We pull up outside a very fancy row of houses within London, all with discreet white and gold signage. Markov helps me out of the car, as though I’m ancient and breakable, not just pregnant.
Inside, we’re immediately shown to the doctor. Apparently, that’s what happens when you’re with a deadly mafia boss. No sitting in the waiting room like a normal person, even if it’s a swanky private clinic.
The doctor is so nice. She asks me a bunch of questions, seemingly unafraid of the towering, silent man at my side. She takes my blood pressure, and a blood test, and calculates my due date, which makes this seem real.
I know what month this child’s birthday will be in, and it shakes me. I’m going to be a mother.
Markov doesn’t speak at all.
“You’re in perfect health, nothing to worry about.” The doctor smiles at me.
If only that second bit were true.
“Would you like an ultrasound? We do recommend it at this stage,” she adds.
My smile must answer for me, as the doctor laughs and sends us through to another room.
When I’m ready, and we’re waiting for the ultrasound specialist, I lean over to him. He seems so uncomfortable. “Are you sure you want to stay for this?”
He frowns. “Where you go, I go.”
“I’m not a puppy. I can—”
“I’m your shadow,” he says, low and sincere.
“Awfully solid for a shadow,” I tease.
His eyes go dark, and his expression goes calculating. Then he reaches out and takes my hand in his. Warm and certain.
“You want to see…” The baby? Your baby? Our baby, he called it yesterday, which made me all squirmy inside.
He nods.
Then the ultrasound specialist bustles in, a middle-aged woman with a seen-it-all but friendly vibe. Then the little scanner thing has clear lubricant on it that’s chilly against my skin and she apologises, but then the soft sound of a heartbeat is in the room, and white shadows on the screen, and I forget everything else.
I’m entranced. That will grow into our baby.
She takes measurements, and talks about development, and tells me things in a reassuring voice.
When I glance at Markov, his gaze is glued to the image, too.
“It’s a little early to be certain about the gender,” the ultrasound specialist says. “Are you hoping for one or the other?”
“I don’t know.” We hadn’t discussed this, and it’s all sudden. One minute I was hiding my bump with floaty clothes in front of my mother and thinking about how to be a solo parent, the next Markov has taken over everything.
I suppose Markov wants a boy, so he can take over as kingpin of Mortlake?
“Do you want a boy or a girl?” I ask Markov, a bit shy as I look over to him.
“I want an alien,” Markov says, eyes fixed on the black and white image.
The ultrasound specialist looks horrified, but I just burst out laughing.
“That was either or,” I point out. “A multiple choice, not an open question.”
“That’s an alien.” He stabs a finger towards the undeniably weird-looking creature bobbing around on the screen because my belly is shifting as I laugh. “That’s what we’re having. That’s what I want.”
My heart twists. The way this man’s mind works surprises and delights me.
“I think a boy would be good,” I reply.
He shrugs and laces our fingers together, squeezing. “We’ll have a girl eventually.”
My tummy flutters and as he holds tight it feels like a promise. Does that mean he wants a girl? And he’ll want to have kids until we get one?
In the car driving away from the clinic, I clutch a small image the ultrasound specialist printed off for us. Markov finally broke his silence to the medical staff when she asked if we’d like a second copy, and he snapped, “Yes.”
He closed his fingers around the little photograph possessively, and then tucked it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
Seeing him there has shown how he’s making an effort for me. I don’t know where I stand with him, and he is still a Bratva Pakhan. Misunderstandings could be fatal.
And it’s only just occurred to me, since there’s been so much else going on, that his voice is a surprise. He has a British accent.
“You don’t have a Russian accent,” I say.
“I do in Russian,” he replies deadpan.
“Is it easier for you to talk in Russian? Should I learn?” I could do that—
“No.” He sighs and takes my hand in his, squeezing it.
Okay. Well.
I guess English it is. Unease scratches at me. Markov is being very sweet, but after three months apart and only really knowing each other for an hour a day before that, can I trust it?
I’m in love with him, that’s obvious. But how does he feel?
He might want me and the baby now, but it’s not like we’re married. He hasn’t even said he loves me.
