Chapter 26
KARINA
A nyone who ever thought I was spoiled before would have been shocked blind to see how Dima insisted on treating me like a princess from the second he rescued me. I have had the most pampered pregnancy imaginable.
He whisked me back to Montenegro for a week to “recuperate” after the ordeal.
I lived at the spa, and together we visited the cave again.
Fresh sea air, the bright-blue ocean, and an opulent resort, plus my husband’s undivided attention, were the best medicine possible.
Everything felt different this time, now that I truly know him: his sense of honor, his courage, his fierce devotion, the depth of his love for me and for our child.
Nothing stands in the way of our time together now.
Gone is the old insistence that the bratski krug comes first. Instead, the circle knows beyond doubt that we’re untouchable; anyone who threatens his wife or child would be wiser to end their own line than risk crossing the pakhan of the Petrov bratva.
The next day he made his intentions plain.
Piotr’s entire bloodline was wiped out less than twelve hours after my rescue, and anyone tied to his embezzlement ring was executed in the same window.
Those who remained swore a new oath—to me, and to our child.
“The future of the bratva is here,” Dima said.
“In my wife, my partner, who will co-lead the organization with me once she recovers from bringing the next generation of pakhan into this world. The Petrov family will grow and thrive. Swear your oath to them now. Any risk to them means death to your loved ones. You pledge not only your life, but the blood of your family, to this woman and this child.”
One by one they lined up to take a knee and vow to be loyal and to protect us with their very lives.
They understood there would be no mercy, no chance at redemption if they fail.
I should have said that it was too much, it was unnecessary.
But I loved every second of it. The combination of awe and terror in their faces, knowing that the person who wields the power over their life or death is a woman in stiletto heels with a baby on the way.
It felt like pure vindication after a lifetime of vying for my father’s approval.
Dima made it clear that this child is not his successor.
I am. And the child will be next in line.
I am not a brood mare or a gestational carrier.
I am a wife, loved, treasured, endowed with all his authority and influence. It was better than diamonds.
We’ve planned countless adventures to share with our baby, sledding in winter, seaside trips in summer.
The nursery glows with pale-blue walls and a mahogany crib crowned by a canopy fit for a little prince.
The night nurse was vetted and hired early, her room adjoining the nursery, and a part-time nanny is lined up because I’ll return to work with my husband in about six months.
Everything is ready, even a vintage rocking horse that once belonged to my father and brother.
I got dolls instead and was never allowed to ride it, though I’m a far better rider than either of them ever was.
Perhaps when the baby is here, we may visit my father at his country house and I’ll show the baby my horses.
I already know which one I’ll teach him to ride first. The plans we have for him are enough to make me reluctant to fall asleep, and there is nothing I can imagine in my dreams that could compare with the wonders that lay ahead for our family.
Deep in the night, I reach for Dima’s hand, grip his arm instead, my nails digging in. He jolts awake.
“What’s wrong?” he demands.
I can’t speak yet. The pain has hold of me and shakes me like I’m in the jaws of a tiger. When it eases, I whisper to him, “The baby’s coming. Get me an epidural.”
He springs into action. Minutes later we’re in the car, my suitcase, favorite pillow, tablet, and phone charger secured beside me. At the hospital I shout when they try to take me from him. I will not be separated from my husband, not now.
“No!” I cry. “I need him!”
Dima barrels after me and laces our fingers together while a nurse wheels me down the long hallway.
“She wants an epidural now,” he advises her.
“We’ll get her admitted and examine her. It will be a while before she needs one?—”
“Now.” His voice is icy.
“If we give it too soon—” she tries to protest. He fixes her with a look and she nods. “Okay, I’ll let them know that we need the anesthetist. Stat.”
It isn’t long before I’m gowned, my epidural is set and the hellish pain uncoils to let me breathe again.
“Thank you,” I tell Dima, “They wouldn’t have given it to me yet?—”
“Thank you. For having our child. That is nothing compared to what you are doing. You’re a warrior. Although I may have a scar from the way you dug into my arm this morning.”
“Oh, the poor delicate pakhan. Do you need a bandage?” I tease.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He kisses my forehead.
In two pushes she is here. She. Our daughter. I look at Dima, bite my lip. We thought it would be a son to carry on his name, his bratva. I love our daughter with a fierce rush of devotion, but I hesitate. What if he is disappointed?
“She is perfect, Karinka,” he croons, placing her in my arms. She’s red and furious, crying with her toothless mouth wide open, and she’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Tears blur my eyes. “Listen to her shout. Won’t she be a magnificent head of the bratva?”
“You mean?—”
“I’m not so old-fashioned as your father. You must know that. She will inherit it all. She will make the Petrov organization her own and make us all proud. Just like her mother.”
I burst into tears and lift my face for his kiss. He has made me completely happy.
“What should we call her?” he asks.
“Dimitra,” I say. “Dimi.”
“Dimi Petrov, welcome to the bratva,” he says and kisses her forehead. Instantly she quiets, blinks at him with solemn eyes that are not dark like mine, but an icy blue like his.
She is just as she should be. She will sled and ride and swim, cause every kind of mischief, and then lead the family organization as heir when she is ready. This joy is a bright thing, and my husband’s face is full of wonder and adoration. We are luckier than we ever dreamed of being, together.