22. Maksim #2
And with that, I break. I pull my son against my chest and hold him while he wraps his arms around my neck. My shoulders shake with sobs I can’t control.
“You’re the best son in the world,” I manage to say between sobs. “And I’m the luckiest papa alive. I love you so much, Daniel.”
“I love you too, Papa.”
Aria joins us, wrapping her arms around both of us, her pregnant belly pressed against my side. This is what I searched for during those eight years. This exact moment. This feeling.
My family. Whole. Safe. Together.
That night, after Daniel is asleep, I make love to my fiancée.
I’m careful with her body, but I worship every inch of her, my hands and mouth mapping the changes pregnancy has brought.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, my lips against her swollen breasts. “Even more beautiful like this. I’m going to keep you pregnant forever.”
“Ew gross, a pregnancy kink,” she laughs.
“Can you blame me?” I kiss my way down her body, over the swell of our child. “You’re carrying my baby and about to become my wife.”
Aria’s sensitive everywhere and when she comes apart beneath me, crying my name, I follow her over the edge with her name on my lips. We lie together after, my hand resting on her belly where I can feel our child moving.
“When should we have the wedding?” Aria asks, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my chest.
“Whenever you want. Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. I don’t care as long as you’re mine.”
She smiles against my skin. “Let’s wait until after the baby comes. I want to be able to fit into a proper wedding dress and I want to enjoy the day without worrying about going into labor in the middle of the ceremony.”
“You’d be beautiful in a wedding dress at nine months pregnant.”
“Sweet talker.” She kisses my jaw and I can feel her roll her eyes. “But I still want to wait. I want Daniel adjusted to his school, and want our daughter or son to be involved.”
“Speaking of which—” I shift so I can see her face. “We should start thinking about names.”
“You pick.” She says it like it’s obvious. “You never got to be part of naming Daniel so this time, you choose.”
The trust in those words hits me hard and it steals my breath. She’s giving me this gift—the chance to name our child.
“I have some ideas,” I admit cautiously, unsure of how she’ll take them. She chose such a strong name for Daniel and I hope she’ll like my choices. “If you want to hear them.”
“I’m listening.”
I take a breath. “For a girl: Anastasia, after my grandmother.” I watch her face carefully.
“She was an incredible woman. She survived the revolution, immigrated to America with nothing, and built a life from scratch. She was strong and fierce and loving, all traits I would want our daughter to have.”
Aria’s smile is soft as she strokes my hair. “Anastasia Sokolov,” she murmurs. “I love it. It’s perfect.”
I beam at her, happy that she likes the girl name. “And for a boy—” I hesitate, suddenly uncertain as this is the name that I know will make her eyebrow raise. “Roman.”
Sure as shit, it does. “Roman? That’s not traditionally Russian.”
I shrug, a bit self-conscious. “No, it’s not. It’s just…a name I’ve always liked. It’s strong and classic. It works in any language. Roman Sokolov.” I pause. “If you hate it—”
“I actually don’t hate it.” She pauses. “Roman Sokolov. It’s unexpected but perfect. I love it.”
Relief washes through me. “So we’re agreed?” I ask hopefully. “Anastasia or Roman?”
“We’re agreed.” She kisses me. “Although I won’t lie, I was worried you would pick some pretty harsh names like Olga or Vladimir.”
“What’s wrong with those names?” I ask with bewilderment. “They’re excellent names.”
Aria fixes me with a look. “Olga sounds like an old lady and Vladimir…” she trails off and looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s not a name I would like.”
“You would have dealt with it as you told me I could pick the names,” I tease. “I change my mind. I like Olga and Vlad better.”
Aria smacks me with a pillow and I tackle her carefully into the mattress, pinning her down, her laughter sweet music to my ears.
For the first time in my life, the future doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels full of possibility.
Life settles into a comfortable rhythm over the next few weeks.
We buy a house in Westchester and it’s a beautiful four-bedroom colonial in a quiet neighborhood with good schools.
It has a big backyard, a proper office for me, and it’s far enough from Brighton Beach to feel removed from the Bratva world but close enough that we can still see Nikolai when needed.
Daniel is nervous about starting at a new school, but he’s also excited. He’s eight now and growing up fast. The trauma from the poisoning and car bomb has left marks. He’s more cautious than other kids his age and still has nightmares sometimes. But slowly and carefully, he’s making friends.
There’s a boy in his class named Colton who also loves pirates and adventure books.
They eat lunch together and make up elaborate games at recess.
Rounding out their little duo is a girl named Charlotte, who’s good at math and helps Daniel and Colton with their homework sometimes.
In return, Daniel helps her with reading comprehension.
I pick him up from school every day and make a point of being there so Daniel always knows that Papa will always come for him.
“How was school, solnyshko?” I ask as he climbs into the car, his school uniform shirt wrinkled and his cheeks flushed.
“Good! We learned about the Revolutionary War in history, and Colton and I built a fort during recess. Charlotte punched a kid in the nose because he pulled her pigtails.”
“Good for her,” I tell him, listening to him chatter about his day, my heart full. This is what childhood should be. Friends and forts, not fear and trauma.
I still consult occasionally with Bratva operations when Nikolai needs me, but mostly I focus on my family and legitimate business investments.
I’m now in real estate and while I’m still in import-export, it’s the actual legal kind.
I also dabble in some tech startups that Nikolai’s financial advisors recommended.
I’m becoming a legitimate businessman. A husband. A father.
Life has settled into a pattern I never thought I’d have. I’m in the garage of our house, organizing tools. It’s a Saturday morning, warm and sunny. Through the open garage door I can hear birds singing, and neighbors walk their dogs and push strollers.
This is domestic bliss.
Daniel comes running in from the backyard, grass-stained and breathless with excitement.
“Papa! Papa, guess what!”
I turn to him, relaxing at the joy on his face. “What is it, solnyshko?”
“Colt invited me to his birthday party next weekend! Can I go? Please? His mom said she’d call Mama to make sure it was okay, but I wanted to ask you first.”
“Of course you can go.” I ruffle his hair. “We’ll get him a good present.”
“Thanks, Papa!” He hugs me quickly, then runs back outside.
I watch him go, my chest tight with emotion. Birthday parties. Normal childhood things.
“Maksim!” Aria’s voice calls from the house. “Can you help me with something?”
I finish organizing the last shelf of tools and head inside. The house smells like vanilla and cinnamon and I find Aria in the living room with fabric swatches for curtains, her face slightly flushed from exertion.
“What do you think?” She holds up two different samples. “The cream or the beige?”
I glance at them both. “They look the same to me,” I say dryly.
She laughs and whacks me with a sample. “They’re completely different! The cream has warm undertones and the beige is more neutral.” She rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Never mind. I’ll pick.”
I pull her into my arms, careful of her enormous belly. “You’re beautiful when you’re decorating,” I murmur into her neck.
She scoffs but wraps her arms around me. “I’m enormous and waddling like a duck.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that I want to keep you pregnant forever? You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
She melts into me, her head on my chest. “You’re so lucky I love you because that line should not work on me.”
“And I’m grateful every day that you love me too,” I tell her.
Daniel runs into the living room, wrinkling his nose at our embrace. “Mama, can I have a snack? I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving,” Aria teases, as she presses a quick kiss to my cheek before heading toward the kitchen. “Come on, let’s see what we have.”
I follow them, watching my son climb onto a kitchen stool while Aria pulls out fruit and crackers. Daniel is chattering about Colt’s birthday party and how he’s already thinking of what toy to get his friend. Aria reminds him to do his homework, which makes our son pull a face and groan.
The baby kicks hard enough that I can see movement through Aria’s shirt. She pauses, her hand going to her belly.
“They’re active this afternoon,” she comments.
“Can I feel?” Daniel asks eagerly.
“Of course.” Aria guides his hand to where the baby’s moving and Daniel’s face lights up with wonder.
“Whoa. That’s so weird. But cool weird.”
I stand there in our kitchen, watching my fiancée and my son, and I’m overwhelmed by how much everything has changed. This is everything I searched for during those eight years. Not just Aria or finding them. But these ordinary moments. The snacks and birthday parties and fabric swatches.
A life beyond the violence. My wife. My children. A home.
Aria catches my eye and smiles, and in that smile I see our past, our present, and our future.
This is peace. This is home.
For the first time in my life, I’m not just surviving.
I’m living.