Page 72 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
She asks for the file and prescription, double-checks the tests, then turns to the screen and types with quick, practiced fingers. She moves through the steps without fuss. Temperature first, normal now. She notes it down. Then the blood pressure cuff, the oxygen clip, the scale, the height chart.
Mila stiffens at each one. Her eyes dart around the room, looking for a way out.
“It’s all right,” Ana keeps saying, soft and steady, though her voice shakes once before she gets it back.
The nurse finishes the vitals and brings over the tray with needles and vials. She doesn’t pause. She lines up the vials, checks the label, and meets Mila’s eyes for a second, calm and direct
“This’ll be over before you even feel it,” she says with a small smile.
Mila nods, and I stay where she can see me. When they tie the band around her arm, she gasps. She looks at me with wide, weteyes like I lied to her. I shake my head once, slow and steady. She turns and presses her face into Ana’s chest.
The nurse washes her hand at the sink, dries it fast, then snaps on her gloves. She tells Mila what’s coming in a voice meant for a child. Just a pinch. One small tube. Maybe two. That’s all.
Mila starts crying before the needle even comes close.
Ana shifts, holding her tighter, her mouth near Mila’s ear, whispering something only meant for her. Her body curves around Mila’s like she’s trying to absorb the pain for her.
I step in and cover Mila’s fist with my hand.
“Here,” I say. “Squeeze if it hurts.”
She does. Hard.
The needle goes in. Mila screams. Ana’s eyes close. The nurse does not hesitate. She fills a tube, then another.
It’s over faster than Mila believes. The nurse tapes the cotton in place and hands Mila a sticker. A fish. Mila sobs into Ana’s shoulder, worn out and red-faced, but she’s okay.
“All done,” the nurse says. She’s already cleaning up.
I watch her hands. I watch the door. I watch the reflection in the metal cabinet. Everything stays where it is. Mila lets out a soft sound, half breath, half relief.
“It’s done?” she says, like she needs to hear it out loud.
“Yes, baby,” Ana murmurs as she gathers her close, smoothing her hair, breathing something hushed against her ear.
The nurse talks to me. “The report will take some time. We’ll call you when it’s ready,” she says. And just like that, it’s done. We gather our things and walk back through the hall, out to the parking lot, the door closing behind us.
Mila is quiet now, spent, her head heavy on Ana’s shoulder.
Ana sets her in the car seat and fastens the belt. I crouch in front of her and tell her it’s done for today. No more needles. No more hospital rooms. Her eyes search my face, then Ana’s. When we both nod, she lets out a long breath like she’s been holding it in for hours.
“Can we go somewhere nice?” she asks, her voice careful.
“There’s a bookshop two streets over,” I say. “You can pick anything you want.”
That does it. The fear falls out of her all at once. She straightens, wipes her face on her sleeve, and starts talking about colors before we’ve even reached the door.
The bookshop is small and warm, with shelves packed tight and little bells that ring when we walk in. Mila lets go of Ana’s hand and wanders between the rows. She crouches to reach a lower shelf, then stands again and presses a book to her chest. Her mouth moves as she reads the title to herself.
She chooses a book with a boy riding a dolphin in the sea. “Can I have this?”
“Yes,” we say together.
She pulls out stacks of coloring pads, thick crayons that won’t break the first time she presses too hard.
She looks back at us, eyes bright. “Can I get this one too?”
Ana nods. “Yes.”
