Chapter Twenty Three #2
“You’re doing beautifully, Chiara.” She praises. “The baby is almost here. Just a little more, and she will be right here with you, bundled in your arms.”
Chiara lets out a small, choked sob as she drops her forehead against my shoulder.
“I can’t.” She gasps, her whole body shaking. “I don’t think I can.”
Nikolai shakes his head behind her, moving in closer towards her to press his lips against the side of her neck.
“You can, darling.” He murmurs as he keeps her grounded, pouring every ounce of love he has into his voice. “You’ve got this. You’re so strong, Chiara. You’re doing so well. We’re right here, and we’ll be here with you throughout it all.”
I tighten my hold on her as she lifts her head, then I tip my forehead to hers.
“Just a few more pushes, beauty. We’re almost there.”
Chiara clenches her jaw, nodding weakly at me, but I can see the sheer determination flickering back into her eyes.
My chest tightens with pride.
That's our girl.
Another contraction hits as she bears down, a deep, primal sound ripping from her throat.
“There we go.” The doctor encourages. “There’s the head crowning. All we need is a little more now.”
I shift slightly, adjusting my grip on her, and that’s when I see it.
Pale hair, slick with water.
It’s the smallest glimpse of the life we’ve all created together, and it’s ours.
Fuck.
My vision goes blurry, my throat tightening as my heart slams into my ribs.
“You're doing it, beauty.” I whisper, my voice thick. “Our baby is almost here, just one more push, and we’ll meet our baby.”
She sobs with her forehead still pressed against mine, and she pushes with everything she has.
And then, everything changes.
A rush of warmth.
A sharp inhale from the doctor.
A pause, thick with anticipation.
The doctor is gentle, swift as she lifts our baby from the water.
Chiara opens her arms at once, taking our child onto her bare chest.
And finally, a cry.
High, sharp, and perfect.
A daughter’s cry.
Our daughter.
Chiara’s body becomes limp, an exhausted sob escaping her lips as she collapses back against Nikolai’s chest, her body trembling against mine.
She’s crying, overwhelmed, and I can barely breathe around the lump in my throat.
My eyes burn as I stare down at the tiny, squirming, crying life in Chiara’s arms.
Our baby.
My heart clenches so hard, it’s almost unbearable.
Almost.
Our baby is so small, so perfect against her mother's body.
Her tiny fingers curl instinctively against Chiara’s breast, her wet hair plastered to her soft small head.
Her face is red and all scrunched up, her lungs strong, and her cries the most beautiful fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
Nikolai releases a shaky breath behind Chiara, his lips pressing into her damp hair.
“She’s perfect.”
He murmurs, his voice raw with emotion.
Chiara is sobbing now, clutching our daughter close, pressing kisses to her small head, whispering soft words of sweetness into her ear.
And me?
I don’t know if I’m even breathing.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to breathe again.
Because this moment—this exact moment—just rewired something in my chest, broke me open, and rearranged me from inside out.
I wipe at my face, but it’s fucking useless.
Tears keep falling, and my hands are shaky, my entire body wrecked with emotions.
I finally move, cradling Chiara’s face as I kiss her.
“You did it.” I breathe against her lips, my breathing unsteady. “You did so fucking good, beauty.”
She laughs softly through her tears, turning slightly to look back at Nikolai too.
Our daughter is cradled between our three bodies, and we all reach down to touch her.
“We did it.” Chiara whispers. “She’s finally here.”
Nikolai leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek as his finger brushes over our baby’s head.
“Our little family.”
And I know that this is it.
Everything I’ve ever wanted is right here.
Everything is silent outside, and everything is peaceful inside.
The soft creak of the rocking chair.
The warmth of the dimly lit nursery.
The quiet hum of our family settling into place.
Chiara sits in the rocking chair, her body relaxed, her skin glowing with the aftermath of bringing our eldest daughter into the world.
She’s draped in one of our shirts, the fabric loose around her body, falling off of one shoulder.
My entire attention is on the tiny, perfect baby who’s cradled in her arms.
Our daughter nurses quietly, her small mouth latched onto Chiara’s breast, her tiny fingers curled around her mother’s skin.
Chiara strokes her delicate back with slow, careful movements, her touch so soft, so full of love, it makes something in my chest tighten.
Nikolai kneels beside the chair, one hand braced against the side of it.
The other hand rests lightly over our baby’s swaddled legs, as if he still can’t believe that she’s real.
I know the feeling.
I sink to my knees too, one arm draping over Chiara’s lap, with my free hand resting gently against our daughter’s impossibly small stomach.
She’s so tiny like this, her body curled up like she’s remembering what it felt like to be inside Chiara.
My throat is tight as I watch her.
Too tight.
“She needs a name.” I murmur, my voice low, hushed in the stillness of the room. “She’s ours, but she’s yours too. Tell us, what do you want to name her?”
Chiara lifts her gaze away from our baby as she looks between Nikolai and myself.
Her eyes are soft and tired, but she’s glowing as a quiet smile tugs at the corners of her lips.
She shifts her hold on our baby slightly, adjusting her in her arms, and I watch the way her fingers gently stroke over our daughter’s soft cheek.
Then Chiara breathes out a single name.
“Anastasia.” She says. “I like that name for her. What do you both think?”
Nikolai makes a low, pleased sound.
“Anastasia.”
He repeats, his voice smooth, and approving too.
My fingers curl around the fabric of our baby’s swaddle, my thumb rubbing across her full cheek.
“Anastasia Vasiliev.”
I breathe out, looking up at Chiara.
She tilts her head, a small knowing smile touching her lips.
“Do you both like it?”
She asks us softly, her voice full of something tender.
I release a breathless, shaky laugh as I press a kiss to Anastasia’s soft hair.
“I fucking love it.”
Nikolai chuckles under his breath, brushing his knuckles over our baby’s small hand.
“It’s perfect.”
Chiara sighs, settling deeper into the chair as she shifts Anastasia higher against her chest.
Our baby has stopped nursing now, her little lips parted, completely content with the milk she’s drank, her breathing soft against Chiara’s skin.
She’s safe here with us.
I lean up, pressing my lips to Chiara’s, kissing her deeply and slowly, making up for everything I don’t have the words for.
She sighs softly into my mouth, her free hand sliding into my hair, and as I pull away from her, Nikolai is there, brushing his mouth against hers next.
A silent thank you.
A promise.
A claim.
Anastasia stirs slightly, her little fingers clenching around Nikolai’s finger, even in her sleep.
I can’t help but laugh.
“She’s got a grip already.”
Nikolai smirks, moving his finger gently so she’ll hold onto him again.
“Of course she does.” He says. “She’s a Bratva princess.”
I smile, stroking slow circles against our daughter’s tiny back.
“A princess.” I echo, my voice soft. “She doesn’t even know it yet, but it’s in her blood.”
Chiara hums, leaning down to kiss Anastasia’s forehead.
“She’s more than that.” She murmurs. “She’s us.”
Nikolai tilts his head slightly, studying Chiara, because she’s right.
Anastasia is all of us; the daughter of two Bratva men, but also the granddaughter of a former Italian underboss.
She is a child of two worlds, belonging to neither, and both, all at the same time.
Our daughter is the bridge.
Our daughter is the balance.
Nikolai brushes his thumb over Anastasia’s delicate cheek, his voice quiet.
“Anastasia Vasiliev.” He says, testing her full name again, letting it settle. “It suits her.”
It fucking does.
Our daughter shifts slightly in her sleep, mewling almost as she smiles contently, and my heart throbs in my chest.
I swear, every time I look at her, something inside me breaks and rebuilds itself all over again.
Nikolai exhales a slow breath, his shoulders losing some tension.
I see it—the quiet shift in him—the realisation of it all.
For the first time in our lives, we aren’t just soldiers, training to become leaders of the Bratva.
We are fathers.
Chiara must see it too, because she lifts her head, her tired eyes meeting Nikolai’s before they move to mine.
“Are you both okay?”
She asks us softly.
I breathe out a small laugh, dragging a hand through my hair.
“I’m nowhere near that.”
Nikolai chuckles under his breath, but there’s something raw in his eyes too, something that mirrors exactly what I’m feeling.
“I don’t think we’ll ever be okay again.” He admits. “But that doesn’t matter as long as we have you both by our sides.”
Chiara smiles sleepily, her eyes still full of so much love and exhaustion, and fuck, I love her so much it physically hurts.
She leans backwards against the chair, sighing heavily.
“We did good.”
Nikolai makes a low, approving sound, his hand protective over Anastasia’s small form.
“Yeah, darling, we did.”
I watch my family; Chiara sitting in the chair, our small daughter nestled against her body, and Nikolai kneeling beside them both.
I could stay here like this forever with my family, staying with the only people who have ever truly mattered.
And I know that deep in my bones, this is it.
This is ours.
Always.
Forever.