Page 43 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

RENAT

The world shifts in a heartbeat. One moment, Elena is laughing beside me in the garden. Next, her fingers dig into my wrist, and her breath catches. I glance at her belly, swollen and round beneath the soft blue fabric of her dress, and something primal tightens in my chest.

“Elena?” I murmur, my eyebrows snapping together with worry.

She winces. “I think…” Her eyes widen, one hand pressing to her belly. “My water just broke.”

The world stills, then it explodes into motion.

Artur appears before I can call for him.

He's already reaching for the phone, barking orders into the receiver.

The others move quickly, as if on autopilot.

I trained them that way. But I don't care about procedures right now.

I don't care about security formations or the hospital route that we mapped out months ago.

All I care about is the woman clinging to my arm, breathing through pain with more strength than I've ever seen.

“I've got you, dushenka ,” I murmur, guiding her toward the waiting SUV. “You're okay.”

She nods, her lips pressed together, face pale but determined. My beautiful wife.

The drive to the hospital takes less than fifteen minutes, but every second stretches like eternity.

I hold Elena's hand in the back seat, murmuring to her in Russian and English, anything to keep her grounded.

Her grip tightens with each contraction, and though I know she's in agony, she doesn't scream or cry. She bears it like a queen.

But I feel like I'm splintering beside her. I would kill a thousand men to spare her this pain. I would burn cities to ash if it meant I could take even a moment of it from her. But this is something I cannot control, command, or intimidate into submission. This is life.

The SUV tears through Miami's streets, and I watch the city whiz past the bulletproof windows.

The palm trees sway in the afternoon breeze, and tourists walk the sidewalks with their cameras and bright clothes, oblivious to the drama unfolding inside our vehicle.

Their world continues spinning while mine threatens to collapse.

Elena's breathing grows more labored. She squeezes my hand so hard I'm sure she'll break bones, but I welcome the pain. It's nothing compared to what she's enduring.

Another contraction grips her, and she arches against the leather seat. A low groan escapes her throat, and I feel utterly powerless. All my money, all my connections, all the fear I can instill in other men mean nothing in this moment.

“We're almost there,” Artur calls from the front seat. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Even he's affected by this.

By the time we arrive, the staff is waiting. Artur arranged everything. The hospital wing is sealed tight. Guards are stationed at every point, vetted and cleared weeks ago. A private delivery suite. A surgical team on standby.

“Elena Rostov, thirty-eight weeks,” a nurse declares briskly. “We need to prep for delivery.”

The room transforms into structured turmoil. Nurses adjust monitors, the doctor arrives and examines Elena, and I stand beside her bed, feeling utterly helpless despite being exactly where I need to be.

The sterile smell of the delivery room fills my nostrils. Antiseptic and anticipation. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Medical equipment beeps and hums around us, monitoring Elena's vital signs and the baby's heartbeat.

I don't leave her side. The nurses work around me preparing instruments. I hold Elena's hand, stroking her knuckles with my thumb, whispering reassurances.

“You're doing perfectly,” I murmur, pressing my lips to her forehead. “So strong. So brave.”

She grips my hand tightly as another contraction hits and her face contorts with pain. This is beyond the reach of my influence and the scope of my power. For a man who has spent his entire adult life controlling every variable, every outcome, this helplessness is devastating.

“How much longer?” Elena gasps between contractions.

The doctor checks her progress. “Not long now. I can see the head.”

Elena's eyes widen with a combination of pain and excitement. “Really?”

“Really,” the doctor confirms. “On the next contraction, I want you to push.”

I lean closer to Elena, my forehead almost touching hers. “You can do this. You're the strongest person I know.”

She nods, her face set with determination. This is the woman who stood up to the most dangerous men in Miami. This is the woman who chose love over safety, who built a life with me despite the risks. If anyone can do this, it's her.

“I can't do this,” she whispers during a brief respite between contractions.

“Yes, you can,” I reply firmly. “You're Elena Rostov. You've survived everything life has thrown at you. You can do this.”

She looks at me, and I see the fear in her eyes.

“We're going to meet our child today,” I whisper. “They’re going to be perfect, just like their mother.”

She manages a weak smile. “Just like their father too.”

The doctor positions himself at the foot of the bed. “Okay, Elena. On the next contraction, I want you to push again. Hard.”

Elena nods, her face set with concentration. The contraction begins, and she bears down, her face reddening with effort. I hold her hand, offering what strength I can.

“That's it,” the doctor encourages. “I can see more of the head. Keep pushing.”

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. Elena pushes with everything she has, and I watch in amazement as she brings our child into the world. She's incredible. Stronger than any man I've ever known.

“One more push,” the doctor announces. “This is it.”

Elena takes a deep breath and pushes with everything she has left. And then, suddenly, there's a cry. A strong, healthy cry fills the delivery room.

“He's here,” the doctor announces with a wide smile. “You have a healthy baby boy.”

I watch in amazement as the doctor cleans our son and checks his vitals. He's perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, and a powerful cry that announces his arrival to the world.

“Is he okay?” Elena asks weakly, trying to see him.

“He's perfect,” the doctor assures her. “Strong and healthy. Congratulations.”

They place him on Elena's chest, and she begins to cry. Happy tears stream down her face as she holds our son for the first time.

“Hello, baby,” she whispers. “I'm your mama.”

I lean over both of them, my heart so full it might burst. “And I'm your papa,” I murmur, touching his tiny hand with one finger.

He's so small, so perfect. His skin is red and wrinkled, his hair dark and damp. He looks exactly like I imagined he would but seeing him in person is overwhelming in a way I never expected.

“He's beautiful,” I whisper, kissing Elena's forehead. “Just like his mother.”

Elena laughs through her tears. “He has your nose.”

I can see it now. The same shape, the same slightly upturned tip. My son. My flesh and blood. My legacy.

The nurses bustle around us, attending to the medical necessities. But I'm focused entirely on Elena and our son. Nothing else matters at this moment.

Nick arrives minutes later in the family waiting area outside the delivery room.

He’s pacing, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, his gray hair damp with sweat despite the hospital’s steady air conditioning.

His tie is crooked, and he clutches a brown paper bag, likely filled with Cuban coffee and barely contained panic.

Amelia follows soon after, the sharp click of her heels echoing down the sterile corridor. Through the glass, I catch a glimpse of her blonde hair twisted into a messy bun, her eyes already shimmering with unshed tears. She places her hands gently against the window, searching for a glimpse inside.

I step out and quietly invite them in. When we return, Elena turns toward me, a soft glow in her eyes as she holds the baby out to me.

“Can you hold him?” Elena asks.

I nod, suddenly nervous. I've held weapons, handled dangerous situations, and commanded rooms full of dangerous men. But holding my newborn son feels like the most important thing I've ever done.

Elena lifts him carefully, supporting his head as she transfers him into my arms. Her movements are careful and reverent. She's been preparing for this moment just as long as I have.

And then he's in my hands. My son. Our son. My fingers shake. My arms tighten protectively. His tiny body curls against my chest, and I feel his heartbeat, soft and steady. And I break. A single tear falls, tracing down my cheek and landing on his tiny hat.

He shifts, and his mouth opens in a sleepy yawn. He doesn't cry. He simply exists, in my arms, in the circle of light around us, and I know nothing will ever be the same.

“I'll protect you,” I whisper, my voice raw. “I swear it.”

He blinks, eyes fluttering open for a moment. Hazel, like mine.

And in that moment, a vow etches itself into my bones. I will give you a world I never had. A world without fear. A world without bloodshed. A world where your mother smiles every morning and your laughter is louder than gunfire.

I study his face, memorizing every detail. The slope of his nose. The curve of his lips. The way his eyebrows furrow slightly, as if he's already thinking serious thoughts.

“He's perfect,” I murmur, and Elena laughs softly.

“He looks like you,” Amelia observes. “But he has Elena’s stubborn chin.”

This child will be strong-willed. He'll challenge me, push boundaries, and demand answers. Good. The world needs more people who refuse to accept things as they are.

His name is Niko. We chose it months ago. Just the two of us, curled in bed while the city burned outside our gates. Niko for a boy, and Ana for a girl.

“Niko Rostov.” The name feels right as I whisper it. My son. My heir. My hope.

“Hello, Niko,” I murmur, and his eyes flutter open again. They're unfocused, still adjusting to the world outside the womb, but they seem to look directly at me. “I'm your father.”

Elena reaches over and touches his cheek with one finger. “We've been waiting for you.”

Nick’s glasses fog as he admires the baby, and he has to remove them to wipe them clean. When he puts them back on, his eyes are bright with unshed tears.

“My God,” he breathes. “He's beautiful.”

Amelia tiptoes to Elena's side, her earlier tears replaced by wonder.

“He’s perfect,” she whispers, leaning over to press a kiss to Elena's cheek.

I transfer Niko carefully into Amelia’s arms. She cradles him closely, humming a soft lullaby.

Artur steps into the room last, his expression guarded. But I see the way his jaw tightens, then relaxes. The way his eyes soften when they land on the baby.

“I didn't think anything could soften you,” he mutters. “But this might do it.”

“He's the future,” I declare.

Artur nods once. He understands what this means. Niko represents everything I've been working toward. Not just the continuation of the Rostov name, but the evolution of it. The transformation from a legacy of violence to something better.

I've spent years building legitimate businesses alongside the darker enterprises. Real estate, restaurants, and import companies. All of it is designed to create a foundation that Niko can inherit without shame. An empire he can be proud of.

“He won't have to choose,” I continue, my voice low enough that only Artur can hear. “He won't have to live the way we did.”

Artur's expression is tense. “The others won't like it.”

“The others will adapt,” I reply.

It's a conversation we've had before, but never with this urgency. Now that Niko is here, real and breathing and dependent on me, the timeline has accelerated. I can't afford to wait years to clean up my operations. I need to start now.

Amelia returns Niko to Elena, and the room gradually empties. The nurses bustle around, checking vitals and filling out paperwork. Eventually, they leave us alone.

I sit beside Elena, Niko asleep on my chest, his tiny breath warming the hollow of my throat. He's changed everything simply by existing.

Elena leans her head against my shoulder. I think about the early days of our relationship. I'd tried to keep her at arm's length, convinced that caring for her would make me weak. How she'd pushed past every barrier I'd erected, refusing to accept my excuses or my fears.

She saw something in me that I couldn't see in myself. Not just the capacity for love, but the desire for it. The desperate need to be more than the sum of my violence and my losses.

I turn my head and press my lips to hers. Gently, with all the gratitude in my soul.

“I love you,” I whisper against her lips.

“I love you too,” she replies. “Both of you.”

We sit there for hours. Watching the rise and fall of Niko's chest. Marveling at the perfect miniature of his fingernails, and the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. He's a miracle, this child. Tangible proof that something beautiful can emerge from the chaos of our lives.

Outside, Miami glitters in the darkness. The city that brought us together, that tested us, that ultimately gave us this moment. I think about our future. The legacy we're creating.

The Bratva still exists. Enemies still breathe beyond our borders. But none of that matters now.

Not in this moment with my son asleep against my heart and the woman I love by my side.

I close my eyes and make a silent promise to the tiny life in my arms. You will know peace. You will know love. You will know that you are wanted, cherished, and protected. You will never doubt your worth or question your place in this world. You will never have to earn the right to exist.

For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of what's coming. I'm eager for it. I'm ready to be the father I never had and give my son everything I never received. I'm ready to build a world worthy of his innocence.

And as Niko sleeps peacefully in my arms, I know that this is just the beginning of the most important work of my life.

THE END