Page 31 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter twenty-eight

The Birth

A lexei

The contractions start the morning after Pavel's assault on our estate, while Mila is trying to eat breakfast and pretending she's not still shaken by everything that happened.

She's thirty-two weeks pregnant and putting on a brave face, but I can see the toll last night's siege took on her.

The adrenaline crash, the stress, the hours of coordinating defense while heavily pregnant—her body has been through hell.

When she suddenly doubles over at the kitchen table, clutching her stomach with a sharp gasp, I know the stress has triggered exactly what we'd feared.

"Mila," I say, crossing the command center in two steps to kneel beside her chair. "What's wrong?"

"Contraction," she pants. "Strong one."

"How long since the last one?"

"This is the first... no, wait." Her face goes pale as she realizes what's happening. "There was one about ten minutes ago during the call with the contractors. I thought it was just stress."

"It's not stress. You're in labor."

"I can't be in labor. It's too early."

“Thirty-two weeks isn’t terribly too early, but it’s still very much premature. We need to get you to the hospital.”

"But the estate repairs, the security upgrades—"

"Can be handled by other people. Our twins cannot be born by other people."

She starts to argue, then another contraction hits, this one strong enough to make her cry out. I'm already reaching for my phone to call Dr. Petrov when Boris appears in the doorway with an expression that means more bad news.

"Sir," he says carefully, "we have a situation."

"What kind of situation?"

"Pavel's people have established checkpoints on the main roads leading to Presbyterian Hospital. They're not attacking, just... monitoring."

"Monitoring for what?"

"For us, sir. They know Mrs. Morozov is pregnant. They're waiting to see if we move her to the hospital."

Ice floods my veins. Pavel is using Mila's pregnancy against us, turning a medical emergency into a tactical decision between her safety and walking into an ambush.

"How many checkpoints?" I ask.

"Three that we can identify. Probably more we can't see."

"Armed?"

"Heavily. And sir? They have anti-vehicle weapons. If we try to run the checkpoints in armored cars..."

"We become sitting ducks." I finish the thought while another contraction makes Mila grip my hand hard enough to break bones.

"Alexei," she gasps, "we have to get to the hospital. Thirty-two weeks is still dangerous. These babies need medical support."

"I know. But Pavel's people—"

"Will have to be dealt with. How long to clear the routes?"

"Unknown, sir," Boris says. "They're mobile, professional. By the time we engage one checkpoint, the others will have repositioned."

"So we don't engage the checkpoints," I decide. "We go around them."

"Sir?"

"Medical helicopter. Pavel can watch the roads all he wants—we'll take the sky."

"The estate doesn't have a landing pad large enough for—"

"Then we'll make one."

The next hour is controlled chaos. My people level a section of the back garden to create an improvised helicopter landing zone while Dr. Petrov coordinates with the hospital for an emergency obstetrics team to meet us in the air.

Mila's contractions intensify to every seven minutes, then every five, then every three.

"We need to move now," Dr. Petrov says over the radio as his medical helicopter approaches our estate. "Mrs. Morozov is in active labor, and thirty-two-week twins need immediate NICU support."

"Both babies are coming," I say, helping Mila toward the landing zone. "Earlier than planned, but they're fighters."

"Both of them," she pants between contractions. "I can feel them both moving, getting ready."

"Thirty-two weeks. They'll be small, but viable."

"They'll be strong," she says with conviction. "They're Morozovs."

This one drops her to her knees on the lawn, pain etched across her face as her body prepares to deliver our children weeks before they're ready. I sweep her into my arms and carry her the remaining distance to where the medical helicopter is settling onto our improvised landing pad.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morozov," Dr. Petrov greets us as his team transfers Mila to a medical stretcher inside the helicopter. "Let's get these babies delivered safely."

The flight to the hospital takes twelve minutes that feel like hours. Mila's labor progresses rapidly, too rapidly for comfort, while I hold her hand and try not to think about everything that could go wrong with a premature delivery.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Petrov asks, monitoring Mila's vital signs.

"Like I'm about to give birth in a helicopter," she responds with a weak laugh. "Not exactly what I had planned."

"The babies?"

"Very active. I think they're as ready as we are to get this over with."

"Heart rates are strong," Dr. Petrov reports. "But Mrs. Morozov, once we reach the hospital, we're going directly to surgery. Thirty-two-week deliveries require controlled environments."

"Whatever you need to do," I tell him. "Just keep them safe."

"All of them safe," Mila adds, squeezing my hand as another contraction builds.

The hospital has prepared for our arrival with the kind of security protocols usually reserved for heads of state. Federal agents coordinate with local police to establish a secure perimeter while the medical team prepares operating rooms and NICU facilities for premature twins.

"Agent Castillo," I acknowledge our FBI contact as we're wheeled through the security checkpoint. Her presence here makes sense—if Pavel's people are monitoring the hospital, the feds would want to be in position first.

"Mr. Morozov," she nods, keeping pace with the medical team. "We've been tracking elevated communications from Volkov associates since the estate incident. When we detected movement toward the hospital, we implemented protective protocols."

"Protective protocols?"

"Your family's safety is connected to our ongoing investigation. We protect our assets."

She's right, of course, but I don't have time to analyze the implications. Another contraction has Mila gripping the stretcher rails, and Dr. Petrov is calling for immediate surgical preparation.

The surgery takes thirty-eight minutes while I pace the family waiting room. Halfway through, Boris calls with urgent news.

"Sir, Pavel's people are attempting to breach the hospital. Multiple entry points, coordinated assault."

"How many?"

"Twelve hostiles, maybe more. They're trying to reach the maternity ward."

"Stop them. Whatever it takes."

"Already engaging, sir. Hospital security is cooperating, and the federal agents are providing additional support."

Through the hospital windows, I can see the battle unfolding in the parking structures and main entrances. Pavel is making his move while we're most vulnerable—Mila in surgery, me separated from my security teams, our children about to be born into chaos.

"Boris, status report," I demand.

"We're holding the perimeter. Pavel's men are professionals, but they didn't expect coordinated resistance. The FBI team came prepared for exactly this scenario."

"Casualties?"

"Three wounded on our side, none critical. Six hostiles down, the rest are retreating."

"Let them retreat. As long as they're not in the hospital."

"They're pulling back completely, sir. Agent Castillo's team is pursuing to ensure they don't regroup nearby."

That explains the tactical gunfire I can hear echoing from the parking structures. Pavel's assault was well-planned, but he underestimated federal involvement in our protection.

Dr. Petrov emerges from surgery still in scrubs, his expression carefully controlled. "Mr. Morozov, the delivery was successful."

"The babies?"

"A son and a daughter, born at thirty-two weeks. They're small but strong, with excellent lung function and good reflexes."

"A boy and a girl?" I repeat, something warm unfurling in my chest despite knowing we were having twins. Hearing the confirmation that both are safe makes it real in a way ultrasounds never could.

"Both healthy. They'll need NICU support for several weeks, but their vital signs are excellent."

"And Mila?"

"Mrs. Morozov came through surgery beautifully. She's in recovery now and asking for you."

"Can I see them? All of them?"

"Of course. But Mr. Morozov, the babies will be very small. Don't be alarmed by all the medical equipment—it's standard for premature infants."

The NICU is a maze of incubators and monitoring equipment, but in the corner, two tiny isolettes hold the most important people in my world. Viktor and Katya Morozova—our son and daughter, born early but absolutely perfect.

"Hello, little ones," I whisper to them. "I'm your papa, and I've been waiting to meet you."

Viktor weighs three pounds and two ounces. He has my pale coloring but what I suspect will be his mother's stubborn expression. Katya is slightly smaller at two pounds and fifteen ounces, with dark hair like Mila's, but she grips my finger with surprising strength when I reach into her incubator.

"They're perfect," Mila says from behind me. I turn to see her being wheeled into the NICU in a hospital bed, still pale from surgery but alert and smiling.

"They're beautiful," I agree. "Just like their mother."

"How long will they need to stay here?"

"Dr. Petrov says several weeks, possibly until their original due date. But Mila, they're breathing on their own, their heart rates are stable, and they're already showing the Morozov determination to survive."

"Good. They're going to need that determination."

"Why?"

"Because Pavel isn't going to give up. This was just his opening move."

She's right, of course. Pavel's assault on our estate was reconnaissance, his checkpoint strategy was psychological warfare, and his attack on the hospital confirms he's escalating rapidly.

But looking at our children, so small and vulnerable in their incubators yet already fighting to grow stronger, I feel something I haven't experienced since Viktor died: absolute certainty that we're going to win this war.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morozov?" Agent Castillo appears beside us, her tactical gear exchanged for a more professional suit, though I can see the satisfied expression of someone who's just helped win a firefight. "We need to discuss security protocols for your extended hospital stay."

"Extended stay?"

"Mrs. Morozov will need several days to recover from surgery, and the babies will be here for weeks. That's a long time to maintain protective security."

"What are you suggesting?"

"A federal protection detail specifically for the NICU. Discrete but effective."

"And in exchange?"

"Your continued cooperation with our organized crime task force. Pavel's assault on the hospital was witnessed by federal agents conducting protective surveillance. We now have grounds to charge him with domestic terrorism and assault on a federal asset."

"You want us to help you find Pavel."

"We want you to help us eliminate the threat he represents. To your family and to the broader community."

I look at Mila, and she looks at me, and we have one of those wordless conversations. Pavel Volkov has threatened our home, terrorized our family, and forced our children to be born in crisis. Federal partnership or not, he's not going to survive what comes next.

"Agent Castillo," I say finally, "you have our full cooperation."

"Excellent. Mr. Morozov, Mrs. Morozov, welcome to federal protection."

"And Pavel?"

"Will learn that threatening federal assets was the last mistake he'll ever make."

Viktor chooses that moment to open his eyes, looking directly at me with the kind of focused attention that suggests he already knows his father. Katya follows a moment later, both children somehow sensing that they're safe and protected and absolutely loved.

"Hello, beautiful babies," Mila whispers to them. "Welcome to the world. It's complicated and dangerous, but you're going to love it here."

"Because they're Morozovs," I add. "And Morozovs always find a way to win."

Looking at our children, born weeks early but already showing signs of the strength that runs in our family, I believe it completely. Viktor with his determined grip and steady breathing, Katya with her alert eyes and surprising strength—they're fighters, just like their parents.

Pavel Volkov has no idea what he's unleashed by threatening them.

But he's about to find out.

The NICU around us hums with the quiet efficiency of medical equipment keeping our children safe and helping them grow.

Federal agents position themselves discretely throughout the ward, professional and alert.

Hospital staff move with the practiced competence of people who specialize in giving premature babies the best possible start in life.

And in the center of it all, our son and daughter sleep peacefully in their isolettes, completely unaware that they've just survived their first battle in a war that started before they were born.

"We'll win this," Mila says softly, reaching through the incubator ports to stroke Katya's tiny hand. "For them."

"We'll win this," I agree, watching Viktor's steady breathing and feeling something fierce and protective settle in my chest. "Because of them."

Agent Castillo moves to the window, speaking quietly into her radio about perimeter security and threat assessment. Boris appears in the doorway, his expression confirming that the hospital is secure and our people are in position.

Everything is under control.

Everything except Pavel Volkov, who just made the mistake of thinking he could intimidate us by threatening our children.

That was his first error.

It's going to be his last.