Chapter 23
Zita
Something is wrong with my body, and I’ve been trying to ignore it for the past two weeks since we’ve been in the cabin.
The nausea hits me at random times throughout the day, making me rush to the bathroom with my hand clamped over my mouth while my stomach churns with violent rebellion.
The exhaustion feels different from the stress and grief I’ve been carrying since my father died.
This is bone-deep fatigue that makes even simple tasks like showering or getting dressed feel overwhelming.
There’s a heaviness in my body that I can’t explain, like I’m carrying extra weight that wasn’t there before. My breasts are tender and swollen, my clothes feel tighter around my waist, and there’s a persistent metallic taste in my mouth that makes everything I try to eat seem unappetizing.
At first, I blamed everything on the circumstances, dismissing this as stress from living in hiding while the Federoffs hunt us, processing the trauma of watching my father die, and adjusting to the emotional breakthrough Tigran and I shared.
Any of those things would be enough to make someone feel physically ill.
The stress of knowing Avgar’s men could find this safehouse at any moment has been eating at me, making sleep difficult and appetite nonexistent.
This morning feels different though. The nausea is worse than it’s ever been, accompanied by dizziness that makes the room spin when I stand up too quickly. I’m trying to get ready for the day, brushing my teeth and washing my face, when the world suddenly tilts sideways.
The taste of toothpaste in my mouth triggers another wave of nausea so violent that I barely make it to the toilet before retching.
Nothing comes up except bile and the bitter remnants of the coffee I forced myself to drink earlier, but the heaving continues until my ribs ache and tears stream down my face.
I’m on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor, gasping for breath and trying to stop the room from spinning, when everything goes black.
I wake up to the sound of Tigran’s voice, urgent and sharp with fear in a way I’ve rarely heard from him. My cheek is pressed against cool tile, and there’s a dull ache in my temple where I must have hit my head when I fell.
“Zita, can you hear me?” His hands are gentle on my face, checking for injuries. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
“I’m okay.” The words come out weak and shaky, proving exactly how not okay I actually am. “I just got dizzy.”
“You fainted.” Tigran’s arms slide under me, lifting me from the bathroom floor with ease. “You were unconscious for almost four minutes.”
“Four minutes?” The timeframe scares me more than the fainting itself. People don’t just collapse and stay unconscious for that long without something being seriously wrong.
“You’re going to see Dr. Kozlova.” Tigran carries me to the bedroom and sets me down gently on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t need a doctor.” The protest sounds weak even to my own ears. “It’s just stress and exhaustion. Once we get out of here and deal with the Federoffs, I’ll be fine.”
“You collapsed unconscious in the bathroom after vomiting for ten minutes.” Tigran’s voice carries authority that doesn’t allow for argument. “That’s not something we ignore, especially not when we’re in hiding and don’t have immediate access to emergency medical care.”
Within an hour, we’re in the back of an armored SUV heading toward Chicago.
The movement of the vehicle makes my stomach lurch again, and I have to focus on breathing deeply through my nose to avoid being sick in the car.
Tigran holds my hand throughout the drive, his thumb tracing gentle circles over my knuckles while his security team maintains radio contact with advance scouts clearing our route.
The doctor’s clinic is in a nondescript building on the North Side, the kind of place that could be a dentist’s office or an accounting firm from the outside.
Tigran’s men have cleared the building and positioned themselves at strategic points, turning what should be a routine medical visit into a military operation.
Dr. Kozlova is just as I remember her from when she treated Tigran at his mansion after he was shot.
She still has kind eyes that suggest she’s seen enough violence to understand the world her patients live in but doesn’t let it impede her compassion.
Her clinic is clean and modern, equipped with medical technology that looks expensive and sophisticated.
Tigran, and perhaps other families, probably ensure she has the latest of everything.
“Let’s get you on the examination table.” Her manner is professional but warm. “Tell me about the symptoms you’ve been experiencing.”
I describe the nausea, the fatigue, and the dizziness that led to this morning’s collapse. She listens carefully, asking follow-up questions about timing and severity while taking my blood pressure and checking my pulse. Her touch is gentle but thorough.
“When was your last menstrual period?” The question is routine, but it makes something cold settle in my stomach.
“I…” I try to remember, but the past few weeks have been such a blur of trauma and stress that normal things like keeping track of dates have fallen by the wayside. “I’m not sure. Maybe six or seven weeks ago? Everything has been so chaotic since the restaurant attack.”
Dr. Kozlova nods understandingly. “Stress can certainly affect your cycle, but given your symptoms, I’d like to run a pregnancy test and do an ultrasound to rule out any other causes.”
The word ‘pregnancy’ stuns me. In all my worry about the nausea and exhaustion, that possibility never occurred to me.
Tigran and I have been intimate multiple times since our wedding night, and we haven’t been using any protection because…
I can’t think of a good reason other than we both were prepared for a baby whenever it happened, maybe.
Truthfully, passion just overwhelmed me, and I was too stupid to think about consequences.
“A pregnancy test?” Panic creeps into my voice.
“It’s just one possibility we need to explore.” Dr. Kozlova’s tone is reassuring. “Your symptoms are quite consistent with early pregnancy, so we should check to be thorough.”
The next few minutes pass in a haze of medical procedures. Tigran stands beside the examination table, holding my hand while we wait for results that could change everything about our future.
“The urine test is positive.” Her voice is gentle but matter-of-fact. “You are pregnant. The labs will take a few days, and I’ll be checking for any issues, like anemia. For now, let’s see what the ultrasound shows us about how far along you are and if everything is developing normally.”
She applies cold gel to my abdomen and positions the ultrasound wand, moving it slowly while watching the monitor beside the bed. Her expression shifts from routine professionalism to something that looks like surprise, then concentration, then amazement.
“What is it?” Tigran’s voice is tense. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, but this is quite extraordinary.” She adjusts the equipment and moves the wand to a different position. “I’m seeing multiple heartbeats. Let me get a clearer image to be absolutely certain.”
Multiple heartbeats. The words echo in my head as she continues the examination, making notes and taking measurements while the sound of rapid, rhythmic beating fills the room. Not one heartbeat, but several, distinct and strong.
“How many?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I brace myself to hear twins or triplets.
“Six.” Dr. Kozlova turns the monitor so we can see it clearly, pointing to different areas of the screen. “You’re carrying sextuplets, all with strong heartbeats and appropriate development for what appears to be about eight weeks gestation.”
The room starts spinning again, but this time, it has nothing to do with physical symptoms. Six babies means six targets for anyone who wants to hurt Tigran or gain leverage over the Bratva.
“Six?” Tigran’s voice sounds stunned, like he can’t quite process what he’s hearing.
“Sextuplets occur in approximately one in 4.7 million pregnancies,” says the doctor while printing images from the ultrasound. “This is incredibly rare, and it will require intensive monitoring and specialized care throughout the pregnancy.”
I can’t breathe properly. The air in the room feels too thick, like I’m drowning in fears and the overwhelming reality of what this means for our future.
Our children who will never know what it’s like to walk to school without bodyguards.
They’ll inevitably understand at some point that people want to kill them because of who their parents are.
“I can’t do this.” The words tear from my throat. “I can’t bring six children into this world, when they’ll always be targets.”
“Zita—” Tigran starts, but I cut him off.
“You don’t understand.” I struggle to sit up on the examination table as the ultrasound gel slides down the side of my stomach.
“These children will never be safe. They’ll never have normal childhoods or normal friendships or the chance to just be kids instead of assets in your war with other families. ”
“They’ll be protected.” Tigran’s voice carries absolute conviction. “Whatever it takes, I’ll make sure they’re safe.”
“How?” I can hear the hysteria creeping into my voice. “How do you protect six children from every enemy you’ve ever made, every rival family that wants to destroy the Belskys, and every person who sees them as leverage against you?”
She clears her throat gently. “Perhaps I should give you some time to process this information. Multiple births, especially higher-order multiples like sextuplets, can be overwhelming news even under the best circumstances.”
“What are the risks to Zita and to the babies?” Tigran’s question is directed at the doctor, but his gaze never leaves my face.