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8

ANASTASIA

The family chapel stands empty at this hour, gray morning light filtering through stained glass to cast colored shadows across centuries-old icons. The heavy scent of beeswax candles and lingering incense fills my lungs as I sink to my knees on the cold stone floor. My fingertips trace the worn grooves where generations of Markov women have knelt in similar desperation, seeking divine intervention for situations no mortal could resolve.

My great-grandfather built this small Orthodox sanctuary when he first established the Markov compound, believing—like many Bratva leaders—that proximity to God might somehow balance proximity to violence. The irony doesn't escape me as echoes of last night's "business meeting" filter through my memory.

"Please, Mikhail Alexandrovich, my family can pay?—"

The dull thud of my father's signet ring connecting with flesh. Blood spattering across imported Italian marble.

"The time for payment has passed, Yegor. Now we discuss consequences."

I'd slipped away before witnessing the inevitable conclusion, but the man's pleading eyes had locked with mine for just a moment—a silent witness to one more Markov brutality. By morning, another body would likely wash ashore in the Moscow River, another "tragic accident" for police to file away without investigation.

I stare up at the severe face of Saint Michael, patron saint of warriors and protector against evil, his gilded sword raised in eternal battle. Appropriate, perhaps, that I seek refuge beneath his unflinching gaze as my carefully constructed world collapses around me.

Three positive pregnancy tests hidden in my bathroom. Three weeks of morning sickness explained away as a stubborn stomach virus. Three weeks of calculating, planning, panicking while maintaining perfect composure in my father's presence.

"What am I supposed to do?" I whisper to the impassive saint, my voice catching on the words as another wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm me. No answer comes, only the hollow echo against ancient stone and the distant murmur of Orthodox prayers from a recording that plays continuously in this sacred space.

My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach—still flat, still hiding its devastating secret. Viktor's child. The thought sends another wave of dizziness through me, vision blurring as reality shifts once more. Saliva floods my mouth with the metallic taste that now signals impending sickness.

I grip the wooden pew, knuckles whitening as I fight for control. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. The simple rhythm my mother taught me for managing fear. I've employed it countless times during tense Bratva negotiations, during my father's cold-eyed assessments, during the moments I felt the walls of my gilded cage closing in.

Never like this. Never with such devastating stakes.

A thin sheen of cold sweat breaks across my forehead as I struggle against the relentless nausea. The chapel's stone walls seem to close in, the saints' severe expressions morphing into accusation. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat a painful reminder of the second heart now forming within me.

My phone vibrates against my thigh—Lena's familiar tone. The fifth call this morning. I've been avoiding her, avoiding everyone, since the bathroom revelation three days ago. But isolation offers no solutions, only the endless spiral of the same terrified thoughts.

This time, I answer.

"Where the hell have you been?" Lena demands without preamble. "I've been calling for days. Did you fall into the Moscow River?"

"I'm fine," I say automatically, the lie hollow even to my own ears as I swallow hard against another surge of bile.

"Bullshit." The rustle of movement, a car door slamming. "I'm on my way to you now. Your father's at the Izmailovo meeting all morning, so we’ll have privacy. Whatever's wrong, we'll figure it out."

Panic surges through me. "Lena, don't?—"

"Twenty minutes." She hangs up before I can protest further.

I press my forehead against the cool wooden pew, fighting another wave of nausea that leaves me trembling. The bitter taste of stomach acid burns the back of my throat as I fumble for the emergency mints I've taken to carrying. Lena knows me too well to be deceived by vague reassurances. And perhaps I need her now—need someone who sees me as Anastasia, not just the Markov heir.

By the time her Mercedes pulls through the gates, I've composed myself enough to meet her in the east garden—the one place on the compound without surveillance cameras due to my father's inexplicable fondness for the rose varieties my mother once cultivated here.

Lena takes one look at my face and stops short. "Oh, shit. This is worse than I thought."

The morning sunlight illuminates her perfectly styled blonde hair and designer outfit—the carefully cultivated appearance of a Bratva princess. Few would guess that beneath her socialite facade, Lena Volkova carries scars both literal and figurative from her father's brutal enforcement of traditional values.

"Let's walk," I suggest, glancing meaningfully at the main house where staff might overhear us.

We move among the late-blooming roses in silence, their fading petals clinging to life against the approaching Russian winter. When we reach the stone bench at the garden's far end, I finally turn to face her.

"I'm pregnant."

The words hang in the cold air between us. No preamble, no softening. Just the devastating truth.