22. Dominik
DOMINIK
The doctor says it in a careful way, like he’s trying not to scare us while still saying what he needs to say.
He keeps his voice even and says he wants one more test to confirm what they found. He explains that if the marker in Mila’s blood shows up in mine too, and they can confirm it runs in the family, then the diagnosis is simple and harmless, and they can close the file.
He says it would mean something mild that shows up early and usually fades as a child gets older. If that’s the case, Mila will likely grow out of it and just need follow-up checks for a while.
He picks his words carefully, but what he leaves out is clear too. One result in a child doesn’t give them one clean answer. Ana’s blood already came back clear, and if Mila’s the only one with that marker, then it’s not a simple case anymore. It opens up other possibilities.
That kind of uncertainty gets attention because it doesn’t go away on its own. It brings more questions, more tests, and more people looking at the file. Paperwork moves. Names get copied. The file stays open instead of getting closed.
I agree to do the test immediately. There’s no reason to wait. Delay never helps.
The nurse sets up the tray. Mila stiffens as soon as she sees the needle, even though it’s meant for me. I take her hands and keep my voice level.
“It’ll be quick.”
She fixes her eyes on my face as the needle goes in. I glance at Ana once. Her face has drained of color, and she holds herself very still.
The nurse is done in under a minute. She tapes a small plaster over the puncture and tells me to keep my arm bent. I nod and stay still until Mila relaxes again.
Afterward, I tell Ana to wait near the front desk with Mila. I say it casually, like it’s about paperwork. She nods without arguing. I turn back into the clinic and walk toward the administrative offices.
The lab desk is where it always is, a small glass booth with a woman who runs the line without making a show of it. She knows me from the clinic, and that helps.
I keep it simple and ask if they can run the samples today. I tell her it would help us. I don’t say more.
She pauses for a second, like she needs to make it official. I slip folded cash into the sleeve of the clipboard, no note, no words. The amount is enough, and the exchange stays clean.
“You’ll send the report as soon as it’s ready,” I say.
She nods and checks the screen. My details are already there.
When I walk back out, Ana is sitting with her back straight in one of the plastic chairs, Mila curled against her side now, worn out after the wait.
Mila looks up when she sees me and lifts her head.
“Can we go home now?” she asks.
I tell her we’re done here for today and we’re going home.
On the drive back, Mila dozes and Ana stays quiet. I don’t push her. My head keeps working through it, one step after another. Gleb’s words are still stuck in my mind.
They’re not moving yet. They’re watching and waiting. That means the first real move still matters, and if I wait too long, they get to set it.
I keep thinking about the ledger. It’s not just numbers on a page. It has names, dates, approvals, and a record of who signed off on what. It shows who worked with whom, who owed what, and what got done when money wasn’t enough.
If it comes out, it won’t stop with one man. It reaches into the deals holding different sides together. In the wrong hands, it tears those deals apart. Used at the right time, it’s enough to force an ending.
It starts with Ana, and if I get this wrong, it ends with her.
I glance at her in the rearview mirror. She’s watching the road slide past, eyes focused on nothing in particular.
At home, Mila falls asleep almost as soon as we get her settled. I pull the blanket up around her and step back. Ana stays a second longer, smoothing Mila’s hair, then she slips out.
A little later, I smell butter and sugar from the kitchen. Cupboards open and close. She’s baking, doing something she knows by heart.
“Cookies?” I ask from the doorway.
“For Mila,” Ana says without turning.
“For you too,” she adds after a beat.
I step in and pull the flour bin down from the shelf, then pass her the vanilla. We work without talking, my hands brushing her hips as she stretches for the sugar on the top rack. She leans back into me, her body fitting against my chest while she reaches.
She’s slender and unguarded in the movement, graceful in a way that stops me cold, and I have to force myself not to stare.
Her scent hits me, warm and familiar, and I lift her just enough so she can grab the sugar. A quick breath slips out of her, more sound than laugh, and her fingers curl in my shirt for balance. I set her back down slowly, my hands lingering on her back for a moment longer.
Mila wakes to the sound of the oven and pads in, still half-asleep. Ana pipes cream onto the cookies, shaping them into small, uneven figures. Mila watches, delighted, and coos softly when she recognizes what they are meant to be.
We move into the sitting room, and Ana switches on Mila’s favorite cartoon, the one with the bright animals and the simple songs that repeat until they become background noise. Mila settles in with the plate in her lap, completely absorbed.
I leave them there and go into the spare room. I open my laptop. I take out a pen and paper. I start placing pieces, naming contacts, and timing routes, exits.
The phone vibrates on the desk.
The clinic.
I open the message and read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower.
The confirmation is clean. The marker is in my blood too. High enough that there’s no ambiguity. My blood type matches hers. We share the same uncommon group.
I sit very still. It doesn’t hit all of a sudden. It feels like everything is falling into place, where it was always meant to be. Once the pieces settle, there’s nothing left to argue with.
I don’t move for a while. The papers stay where they are, the routes left unfinished. The house keeps moving around me. At some point, the cartoon ends, and Mila’s voice carries down the hall until I can’t make out the words.
Ana comes to the doorway.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says, then stops.
She takes in my face and doesn’t move any farther. Her hand tightens on the doorframe. She already knows.
It pulls everything into focus. How fast she shut down the idea of a parent test. How tense she got when the doctor brought it up. How she didn’t want to go back to the clinic the next day once Mila seemed fine. Even now, she’s trying to keep something from me that was never hers to keep.
I close the laptop and stand.
“Step inside,” I say. “We need to talk.”
She comes in and waits. I close the door behind her. The click is soft.
I stay where I am. I don’t touch her. I don’t sit.
“When did you know?” I ask.
She answers right away.
“From the beginning,” she says. “From the first missed period. There was never any doubt.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
I let the silence stretch until she shifts her weight.
“Why?” I say.
She looks up at me then, like she’s measuring the distance and realizing it’s fixed.
“The council was already circling,” she says.
“Markov was dead. Anything tied to him was poison. Anything tied to you was leverage.” She pauses, then keeps going because stopping won’t help her.
“If you’d known, you would’ve protected the child.
Everyone would’ve seen it. That’s how they’d get to you. ”
I don’t react. I don’t need to.
“You decided that for me,” I say.
“Yes.”
She doesn’t apologize. She stands there and takes it.
“And you were right,” I say after a moment. “About what they’d do.”
Her breath catches on that, just slightly.
“But you were wrong about one thing.”
She waits.
“You don’t get to decide what I carry,” I say. “Not ever again.”
She nods once. Her eyes are bright, but they don’t waver.
“Mila’s mine,” I say. “That changes everything. There isn’t a version of this where I step back, and I’m not letting them get close to her.”
She swallows.
“The ledger,” I say. “It’s worse than you think. It’s not just about you anymore. It ties councilmen straight to Markov’s laundering. It lists collateral for his deals.”
I watch her face as I keep going. “There’s language in it that can be twisted into a claim on a child. That makes it the end, not a leftover.”
Something shifts in her expression. She sees the line I’ve drawn and where it stops.
“The marriage bought us time,” I say. “Time isn’t an ending.”
“What is?” she asks, her voice hushed.
“The ledger,” I say. “That’s how this finishes.”
I check the door again, listening, making sure Mila can’t hear us.
“Where is it?” she asks. “I’ve never seen it.”
“We’ll find it,” I say, already running through what that means and who it points to. There’s only one clean way through what’s coming.
“We leave for Saint Petersburg in forty-eight hours,” I say.
She studies my face, looking for hesitation. She doesn’t find any.
“That’s not a discussion,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I don’t have room for debate anymore.”