17. Dominik #2
When I arrive, the only sound is blocks clicking and Mila’s small laugh. Ana is on the floor with her, building something that keeps falling over. Mila looks up when she sees the bag and scrambles to her feet, laughing, already reaching.
“For me?” she asks.
“For you,” I say, handing it over.
She hugs the bag and runs to the table to open it with the seriousness of a task. Ana watches from the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.
I hang my coat and set the folder on the counter. “It’s done,” I say. “Three days.”
She doesn’t speak at first. She steps closer, reads my face, then the folder, then looks back at me.
“That fast?” she says.
“Fast enough,” I answer.
Mila climbs onto a chair and starts arranging chocolates by color. Ana exhales slowly, the sound controlled.
“What do I need to do?” she asks.
“Nothing tonight,” I say. “Tomorrow, we’ll go for the dress. Something simple and practical.”
She studies me, then nods once. I take an envelope from my pocket and set it on the table between us.
Ana reaches for the envelope but doesn’t open it right away. She turns it over in her hands, checks the weight, runs her fingers along the edge. Her eyes come back to mine, steady and watchful.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Open it.”
She slides a finger under the flap and looks inside. Her brow tightens. She shifts the envelope slightly and counts by feel.
“How much?”
“Eight hundred thousand,” I say. “Rubles.”
Her gaze lifts. “What for?”
“For you to breathe. And for Mila to have what she needs without waiting for permission.”
She nods once, folds the flap, and tucks the envelope into her bag. She keeps that bag in the locker built into the wardrobe. It stays there unless she needs something important.
“We’ll use a little tomorrow,” I tell her. “For a dress and shoes. Whatever Mila picks. The rest stays locked away. Keep it safe.”
The next morning, we go early. We keep it simple. No boutiques with mirrors everywhere and saleswomen who remember faces. We walk into a clean, practical dress center where people come to buy things they plan to wear more than once.
Ana picks a dress that fits without drawing attention. The fabric is soft, the cut simple. Nothing showy. Mila turns circles in the aisle and laughs until people look over and start smiling too.
We stop at a small toy shop near the tram line. Mila runs ahead and presses both hands to the glass before we even step inside. She comes back with three boxes instead of one, holding them tightly to her chest, waiting. I pay for all three.
Before we leave the street, we find her a dress and a pair of shoes for the ceremony.
Ana chooses a pale blue dress with a lace collar and small embroidered flowers along the hem, the fabric light enough to move when she spins.
The shoes are soft leather, the same shade, with a thin strap across the top so they stay on when she runs.
After, we find a cart selling ice cream.
Mila takes vanilla. Ana picks coffee. We sit on the bench Mila chooses and let her eat slowly.
She points at the carousel and I nod. She rides in circles, waving every time she passes.
The gears groan with each turn, paint chipped along the edges, but it holds.
Ana watches her. Her face eases as she does. It’s the first time in a long while that the weight lifts from her eyes.
For that hour, nothing reaches us.
Early next morning, I text Denis, one line, no context.
Registration. 10.00 hours.
He replies with a single dot a minute later. He understands.
Ana steps out of the bedroom while I’m tightening my cuff, and my hands stop for a second.
She’s wearing the white frock that falls just below her knees, with clean lines and no excess.
The fabric moves when she does, light, sure.
A short veil is clipped into her hair, small flowers stitched along the edge as if someone cared without trying too hard.
She’s wearing lipstick, just enough color to draw the eye, and mascara that defines her gaze without softening it. She doesn’t look nervous. She looks like she’s decided.
Mila circles her like she’s orbiting something bright.
Her frock flares when she spins, and she keeps asking questions, one on top of the other, about where we’re going, how long it will take, whether there will be food, and whether boats have beds.
Ana tells her we’re going on a voyage after, and Mila reacts like the word itself is a gift.
She climbs onto the chair, leans across the table, and looks at me hard.
“Can I call you Papa now?”
The room stills.
Ana smiles, not wide, not narrow, something held back. “We’ll see,” she says, and Mila grins like she’s already won.
Denis is waiting downstairs, engine running. He’s cleaned the car. He always does when something matters. There’s a bottle of champagne on the seat beside him and a bundle of white flowers wrapped in brown paper.
He hands the flowers to Ana, nods once to Mila, and pulls into traffic without comment.
At the registry office, Galina meets us inside. She looks pleased in a way that doesn’t feel staged. She presses a small velvet box into Ana’s hand, inside a silver charm shaped like a simple knot. “For continuity,” she says, and Ana thanks her.
We don’t walk into a courtroom, and no judge is waiting to pronounce anything. The office is clean with neutral walls and a desk that has seen thousands of names pass over it without caring who they belonged to.
The process is routine. We show passports and birth certificates.
The registrar checks names, dates, stamps, then turns the folder so we can sign.
She slides one more form across for Mila, and I sign the paternity acknowledgment under the Nikolai name before the marriage papers come back to us.
Denis clears his throat behind us and steps forward.
“I’ll sign,” he says. “If you need one.” Galina looks at him, then nods and slides the paper across.
Denis signs his name carefully, and then she asks about rings.
Ana glances at me. I take the small box from my pocket and set it on the desk between us.
We bought them yesterday, plain gold bands, no stones, no markings inside.
Rings that won’t snag, won’t draw attention, won’t crack under pressure.
I slide the first one onto Ana’s finger. It fits snugly without forcing. She does the same for me, her hands steady, her thumb brushing my skin once before she lets go.
There’s no speech. No instruction to smile. We sign where we’re told, black ink on clean paper. I write Nikolai Sokolov. Ana writes Ana Markova. The registrar stamps the page, closes the folder, and nods.
That’s it.
Someone claps, sudden and light, and it spreads. Mila laughs because everyone else is laughing, loud and free. Denis opens the champagne outside, the cork jumping too high, and it spills onto the pavement. No one minds.
Denis waves us in, says stand closer. Ana doesn’t smile big, but she holds Mila steady and looks straight at the lens. I keep my hand on her back and look where she looks. We don’t blink when Denis takes a picture.
We go to lunch afterward at a small place near the canal, with the windows open and the tables packed close enough that you can hear other people’s forks hit their plates.
The server brings water first, then bread, then the menus.
I let Ana pick the mains without steering her, and I let Mila point at the desserts as if the whole day belongs to her.
Plates arrive and glasses touch once when Ana lifts hers.
I sit back, let my shoulders drop, and feel my mouth pull into a smile I don’t try to hide as I watch them eat.
The change doesn’t stay in that room or in Galina’s ledger.
Once the stamp hits the page, our names go into the record together.
From there it spreads on its own, residency, medical files, tax links, child registries.
The next time someone pulls a file, they’ll see it.
The next time a form is checked, it will be there.
You can’t pretend something like that didn’t happen once it’s written down.
The Bratva will see it soon enough.