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My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat beneath my silk blouse. For the first time since those two pink lines appeared, I allow myself to truly acknowledge the life growing there. Not just as a complication, a crisis to be managed, but as a person. My child. Viktor's child.

"I'll protect you," I whisper, promise hanging in the air like a prayer. "Whatever it takes."

Lena squeezes my shoulder, rare tenderness in the gesture. "We'll protect you both," she corrects softly. "That's what family does—the real kind, not the Bratva kind."

As we prepare to return to the Markov compound, my phone vibrates with a message from my father: Meeting tomorrow morning, 9 AM. Final discussion regarding Switzerland.

I show Lena the text, heart racing with equal parts hope and fear.

"Phase one nearly complete," she murmurs, helping me gather my things. "Just need to convince the pakhan."

"And maintain the deception for seven more months," I add, the enormity of this undertaking suddenly overwhelming.

Lena's smile carries surprising confidence. "One day at a time, Nastya. One lie at a time."

As we leave her apartment, I touch my abdomen once more, silent promise renewed. Seven months of lies, careful planning, and constant vigilance. Seven months to create a future for this child away from the dangerous legacy of the Markov name.

Seven months to decide whether Viktor Baranov—whoever he truly is—deserves to know he's going to be a father.

9

VIKTOR

The punching bag swings violently as I deliver a series of precise blows, each impact reverberating through the empty training room. Three hours before dawn, and the Bratva's Moscow headquarters sleeps—all except the night guards who learned weeks ago to avoid the training facility during my early morning sessions.

I shift my weight, driving my knee into the bag with enough force to snap the supporting chain. The heavy bag crashes to the floor, sand spilling from a tear in its side. Third one this month. Yevgeny will complain again about requisitioning replacements.

I stand motionless in the center of the room, sweat gleaming on my bare torso despite the pre-dawn chill. Six months of infiltration, of becoming Viktor Baranov—rising Bratva lieutenant with a convenient past too difficult to verify. Six months of violence, of earning Mikhail Markov's trust one brutal assignment at a time.

Six months closer to vengeance.

I slammy fist into the wall, welcoming the pain that shoots up my arm. Physical discomfort is preferable to the memories, to the guilt that's been my constant companion for years. I should have been there. Should have protected them. Instead, I was in the woods, watching the brutality.

The Baranovs, once Bratva royalty, wiped out in a single night. Official reports claimed a robbery gone wrong. The truth, buried by corrupt police and Markov money, known only to a few—and to me, thanks to my father's contingency files, hidden where only his son would think to look.

I move to the weights, loading the bar with plates heavy enough to make the metal groan in protest. Physical exertion is the only reliable antidote to memory. My body—honed into a weapon over years of disciplined training—responds automatically to the familiar ritual.

"You're going to kill yourself before you get to Markov at this rate."

Anton's voice comes from the doorway, his lean figure silhouetted against the hallway light. My oldest friend, the only person who knows my true identity, my real purpose here.

"Can't sleep," I reply simply, completing another punishing repetition.

"The usual nightmares?" He steps inside, closing the door behind him.

I grunt in affirmation, focusing on the controlled movement of the weights rather than the images still flickering at the edges of my consciousness.

"There's been a development." Anton's tone shifts, business replacing concern. "Markov's hosting a special meeting tonight. Inner circle only."

I rack the weights, sitting up to give him my full attention. "We're not inner circle."

"You're not," he corrects with a hint of satisfaction. "But apparently, I am—as of this morning. Yevgeny delivered the invitation personally."

Five years of meticulous planning, of creating the perfect cover identity, of infiltrating the organization from the lowest levels, and Anton—who joined the operation only as my handler—advances to the inner sanctum before me. The irony would be amusing if it weren't so frustrating.

"Don't look so sour." Anton tosses me a towel. "This is the break we've been waiting for. And considering how quickly you've advanced, you're next. Markov's impressed with your work."

"My work." The words taste bitter. Each "successful" mission for the Bratva brings me closer to my goal while pushing me further from the man my father raised me to be.