Page 64 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
“Can I call you Papa now?”
The room stills.
Ana smiles, not wide, not narrow, something held back. “We’ll see,” she says, and Mila grins like she’s already won.
Denis is waiting downstairs, engine running. He’s cleaned the car. He always does when something matters. There’s a bottle of champagne on the seat beside him and a bundle of white flowers wrapped in brown paper.
He hands the flowers to Ana, nods once to Mila, and pulls into traffic without comment.
At the registry office, Galina meets us inside. She looks pleased in a way that doesn’t feel staged. She presses a small velvet boxinto Ana’s hand, inside a silver charm shaped like a simple knot. “For continuity,” she says, and Ana thanks her.
We don’t walk into a courtroom, and no judge is waiting to pronounce anything. The office is clean with neutral walls and a desk that has seen thousands of names pass over it without caring who they belonged to.
The process is routine. We show passports and birth certificates. The registrar checks names, dates, stamps, then turns the folder so we can sign. She slides one more form across for Mila, and I sign the paternity acknowledgment under the Nikolai name before the marriage papers come back to us. Denis clears his throat behind us and steps forward.
“I’ll sign,” he says. “If you need one.” Galina looks at him, then nods and slides the paper across. Denis signs his name carefully, and then she asks about rings. Ana glances at me. I take the small box from my pocket and set it on the desk between us. We bought them yesterday, plain gold bands, no stones, no markings inside. Rings that won’t snag, won’t draw attention, won’t crack under pressure.
I slide the first one onto Ana’s finger. It fits snugly without forcing. She does the same for me, her hands steady, her thumb brushing my skin once before she lets go.
There’s no speech. No instruction to smile. We sign where we’re told, black ink on clean paper. I writeNikolai Sokolov. Ana writesAna Markova. The registrar stamps the page, closes the folder, and nods.
That’s it.
Someone claps, sudden and light, and it spreads. Mila laughs because everyone else is laughing, loud and free. Denis opensthe champagne outside, the cork jumping too high, and it spills onto the pavement. No one minds.
Denis waves us in, says stand closer. Ana doesn’t smile big, but she holds Mila steady and looks straight at the lens. I keep my hand on her back and look where she looks. We don’t blink when Denis takes a picture.
We go to lunch afterward at a small place near the canal, with the windows open and the tables packed close enough that you can hear other people’s forks hit their plates. The server brings water first, then bread, then the menus. I let Ana pick the mains without steering her, and I let Mila point at the desserts as if the whole day belongs to her. Plates arrive and glasses touch once when Ana lifts hers.
I sit back, let my shoulders drop, and feel my mouth pull into a smile I don’t try to hide as I watch them eat.
The change doesn’t stay in that room or in Galina’s ledger. Once the stamp hits the page, our names go into the record together. From there it spreads on its own, residency, medical files, tax links, child registries. The next time someone pulls a file, they’ll see it. The next time a form is checked, it will be there.
You can’t pretend something like that didn’t happen once it’s written down.
The Bratva will see it soon enough.
18
ANA
Morning comes the way it always does in the city, gray light pressing in through the windows. It feels watchful even when it’s still.
Mila doesn’t notice any of that. She’s already awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed, talking about the sea. Her face shines. Her eyes are bright.
“Are we going to the sea, Mommy?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, and I don’t get the rest out before she’s already running from one room to another, picking up a toy or a scarf and asking if we’re taking it. Her things are packed at last in her pink satchel with silver stars and little mermaids, and she shoulders it like it’s part of the adventure.
The ring catches the light when I reach for Mila’s jacket. It feels unfamiliar on my hand, a weight I chose instead of one given to me.
I’ve stood beside a man before and learned what that cost. This time, I stepped into it knowing exactly who would see it andwhat it would signal. I’m not a vacancy anymore. Anyone who wants to test that will have to show their hands now.
We’re leaving the city, heading for the coast. I did that before. The difference now is that I’m not disappearing. This city keeps too many eyes on us. Too many people know his face and mine. Every street carries history.
Out there, we start without that weight. Mila can learn her way around without me mapping exits in my head first. Dominik won’t have to walk into rooms where everyone remembers what he used to be.
I want a place where the days aren’t shaped by who might be watching.
