Chapter 50 Mikhail
MIKHAIL
“Save the baby.”
Sophia’s words echo in my mind as they wheel her toward the operating room, and I want to rage at the universe for putting us in this position.
How can she ask me to choose?
How can she expect me to live in a world where she doesn’t exist?
“Mr. Artyomov, you need to wait here.” A nurse blocks my path as the double doors swing shut, separating me from my wife.
“No.” The word comes out as a growl. “I need to be with her.”
“Sir, please.” The nurse’s voice is firm but not unkind. “The surgical team needs space to work. You’ll be able to see her as soon as the procedure is complete.”
Tony’s hand lands on my shoulder, and I realize I’ve been moving forward, ready to shove past anyone who stands between me and Sophia. “Come on,” he says quietly. “Let them do their job.”
I let him guide me to the waiting area, but every cell in my body screams to go back.
To be with her.
To make sure she knows I’m there, that I’m not leaving her alone in this.
The waiting room is too bright, too sterile, too full of other people’s anxiety mixing with my own.
I can’t sit, can’t stand still.
I pace the length of the room, my boots wearing a path in the linoleum, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
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.
But this, this waiting while the two people I love most fight for their lives, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
The doors open again, and this time it’s Dr. Chen. Her surgical mask hangs around her neck, and there’s blood on her scrubs. My blood turns to ice.
“Mr. Artyomov.” She walks toward me, and I search her face desperately for clues. Is that relief in her eyes? Or pity?
“Tell me.” The words come out strangled. “Tell me they’re alive.”
“Mother and baby are both doing well.” The words wash over me like a wave, and my knees nearly buckle. “Your wife came through the surgery beautifully. She’s in recovery now.”
“And the baby?” Tony asks when I can’t seem to form words.
“Your daughter is premature, but she’s healthy. Strong lungs, good color, all her vitals are stable.” Dr. Chen’s smile is genuine. “She’s small, only four pounds, but she’s a fighter. Just like her mother.”
A daughter. I have a daughter.
The reality hits me with the force of a physical blow. I’m a father. Sophia is alive. Our baby is alive. We made it through.
“Can I see them?” My voice cracks on the question.
“Your wife is still in recovery, but I can take you to see your daughter now. She’s in the NICU.”
I follow Dr. Chen through a maze of corridors, barely registering Tony and Melinda trailing behind me. The NICU is quieter than I expected, filled with the soft beeps of monitors and the gentle whoosh of ventilators.
Dr. Chen leads me to an incubator in the corner. “Here she is.”
I step closer, and my breath catches.
She’s so small.
Impossibly small, with tubes and wires attached to her tiny body. But she’s perfect.
Dark hair, just like Sophia’s.
Her eyes are closed, her little fists curled against her chest.
As I watch, she yawns, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
“You can touch her,” a nurse says gently. “Through the ports in the incubator.”
I wash my hands, and they shake as I reach through the opening, my finger brushing against her palm.
Her tiny fingers curl around mine instinctively, and I’m lost.
Completely, utterly lost to this tiny person who’s only been in the world for a few minutes.
“Hello, little one,” I whisper. “I’m your papa. And I promise you, I’m going to give you everything. Safety, love, a world where you never have to be afraid.”
She makes a small sound, and I feel tears tracking down my face. I don’t bother wiping them away.
Two hours later, they move Sophia to a private room.
I’m already there waiting, our daughter cradled carefully in my arms.
The nurses showed me how to hold her, how to support her head, how to be gentle with her fragile body.
Sophia looks pale against the white sheets, but her eyes are open. When she sees me holding our baby, her face transforms with joy and relief.
“Is she okay?” Her voice is hoarse from the anesthesia.
“She’s perfect.” I move closer, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “Four pounds of pure perfection.”
Sophia reaches out with trembling hands, and I transfer our daughter into her arms. The baby fusses slightly at the movement, and Sophia makes a soft shushing sound that seems to calm her immediately.
“She’s so small,” Sophia whispers, tears streaming down her face. “So beautiful.”
“Just like her mother.” I stroke Sophia’s hair back from her face, my own eyes burning. “You did it, my love. You brought her into this world.”
The baby starts to fuss more insistently, her little face scrunching up. Sophia looks at me, then at the nurse hovering nearby.
“She’s probably hungry,” the nurse says with a knowing smile. “Would you like to try breastfeeding?”
Sophia nods, and the nurse helps her adjust her hospital gown.
I watch as she guides our daughter to her breast, as that tiny mouth latches on and begins to nurse.
The sight is so intimate, so primal, that I have to look away for a moment to compose myself.
“We did it,” Sophia says softly, looking up at me with those blue eyes I love so much. “We actually did it.”
I lean down and kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips. “You did it. You’re incredible.”
We sit together in the quiet room, our daughter nursing peacefully, and for the first time in months, I feel something like peace. This is what matters. Not territory or power or revenge. This. My family, safe and whole.
“What should we name her?” Sophia asks, her finger tracing our daughter’s tiny hand.
I think about Nicole, about the sister I lost. About how she would have loved to be an aunt, how she would have spoiled this baby rotten. “Nicole,” I say quietly. “If you’re okay with that.”
Sophia’s eyes fill with fresh tears. “It’s perfect.”
Our daughter finishes nursing and falls asleep in Sophia’s arms, her little chest rising and falling with each breath.
I sit beside them, my hand resting on Sophia’s leg, and I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we can have this. A normal life. A happy family.
The door opens, and Tony and Melinda slip in quietly.
They move to the bedside, their faces soft with wonder as they look at the baby.
“She’s beautiful,” Melinda whispers.
“She looks like you, Soph,” Tony adds, his voice thick with emotion.
We’re all smiling, all caught up in the miracle of new life, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I almost ignore it, but something makes me check.
Instead of another dire situation, it’s a group text from several of my men offering congratulations on the baby.
I smile, then notice the concern in Sophia’s eyes.
I show her the text and relief floods her pale features.
Somehow, I know that this text is a sign of what’s to come.
A better way of life.
A safer way for my family.