers reported progress weekly.
He participated.
He raised his hand.
He laughed at jokes instead of shrinking into silence.
The nightmares that once jolted him awake had gradually reduced.
Therapy sessions helped.
Structured routines helped.
Playtime in the garden helped.
And most of all —
My constant reassurance helped.
Every night I would sit beside his bed and remind him:
“You are safe.”
“No one is coming for you.”
“You are loved.”
Those words had become a shield around his fragile childhood.
They were working.
Slowly.
But effectively.
Yet now Yannis was approaching thirteen.
Next year he would step into adolescence.
His voice would deepen.
His independence would expand.
His opinions would become stronger.
Soon — dangerously soon — he would be old enough to question everything around him.
And when that time came —
Would he want to leave California with me?
Would he choose New York?
A new environment?
A new identity?
Or would he feel attached to the only home he had ever known —
His father’s mansion.
The grounds where he had learned to ride bikes and play freely without fear.
I couldn’t trap him in my decisions.
He deserved autonomy.
He deserved choice.
My life could not revolve around protecting Ruslan’s empire indefinitely.
At some point, I needed space to breathe.
To build something separate from the chaos that had defined my survival.
And then there was my sister.
The ache never dulled.
It didn’t fade.
It simply became familiar.
Six months ago, I had finally gathered the courage to tell my six brothers everything.
The calls had been encrypted.
Secure.
But emotionally devastating.
I told them how she had been captured.
How an Italian mafia boss had manipulated circumstances to force her into marriage.
How she had believed — in desperation — that marrying him would protect her.
How instead it had turned into confinement.
Violence.
Control disguised as security.
Ruslan’s men had claimed they rescued her.
That they extracted her from danger.
But the relief was temporary.
Because that monster had tracked her again.
He had found her.
And dragged her back to Italy like property being reclaimed.
Italy’s underworld wasn’t simple.
It wasn’t one family.
It wasn’t one boss.
It was a web.
Families like the Gambino.
The Lucchese.
And others hidden deeper in the shadows — organizations that operated through loyalty, fear, and generational power.
Which one had taken her?
What if they had silenced her permanently?
The possibility haunted me.
A man capable of carving brutality into her skin without remorse would not hesitate to eliminate witnesses.
My stomach twisted every time I pictured her.
The woman who had once been unstoppable.
She had joined the CIA at nineteen.
Brilliant.
Driven.
Relentless.
She had been deployed to Greece with a team of twenty-one elite agents.
Their objective had been clear:
Capture Al-Chapo
Bring down the untouchable Greek legend.
But the mission had turned catastrophic.
They had walked into an ambush.
Outmaneuvered.
Overpowered.
One by one —
They fell.
Only two survived.
Her.
And Ruslan.
They clawed their way out of Al Chapo’s opulent hellscape in Greece — escaping with injuries, betrayal, and survival stitched into their memories.
From that moment forward, her life became one long chase.
Al Chapo’s remaining loyalists hunted her.
Then Ruslan’s men hunted her.
Then other enemies followed.
In a desperate attempt to secure safety, she made a choice.
She married the Italian monster.
She believed a powerful husband would shield her.
That marriage was supposed to be protection.
Instead —
It became imprisonment.
The bunker where I found her still visits my dreams.
The cold concrete.
The restraints.
The bruises.
The broken look in her eyes when she realized rescue had arrived too late to erase trauma.
I pressed my palm against my chest unconsciously.
The guilt never fully left.
Because I was safe.
I had support.
I had resources.
And she —
Was still fighting alone somewhere in Italy.
That uncertainty ate at me.
Every day.
I turned slowly toward the bassinet.
Our daughter lay there now — swaddled tightly.
Her tiny chest rose and fell peacefully.
Her fingers flexed slightly in sleep.
Alive. Safe.