For the first time since my mother died, I imagine a future that’s about more than just survival. I can see myself as a husband who protects through love instead of fear, as a father who guides through wisdom instead of intimidation, as a leader who builds instead of destroys.
Zita has given me hope that the cycle of violence can be broken, love can be stronger than fear, and I can be different from the man who shaped me.
“What are you thinking about now?” Zita’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“I’m thinking about the future we’re going to build.” I tighten my arms around her. “About the children we’ll raise who will never know what it feels like to be afraid of their father. About the kind of love story we’ll have that ends with both of us alive and together instead of one of us dead because we dared to challenge the other.”
“That sounds like the kind of future worth fighting for.”
“It’s the only future worth fighting for.” I kiss the top of her head. “Everything else is just existing.”
As we lie together in the quiet morning light, I realize that loving Zita hasn’t made me weak. It’s made me stronger than I’ve ever been, giving me something worth protecting that’s bigger than myself or my empire or my father’s legacy.
For the first time in my life, I really understand what my mother was trying to save me from. Not just Nicky’s violence, but his emptiness and inability to love anything more than he loved power. I won’t make his mistakes. I won’t let the Bratva destroy what Zita and I are building. I’ll find a way to honor my responsibilities while protecting what matters most.
That’s the legacy I want to leave. Not an empire built on blood and fear, but a family built on love, trust, and strength no matter what the world throws at us.
23
Zita
Something is wrong with my body, and I’ve been trying to ignore it for the past two weeks since we’ve been in the cabin. The nausea hits me at random times throughout the day, making me rush to the bathroom with my hand clamped over my mouth while my stomach churns with violent rebellion. The exhaustion feels different from the stress and grief I’ve been carrying since my father died. This is bone-deep fatigue that makes even simple tasks like showering or getting dressed feel overwhelming.
There’s a heaviness in my body that I can’t explain, like I’m carrying extra weight that wasn’t there before. My breasts are tender and swollen, my clothes feel tighter around my waist, and there’s a persistent metallic taste in my mouth that makes everything I try to eat seem unappetizing.
At first, I blamed everything on the circumstances, dismissing this as stress from living in hiding while the Federoffs hunt us, processing the trauma of watching my father die, and adjustingto the emotional breakthrough Tigran and I shared. Any of those things would be enough to make someone feel physically ill. The stress of knowing Avgar’s men could find this safehouse at any moment has been eating at me, making sleep difficult and appetite nonexistent.
This morning feels different though. The nausea is worse than it’s ever been, accompanied by dizziness that makes the room spin when I stand up too quickly. I’m trying to get ready for the day, brushing my teeth and washing my face, when the world suddenly tilts sideways.
The taste of toothpaste in my mouth triggers another wave of nausea so violent that I barely make it to the toilet before retching. Nothing comes up except bile and the bitter remnants of the coffee I forced myself to drink earlier, but the heaving continues until my ribs ache and tears stream down my face.
I’m on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor, gasping for breath and trying to stop the room from spinning, when everything goes black.
I wake up to the sound of Tigran’s voice, urgent and sharp with fear in a way I’ve rarely heard from him. My cheek is pressed against cool tile, and there’s a dull ache in my temple where I must have hit my head when I fell.
“Zita, can you hear me?” His hands are gentle on my face, checking for injuries. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
“I’m okay.” The words come out weak and shaky, proving exactly how not okay I actually am. “I just got dizzy.”
“You fainted.” Tigran’s arms slide under me, lifting me from the bathroom floor with ease. “You were unconscious for almost four minutes.”
“Four minutes?” The timeframe scares me more than the fainting itself. People don’t just collapse and stay unconscious for that long without something being seriously wrong.
“You’re going to see Dr. Kozlova.” Tigran carries me to the bedroom and sets me down gently on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t need a doctor.” The protest sounds weak even to my own ears. “It’s just stress and exhaustion. Once we get out of here and deal with the Federoffs, I’ll be fine.”
“You collapsed unconscious in the bathroom after vomiting for ten minutes.” Tigran’s voice carries authority that doesn’t allow for argument. “That’s not something we ignore, especially not when we’re in hiding and don’t have immediate access to emergency medical care.”
Within an hour, we’re in the back of an armored SUV heading toward Chicago. The movement of the vehicle makes my stomach lurch again, and I have to focus on breathing deeply through my nose to avoid being sick in the car. Tigran holds my hand throughout the drive, his thumb tracing gentle circles over my knuckles while his security team maintains radio contact with advance scouts clearing our route.
The doctor’s clinic is in a nondescript building on the North Side, the kind of place that could be a dentist’s office or an accounting firm from the outside. Tigran’s men have cleared the building and positioned themselves at strategic points, turning what should be a routine medical visit into a military operation.
Dr. Kozlova is just as I remember her from when she treated Tigran at his mansion after he was shot. She still has kind eyes that suggest she’s seen enough violence to understand the world her patients live in but doesn’t let it impede her compassion. Herclinic is clean and modern, equipped with medical technology that looks expensive and sophisticated. Tigran, and perhaps other families, probably ensure she has the latest of everything.
“Let’s get you on the examination table.” Her manner is professional but warm. “Tell me about the symptoms you’ve been experiencing.”
I describe the nausea, the fatigue, and the dizziness that led to this morning’s collapse. She listens carefully, asking follow-up questions about timing and severity while taking my blood pressure and checking my pulse. Her touch is gentle but thorough.
