My cheeks ache as I set the box across from me. My chest swells as I open the instructions. My muscles burn as if anticipating hard manual labor.
It doesn’t make sense. But it doesn’t matter. All I can think about is what’s going to happen when Liya finally goes into labor.
Fear lashes my gut. Dr. Atlee gave me a book about expecting a baby. I’m not much for reading, but I find myself reaching for it every so often just to thumb through the pages. It mostly outlines how I can support Liya.
That’s easy. I can support Liya.
But a newborn? How the hell am I supposed to support a frail human that’s barely the size of a watermelon?
I shrug my shoulders and reach for the new toolkit I purchased.I’m strong. I can carry him around.
I push around a few items, lifting a plastic-wrapped item that came with the crib.
I’ll give him my arm when he wants to start walking.
It’s a baby-safe mirror with a cushioned frame.
I’ll teach him Russian and English. He’ll be a bilingual kid. My heart races.He’ll be tough like me and smart like Liya. He’ll charm all the kids on his first day of school. Nothing will stop him.
My reflection is a little muddy, but one thing is clear.
I’m smiling.
It’s weird to see myself like this. It’s weird toexperiencegiddiness like this. The world outside is on fire, yet I’m locked up in an attic, putting together my son’s crib. My wife has no idea I’m doing it. My sister doesn’t know either. Only Stepan knows. And even he’s not aware of how far along I will be.
Yet I couldn’t be happier.
My hands move of their own accord. I would hardly call myself a carpenter, but this feels natural. Occasionally, I will spare a gaze at the directions, but other than that, every piece feels intuitive. Like I’m made to do this. Every so often, I think about what kind of name our child should have.
Something strong. Regal. Alexander? Rurik? Vyacheslav?
No matter which name comes to mind, it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. And as I screw the base of the crib together, I discard each name as soon as I think of it. My heart races. None of them are appealing.
Until I imagine a daughter. And suddenly, a single name emerges—clear as day—the only one that communicates true strength:Viktoria.
After everything that woman sacrificed for me, my family, our Bratva, there’s no way I can continue living my life without honoring her. Viktoria cleaned blood, sweat, and tears from every inch of the penthouse. She was there since the day I could walk. She made food that I liked when I was being picky. She gifted me art supplies.
She lived. She served. She taught.
What more could I ever ask of anyone?
My eyes drift to the other boxes in the attic. I stand up and wipe my hands on my thighs, peering through the dim light at the ones with my name on them.
This isn’t for a future pakhan, my father, Sergey’s, voice buzzes at the back of my mind. Malevolence drips with each word.Put it in a box and put it away.This is not for you.
It hurts to breathe. Dust kicks up from the ground as I make my way across the floor toward the ancient boxes. The closest one feels weird under my fingers, like it’s forbidden to open it.
I glance back at the crib.
Is that how I will treat my son?
I peel the tape. I open the lid. I stare at the sketchbooks inside. There must be at least a dozen of them. I blink through the dust billowing around me. Painful tears burn my eyes.
Will I make him throw away everything he’s ever loved just so he can appear strong? For a life like this?
I reach into the box and open the first page. A dramatic charcoal sketch of downtown Manhattan stares back at me.
Will I force my daughter to live only for her husband? Will I force her to serve on behalf of the family? Will I sell her for my own selfish needs?