Chapter 20Damir
20
Damir
I spend the entire day with my security team, reviewing protocols and contingency plans. The intelligence we’ve received about increased surveillance from both Nikolai’s organization and federal agents has me on edge. Anton sits across from me at the conference table, his tablet open to a map of our territory.
“We’ve identified three new observation points,” he says, pointing to red markers on the digital map. “Two are federal, standard surveillance vans with rotating teams. The third belongs to Nikolai.”
I study the positions, noting their proximity to my legitimate businesses. “Have they approached any of our people?”
“Not yet. They’re gathering intelligence, not making moves.”
“Double the counter-surveillance teams. I want to know who’s watching and what they’re seeing.” I tap my finger on the glass tabletop. “And put extra security on Elena’s rotation at the hospital.”
Anton nods, making notes. “Already done. Fydor reported that she’s been followed twice this week by federal agents, not Nikolai’s men.”
My jaw tightens. The feds I can handle. They operate within predictable parameters. Nikolai is the wild card. He’s been quiet for weeks, which means he’s planning something significant.
“What about the new shipment routes?” I ask.
“Clean. We’ve vetted all drivers and secured the warehouse. The first delivery arrives tomorrow night.”
We spend another three hours going through every detail of our operation, identifying vulnerabilities and reinforcing weak points. By the time we finish, it’s earlier than I expected, just past six. Elena won’t be expecting me home for at least another hour.
The drive to the penthouse gives me time to decompress, to shift from pakhan to husband. The distinction has become increasingly blurred over the past months. What began as a business arrangement has evolved into something I never anticipated. Something I never thought I wanted.
When I enter the penthouse, I find Elena in the kitchen, scrolling through takeout menus on her tablet. She doesn’t notice me at first, giving me a moment to observe her. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she’s changed from her hospital scrubs into leggings and one of my T-shirts. The sight of her in my clothing stirs something possessive inside me.
“Can’t decide?” I ask, setting my keys on the counter.
Elena startles, looking up with wide eyes. “You’re home early.”
I cross to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Meeting finished sooner than expected.”
“That’s good.” She returns to scrolling through the menus, flipping between options with unusual indecision. “I’m trying to figure out dinner. Thai or Italian?”
I shrug out of my suit jacket, draping it over a barstool. “You’re the indecisive one. You choose.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not wrong.”
I watch her continue to flip between the same three menus. Elena is typically decisive about food. She knows what she wants and orders without hesitation. This uncharacteristic wavering catches my attention.
“Things have been going well for us,” I say, moving to the refrigerator for a glass of water from the dispenser. “Very well.” Most nights are like this these days—playful, easy...normal. I would love if this could be the rest of our lives. The thought surprises me with its intensity.
“Yes, very,” she says, setting down the tablet. “Grab my phone from my desk in my sitting room. I’ll order.”
I push away from the counter, barefoot and relaxed, not expecting to find anything unusual. Her study space in her bedroom, converted from the sitting area, is immaculate as always, with medical textbooks arranged by specialty with notes organized in color-coded folders. The desk drawer isn’t fully closed, and when I pull it open to look for her phone, I spot a handful of scattered change and a crumpled pharmacy receipt partially visible under some papers.
Without thinking, I smooth it out, automatically looking for the date to gauge how recent the purchase was. Two days ago. My gaze locks on the item listed below tampons: “EPT Pregnancy Test.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My fingers tighten around the thin paper, crinkling it further. A pregnancy test. Elena took a pregnancy test two days ago, and she hasn’t said a word to me about it. If she bought a test, she suspects she’s pregnant. If she hasn’t told me, either the test was negative or...
Or she’s pregnant with my child and hasn’t decided what to do about it.
A complex rush of emotions floods through me—anger at her secrecy, possessive satisfaction that she carries my child, and an unexpected jolt of vulnerability at the thought of fatherhood. I never imagined myself as a father. My own childhood was stolen from me, replaced with lessons in violence and power. What do I know about raising a child?
I carefully refold the receipt and place it exactly as I found it, deciding to give Elena the opportunity to tell me herself. I set a mental deadline of three days. If she hasn’t told me by then, I’ll confront her.
Her phone sits on the corner of the desk, partially hidden by a medical journal. I pick it up and return to the kitchen, schooling my features into neutrality.
“Here,” I say, handing her the phone.
“Thanks.” She takes it, our fingers brushing. Does she look nervous? Is she watching for my reaction?
I observe her with new awareness while she orders dinner. When she thinks I’m not looking, she places a protective hand over her stomach in a subtle, unconscious gesture that confirms my discovery. My child is growing inside her. “I was thinking Italian,” I suggest, remembering it’s her usual comfort food. “From that place on 5th you like.”
Her expression brightens. “That sounds perfect actually.”
I want to take care of her, even though I’m hurt and angry that she hasn’t said anything yet. It’s only been two days , I remind myself. She needs time. “How was your day?” I ask, moving to the living room and settling on the couch.
Elena follows, curling up beside me. “Long. I had back-to-back surgeries with Dr. Patel. A car accident victim with internal bleeding, and then an appendectomy.”
“You look tired.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, studying her more closely. There are shadows under her eyes I hadn’t noticed before. Morning sickness, perhaps? “Maybe you should cut back your hours.”
She frowns. “Why would I do that? I’m fine.”
“You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“This is residency, Damir. Everyone pushes themselves too hard.” She shifts away slightly. “Besides, I only have a few months left before I finish.”
I bite back the urge to tell her what I know, to demand why she’s keeping secrets. Instead, I pull her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I worry about you.”
“That’s sweet but unnecessary.” She rests her head against my chest. “How was your day? Valeriya mentioned something about increased surveillance?”
“Nothing for you to worry about.” I stroke her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. “Just the usual precautions.”
“Damir.” She sits up, fixing me with a stern look. “We agreed to no secrets. If something’s happening, I want to know.”
The irony of her demand for no secrets isn’t lost on me. “Federal agents have increased surveillance on several of my businesses, and Nikolai’s men have been spotted watching the same locations.”
“That sounds coordinated.”
“It’s not. The feds don’t work with Nikolai. They’re both circling for different reasons.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
I consider how much to tell her. Elena knows what I am and what I do, but I’ve tried to shield her from the uglier aspects of my business. Now, with the possibility of a child between us, that protective instinct is even stronger. “We’re adjusting security protocols. Moving some operations and reinforcing others.” I trace my thumb along her jawline. “Nothing that puts you at risk.”
She studies my face, searching for deception. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Always am.”
The doorbell rings, announcing our dinner. I rise to answer it, paying the delivery person and bringing the food back to the kitchen. Elena follows, retrieving plates from the cabinet.
“Hey,” she says, opening containers of pasta, “I’ve been thinking about our arrangement.”
My heart rate accelerates. Is this it? Is she about to tell me about the pregnancy? “What about it?”
“Our six-month agreement is almost up.” She keeps her gaze on the food, not looking at me. “We never really discussed what happens after.”
I set down the container I’m holding. “What do you want to happen?”
She shrugs, still not looking at me. “I don’t know. Things have changed between us.”
“They have.” I move closer, turning her to face me. “Elena, is there something you want to tell me?”
Her eyes widen slightly. Does she know that I know? “What do you mean?”
“About us. About our future.” I give her the opening, willing her to take it.
For a moment, I think she might. Her lips part, and she draws a breath. Then she shakes her head. “Not yet. I’m still...figuring things out.”
Disappointment and frustration surge through me, but I suppress them. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
She smiles, relief evident in her expression. “Thank you.”
We plate our food and move to the dining table. Throughout dinner, I catch her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. She’s nervous and uncertain. I want to ease her fears, to tell her that a child—our child—is something I never knew I wanted until this moment.
Instead, I ask about her patients, letting her talk about her work while I observe the subtle changes in her. “How’s that elderly woman with the hip replacement? Mrs. Nielsen, wasn’t it?” I ask, cutting into my pasta.
Elena’s face brightens. “She’s doing remarkably well. Started physical therapy this week, ahead of schedule.” She gestures with her fork as she speaks, animated in a way she only gets when discussing medicine. “And there’s this seven-year-old boy, who came in with a ruptured appendix—you should see him now, racing down the hallways in his wheelchair.”
As she speaks, I catalog the differences my trained eye hasn’t missed. She absently rests her hand on her stomach while describing a particularly difficult trauma case, the gesture protective, instinctive. When I offered her wine earlier, she didn’t just decline. She physically moved the glass away from her place setting without offering any explanation.
“Dr. Patel is letting me take point on more procedures now,” she continues.
I nod, noticing the subtle fullness to her face, a softness that wasn’t there before. Her cheekbones, always defined, now have a gentle roundness that speaks of hormonal changes I instantly recognize as significant. “That’s excellent,” I say, my mind racing ahead while keeping my expression neutral. “You’ve always said she’s a demanding mentor.”
My wife is carrying my child, and she’s afraid to tell me. The realization stings more than I expected. I watch Elena now across our dinner table, studying the careful way she redirects our conversation toward work and away from herself. Away from us. “So, Dr. Patel thinks highly of your surgical technique,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.
“Yes.” Elena’s eyes brighten at the professional topic.
My chest constricts with an unfamiliar pain. Not anger but something worse. Why doesn’t she trust me with this? What have I done to make my wife believe our child would be unwelcome news?
I want to reach across the table and take her hand. Tell her I already know. Ask her why she’s afraid. Instead, I remain silent, waiting for her to find the courage to share the secret that’s already reshaping both our lives.
After dinner, we move to the couch, Elena curling against my side as we watch a movie. Her breathing eventually deepens and slows, revealing she’s fallen asleep. I study her peaceful face, imagining how she’ll look with our child in her arms.
A fierce protectiveness surges through me. I will keep them safe, both of them, from Nikolai, from the feds, or from anyone who might threaten what’s mine. I place my hand gently over hers where it rests on her stomach.
“I know,” I whisper, too softly to wake her. “And when you’re ready to tell me, I’ll be here.”