Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Natasha
What happened after—I only remember pieces.
I remember Katerina's men dragging me out from behind the crates. It took several of them to pry Dante's arms off me, finger by stiff finger.
I remember them lifting Dante onto a stretcher, his back riddled with holes, blood dripping off the edges and smearing a long red trail across the ground. I remember the ambulance siren screaming in my ears, someone gripping my shaking shoulders, saying something over and over that I couldn't hear.
All I could think was—he can't die.
At the hospital, they separated us. Pushed us through different doors.
A doctor in a white coat examined me head to toe. She pressed a cold instrument against my belly, moving it back and forth for what felt like forever. I lay there, barely breathing, heart in my throat.
I'd just crawled back from death's door. If I lost this baby too, I didn't know if I could keep going.
"Mrs. Kornilov." The doctor finally straightened, pulled down her mask, and gave me a tired smile. "It's a miracle. After everything you went through—the shock, the impact—the baby's fine. Strong heartbeat."
The tears I'd been holding back the entire ride finally broke.
I dropped my head, trembling, and placed my hand gently over my still-flat stomach.
The baby was still here.
But the baby's father was lying on an operating table somewhere close by, chest cut open, life hanging by a thread. He still didn't know there was this tiny life fighting like hell to stay with me.
A nurse tried to help me back to a room. She said I was hypothermic, in shock, pregnant—I needed bed rest.
I shook my head.
"I'm fine." I pushed her hand away gently and got out of bed barefoot.
I was still wearing the clothes soaked in Dante's blood. It had dried stiff, clinging to my skin in hard, dark patches.
Through the cold glass window, I could see him inside.
He lay flat on the operating table, tubes running in and out of him, the ventilator tracing lines across a monitor. Surgeons huddled around him under blinding white lights that illuminated his opened chest. The heart monitor beeped steadily—each beep twisted something inside me.
I pressed my hand against the glass, reaching for the man I couldn't touch, the man being stitched back together one thread at a time.
I stood there until my legs gave out, then sank onto the bench outside the glass doors.
And I stayed on that bench for three days and three nights.
I could barely eat. All I could think was—I can't leave Dante.
But Leo forced me to swallow a few bites. After the crash, his leg had been messed up—every step made him wince—but he still kept bringing me warm food.
"You don't have to eat for yourself," he said, shoving a spoon in my hand, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But you have to eat for the baby. If you fall apart, what happens to the baby? What happens when Dante wakes up?"
For the baby, I managed a few mouthfuls.
But no matter how much Leo begged, I wouldn't leave that bench. I wasn't going anywhere. I'd stay right here until Dante came out.
On the third night, familiar heels clicked down the empty corridor.
Katerina stopped in front of me. This woman who'd ruled the mafia world for decades now had bloodshot eyes, and she looked years older than she had just days ago.
She held a clear evidence bag.
Inside was Dante's shot-through shirt. The once-white fabric had turned a deep brownish red, the charred bullet holes in the back making my chest tighten.
"Don't forget what he was fighting for." She handed me the bag, her voice rough. "Natasha, I know you're hurting. But you absolutely cannot fall apart now."
She sat beside me and took my cold hand in hers.
"You're carrying his child." She looked at me, enunciating every word. "Marrying you was the smartest thing my idiot son ever did. So listen to me—for him, for yourself—you have to be strong. When he wakes up and finds out you've destroyed yourself, he'll never forgive himself."
I looked down at the cold shirt in my hands, still reeking of blood.
I remembered him kneeling in a pool of it, saying he was sorry. Remembered how he'd used his back to shield me from every bullet. Remembered him dying on top of me, using his last breath to say "I love you."
The "I love you" I'd waited a whole year for, almost stopped hoping to hear.
I clutched the shirt and buried my face in it.
And I couldn't hold it together anymore.
For three days, I hadn't shed a tear. I'd kept myself locked down tight because I knew if I let go, I'd shatter completely.
But now, holding his bloodstained shirt, I finally broke down in front of Katerina.
I sobbed until I shook, until I couldn't breathe, letting out all the fear, all the hurt, and the love I wouldn't even admit to myself.
Katerina didn't speak. She just patted my back and let me cry.
I don't know how long I cried.
Until, from the end of the hallway, came heavy, hesitant footsteps.
I lifted my swollen eyes.
A man stood in the dim corridor light. He wore a wrinkled suit, shoulders hunched, hair gone half-gray overnight.
It took me several seconds to recognize him.
Nikolai. My father.
I sat up straight instinctively, clutching the shirt tighter.
Between this man and me lay twenty-plus years of cold looks, yelling, and a locked room. In all my memories, he'd never once really looked at me, much less looked like this—drained, hollowed out.
Why was he here?
Katerina glanced between us, then quietly stood and retreated down the hallway.
Nikolai walked toward me slowly, each step labored. He stopped in front of me. Those gray eyes I knew too well—eyes that used to burn with rage and calculation—were now red and puffy, holding only exhaustion and something I couldn't read.
He opened his mouth. His Adam's apple bobbed several times before sound came out.
"Natasha... are you all right?" His voice shook. He reached out, arms open for a hug. "The baby... is the baby all right?"
I didn't answer. Just stared at him.
"It was my fault." Nikolai awkwardly lowered his arms. "Natasha, I'm sorry. I failed to control Vera. I let her almost kill you."
I still didn't speak.
This apology came too late—so late I couldn't remember how many nights I'd spent wishing he'd just look at me this way once.
Control Vera? He never wanted to. For twenty years, he'd watched her grow more vicious, watched her steal my things, rip up my drawings, humiliate me in front of everyone—and he'd either looked away or decided I deserved it.
Now that Vera had nearly dragged both Dante and me into the grave, he suddenly remembered to say he hadn't controlled her.
What could this late apology possibly fix?
"Natasha, I'm sorry." He seemed to be using every ounce of strength to force the words out. "The day your mother died in childbirth... I blamed a newborn baby for everything. These twenty years—the things I did to you, the things I said... I know I don't deserve forgiveness."
Then his knees buckled, and he knelt in front of me.
"But I still want to say I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "I've transferred all my assets to your name. Beyond that, I don't know how else to make it up to you."
I stared at my father kneeling on the floor, white-haired overnight, and my heart churned.
As a child, I'd imagined this day countless times. I thought when this apology finally came, I'd throw myself into his arms, cry my heart out, feel like all the pain of the past twenty years finally meant something.
But now that it was here, I felt strangely calm.
I looked down at my belly and rested my hand on it again.
Inside was a child not yet born. My child.
I suddenly remembered Katerina's words. Remembered Dante barely alive. Remembered Vera's face twisted with hatred and madness.
And I understood.
Hatred passes through bloodlines. Nikolai had passed the hatred of losing his wife to me, and it had become a cage I'd lived in for twenty years. If I held onto that hatred now, squeezed it tight and refused to let go, someday it would flow through my blood into this child.
I wouldn't let that happen.
The suffering I endured ended with me. I would not let my child live under this generational curse.
"I forgive you," I said.
He looked up sharply, like he couldn't believe what he'd heard.
"Not because what you did deserves forgiveness." I met his eyes, speaking slowly. "But because I'm tired. I don't want to carry this hate into the rest of my life. I want to move forward—for myself, and for this baby."
The moment I said it, the weight I'd carried for twenty years finally lifted.
And then—
Behind me, above the ICU doors that had been shut for days, the harsh red light blinked off.
I spun around.
The operating room doors opened.
A masked doctor walked out, exhausted, peeling off his gloves and letting out a long breath.
When he saw me waiting by the door, his tired face broke into a faint smile.
"He made it," he said. "He's through the worst of the post-op rejection period. Mr. Romanov... he survived. It's a miracle."
I stood there, hearing those words, unable to process them at first.
He made it.
Dante—he made it.