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She asks us softly, her voice full of something tender.
I release a breathless, shaky laugh as I press a kiss to Anastasia’s soft hair.
“I fucking love it.”
Nikolai chuckles under his breath, brushing his knuckles over our baby’s small hand.
“It’s perfect.”
Chiara sighs, settling deeper into the chair as she shifts Anastasia higher against her chest.
Our baby has stopped nursing now, her little lips parted, completely content with the milk she’s drank, her breathing soft against Chiara’s skin.
She’s safe here with us.
I lean up, pressing my lips to Chiara’s, kissing her deeply and slowly, making up for everything I don’t have the words for.
She sighs softly into my mouth, her free hand sliding into my hair, and as I pull away from her, Nikolai is there, brushing his mouth against hers next.
A silent thank you.
A promise.
A claim.
Anastasia stirs slightly, her little fingers clenching around Nikolai’s finger, even in her sleep.
I can’t help but laugh.
“She’s got a grip already.”
Nikolai smirks, moving his finger gently so she’ll hold onto him again.
“Of course she does.” He says. “She’s a Bratva princess.”
I smile, stroking slow circles against our daughter’s tiny back.
“A princess.” I echo, my voice soft. “She doesn’t even know it yet, but it’s in her blood.”
Chiara hums, leaning down to kiss Anastasia’s forehead.
“She’s more than that.” She murmurs. “She’s us.”
Nikolai tilts his head slightly, studying Chiara, because she’s right.
Anastasia is all of us; the daughter of two Bratva men, but also the granddaughter of a former Italian underboss.
She is a child of two worlds, belonging to neither, and both, all at the same time.
Our daughter is the bridge.
Our daughter is the balance.
Nikolai brushes his thumb over Anastasia’s delicate cheek, his voice quiet.
“Anastasia Vasiliev.” He says, testing her full name again, letting it settle. “It suits her.”
It fucking does.