The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

People’s imaginations usually concoct far worse consequences than the ones I would actually be willing to dole out.

Svetlana swallows, her breath turning shallow. “I don’t mean to threaten you, Mr. Baranov.”

Now I get to be magnanimous. I hold up my hand. “It’s all right. I am glad your primary concern is with the health of my baby and his mother.”

She nods quickly. “Yes, it is.”

“Good. Come and see her.”

I unlock my bedroom door and push it open. Lucy’s at her desk, typing rapidly on her laptop.

“Lucy, this is your midwife, Svetlana. She’s going to check on you.” I wave Svetlana in and shut the door behind us.

Lucy’s long blonde hair swings around her shoulder when she turns. “My what?”

“Your midwife. Svetlana specializes in home births. You have the extraordinary advantage of having your very own midwife right here in this building, so she will be close when it’s time for the birth.”

Lucy swivels in the office chair and stands. “I’m sorry, did you say home birth?”

I lift a brow as if her question is absurd. “Yes.” In all actuality, I wouldn’t be against a hospital birth, especially if that’s what Lucy requires. But I’m playing a game now where I dictate the terms of everything related to her birth.

“I have an ob-gyn,” she glances at Svetlana, “No offense.” She lasers her gaze at me. “And I’m birthing this child at St. Luke’s.”

“Medically managed births result in thirty percent greater chance of injury to mother or child. You’ll give birth naturally here in the building. Svetlana has twenty-five years’ experience delivering babies in both Russia and this country. She teaches child birthing classes, trains doulas and can even provide you with a water birth. You will be in very good hands. Or don’t you believe a Russian is worthy of delivering your child?”

Lucy flushes. “I—Ravil.” She draws a breath and puts her fists on her hips. “Do not pretend for one minute you think I have a bias against your country or its former citizens.”

I cock a brow. “Don’t you?”

Her flush grows deeper, as if the very suggestion of having a bias upsets her. “No.” She glances at Svetlana before looking back at me. “You know my bias is based on your… profession.”

Svetlana chooses this moment to interrupt. Speaking in Russian, she instructs Lucy to sit on the bed. Lucy obeys her gestures.

“Ah, so you claim to have had complete knowledge of my profession—exactly what I do and how I manage my business? You researched this thoroughly before you made the decision to keep our son from me?”

Svetlana pulls out her pressure cuff and attaches it to Lucy’s arm.

Lucy’s gaze drops from my face to the pressure cuff, her cheeks stained with pink. “I already apologized for that,” she mutters.

“No,” I say firmly. “You didn’t.” She may have offered some version of an apology, but it wasn’t for that, and it wasn’t accepted.

She watches Svetlana check her blood pressure and write it in a chart. She steals a glance at the numbers.

“That chart is in English!” Lucy points. “Svetlana, you speak English, don’t you?”

Svetlana is wise enough not to even lift her head or acknowledge the words.

“Come on, I’m supposed to believe she’s a licensed midwife in this country and doesn’t speak English? I’m not a fool, Ravil.”

I fold my arms over my chest, my lips curving slightly. Maxim was right. It didn’t even take her a week to figure it out. “That doesn’t mean anyone will speak English back, kitten.”

I watch that notion settle over her and don’t necessarily like the way it lands. With Svetlana, I wanted to create unease. When I do it to Lucy, it makes something twist in my gut.

Whether it’s a protective instinct for our child or because I can’t stand seeing Lucy knocked too far off balance, I can’t be sure. I’ve always been protective of her, even at Black Light.

Svetlana hands Lucy a test strip and a cup and, in Russian, tells her to pee on it.

Apparently Lucy is familiar with the test because she takes it into the bathroom and returns a moment later and hands the strip back. Svetlana compares the colors on the test strip to her chart. “That’s good,” she says in Russian as she writes it down. She pulls out her stethoscope and listens to Lucy’s chest then her belly.

Svetlana palpates Lucy’s belly then takes out a cone-shaped instrument, placing it on the side of her belly and listening to it.

“Are you listening to the baby’s heartbeat?” I ask.

“Yes.” Svetlana takes her ear away. “You want to hear?”

Blyat.

Like earlier, when Lucy first felt the baby kick, the idea of hearing its heartbeat makes him seem so real. Our baby, swimming inside Lucy right now. I kneel on the floor beside Lucy and put my ear to the small end of the cone. It takes me a moment to focus. To really listen. And then I hear it—the steady, fast rhythm. Our baby’s heartbeat.