Gone.
All of it gone because I wasn't there to protect them.
And now—if Valerie is pregnant—I'll have another chance.
Another child to love. Another fragile life depending on me not to fail.
The thought terrifies me.
But underneath the terror, something else stirs. Something that feels like want.
I'd like a baby with Valerie.
The realization settles over me with surprising clarity.
I'd like to see her pregnant. Watch her belly grow with our child. Put my hand there and feel movement. Experience all the moments I took for granted with Katya.
I'd like to hold an infant again. Change diapers, lose sleep, and deal with all the chaos new babies bring.
I'd like Mila to have a sibling. Someone to grow up with. Someone to help carry the weight of this life we're building.
I'd like to believe we can do this. Survive Patrick. Build a real family. Prove that love doesn't always end in devastation.
But the fear is stronger than the want.
Because Patrick is still out there. Still planning revenge. Still waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
And if Valerie is pregnant, she becomes a target. The baby becomes leverage. Everything becomes infinitely more dangerous.
How do I protect them both? How do I keep Valerie safe when she's vulnerable and carrying our child? How do I ensure I don't fail again?
I don't have answers.
Just terror and hope tangled together until I can't tell which is which.
Mila shifts in her sleep. Makes a small sound. Her hand reaches out, finds my arm, and holds on.
Even unconscious, she seeks safety. Seeks the protection I failed to give her mother and brother.
"I won't fail you again," I whisper to her. "I promise, cielo. Whatever it takes. I'll keep you safe."
And if there's another baby—our baby, mine and Valerie's—I'll keep them safe too.
Or die trying.
I sit with Mila until her grip on my arm loosens. Until her breathing evens out completely.
Then I head to my study. Pour vodka. Pull out the photos I keep in the locked drawer.
Katya. Pregnant with Dmitri. Glowing and beautiful and alive.
Dmitri. Two years old. Smiling at the camera with innocent joy.
I trace their faces with one finger. Let myself remember. Let myself feel the loss that never quite heals.
Then I close the album and lock it away.
Because dwelling in the past won't protect the future.
