36. Ilya
ILYA
“Ilya! Your pacing is making my head dizzy.”
I’m pacing the length of the waiting room, my boots heavy and loud on the white linoleum, my left leg carrying a dull limp that always gets worse when the weather turns damp.
My chest is tight, my hands clenched into tight fists inside my pockets, my jaw locked so hard the muscles in my neck are screaming.
"Ilya, sit down," Ekaterina says, her voice tired as she sits on the vinyl bench, her drawing pad resting on her knees. "You've been walking for three hours. You’re going to wear a trench in the floor."
"I don't want to sit," I growl, making the young nurse at the reception desk slide further behind her computer screen.
"You're terrifying the staff," Yara says, her arms crossed over her chest, a faint, amused smile scratching at the corner of her mouth. "They’ve already doubled the security on the floor and they think you’re planning a heist."
"I’m not planning a heist," I snap, my eyes locking onto the double doors of the labor wing. "I’m waiting."
It has been twelve hours.
Twelve hours since Via’s water broke in the middle of our bedroom, turning my entire estate into a chaotic, screaming disaster.
I’ve never run a red light in my life, it’s bad for surveillance, but last night, I drove through four of them at eighty miles an hour, my hand honking the horn of the Mercedes while Via sat in the passenger seat, screaming at me to "stop driving like a maniac" between her contractions.
I brought four diaper bags. Yara told me we only needed one, but I wanted to be prepared. I had the gate guards pack them like tactical gear, with three different sizes of baby blankets, twelve sterile pacifiers, and a high-security lock for the stroller.
A muffled, high-pitched shriek carries from the room at the end of the hall.
My body goes completely rigid, my hand dropping to my holster before I remember the security guards made me leave my Glock in the glove compartment of the car.
I spin on my heel, my boots squeaking loudly on the tiles as I run toward the double doors, my broad shoulders forcing the swinging panels open before Yuri can even hit the security release.
"Pakhan, you can't go in there without the sterile scrubs," Yuri says, his hand reaching out to grab my arm.
I look down at his hand, my eyes narrowing into slits. "Get out of my way, Yuri."
He pulls his hand back instantly, his face turning pale as he steps back into the corridor.
I push open the door to the delivery room, and the noise hits me like a physical blow.
Via is sitting in the center of the massive hospital bed, her golden hair damp and sticking to her forehead in a messy, wet wave.
Her face is flushed, her hazel eyes wide, dark, and completely wild with exhaustion.
She’s clutching the metal handrails of the bed, her knuckles white, her chest heaving under her hospital gown.
The obstetrician, a quiet, brave man named Dr. Volkov, is crouching at the foot of the bed, his green scrubs covered in sweat.
"I hate you, Ilya Kovalevskii!" Via screams, her voice a sharp, piercing shriek that rattles the glass of the medicine cabinet. "You did this to me! You and your giant, ridiculous head!"
I close the distance to the bed in three strides, my boots heavy on the floor. I reach out, my large, rough hand wrapping over hers where it clutches the handrail. "I'm right here, Via."
"Don't touch me!" She grabs my hand anyway, her fingers locking around my bones with a sudden, bone-shattering strength that makes my jaw clench. "If you tell me to breathe one more time, Ilya, I swear to God I will name this child Kiwi! I’ll do it! I’ll write it on the birth certificate while you’re asleep! "
"I didn't say anything about breathing," I rasp, my thumb gently tracing the back of her hand, trying to stay calm, trying to be the steady anchor she needs while my own heart is trying to kick its way out of my ribs.
"You were thinking it!" she pants, her eyes closing as another wave of contractions hits her body, her back arching off the mattress. "Oh, God... it’s... it’s happening."
"The head is crowning, Mrs. Kovalevskiia," Dr. Volkov says, his voice quiet, steady, and professional. "On the next contraction, I need a long, steady push. Five seconds."
"I can't," she whimpers, her head tossing back against the pillows, her forehead wet with sweat. "Ilya, I can't. It hurts too much."
I lean over her, my broad chest blocking out the bright, clinical lights of the room, my face inches from hers. I slide my fingers into her golden hair, holding her head steady, my voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that carries the entire weight of my soul.
"Look at me, Via," I say, my eyes locking onto hers.
She opens her eyes, her hazel pupils blown out, glassy and dark through her tears.
"You are Viallentinka Kovalevskiia," I whisper, my voice breaking just a fraction. "You are the strongest woman in this city. You solved my docks, you survived the shipyard, and you are about to bring our daughter into this world. I am right here. I’m not letting go."
She stares at me, her chest rising and falling in a slow breath, the panic in her eyes slowly turning into that familiar, stubborn spark of pride. She nods once, her fingers digging so deep into my hand, I can hear my knuckles click.
"Okay," she gasps. "Okay."
She pushes.
The effort is a raw, agonizing strain that makes the veins in her neck bulge, her mouth opening in a silent scream as she drives her weight down. I hold her, my arm supporting her back, my chest a solid wall that absorbs the shaking of her body.
A sudden, sharp cry echoes through the quiet room.
Dr. Volkov stands up slowly, a small, wet bundle of pink skin and dark hair cradled in his gloved hands. He smiles, his eyes soft behind his glasses as he looks up at us. "Congratulations, Pakhan. You have a daughter."
The strength in my body vanishes. My knees bucking slightly, my hand staying locked in Via’s, I stare at the tiny girl.
They clean her quickly, wrapping her in a soft, white hospital blanket with a tiny pink cap, and lay her gently against Via’s bare chest.
The silence in the room returns, but it’s a beautiful, quiet peace today.
Via is weeping, her fingers gently stroking the tiny, damp head of our daughter, her face brightened by a happy, exhausted smile. She looks up at me, her eyes wet with tears. "Look at her, Ilya. She has your nose."
"Poor girl," I rasp, a faint, dry amusement in my voice as I drop to my knees beside the bed.
I reach out, my fingers trembling violently as I hover over the baby. My hand is massive, callused, and covered in scars from twenty years of violence, but as I slowly touch her tiny, pink fist, her small fingers wrap around my index finger.
The grip is tight. Firm. A tiny, unyielding seal that goes straight to my chest, shattering the last of the concrete walls around my heart.
My daughter.
A sudden, profound reverence washes over my chest, so thick and heavy, I can barely draw a breath of the clean air.
She is a Kovalevskii. But she is born in peace, in a house where the doors are locked to keep the world out, not to keep her in.
She is the clean slate, the beautiful, quiet future we fought through the ashes to build.
"She’s beautiful, Via," I whisper, my voice breaking completely as I lean my forehead against my wife’s hand.
"She is," Via says, her hand coming up to touch my damp hair. "And for the record, her name is Sofia. Not Kiwi."
"Sofia," I repeat, the name soft and warm on my tongue. "Sofia Kovalevskiia."
I stand up, my boots quiet on the linoleum, and lean down to press a slow, deep kiss to Via’s wet forehead. I hold both of them in my arms, my chest expanding as I take a long, slow breath, the light from the window catching the gold of her hair.
The city is still out there, quiet and grey under the morning mist. The docks are running. The empire is stable.
But as I look down at my family, I know the past is finally gone.
I’m just a father. I’m just a husband.
And I’m going to protect this beautiful, warm light with every single breath I have left.