Page 69 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
He nods and notes it down. “Any chronic conditions?”
“No.”
“Family history of…” He glances at the chart and keeps going. “Autoimmune issues? Blood disorders?”
“No,” I say again.
He orders a basic panel, says it’s routine, just to be safe.
The nurse draws her blood. Mila doesn’t like needles. Dominik squeezes her hand and murmurs, telling her to focus on his fingers and the pressure she can control, not what she can see. She cries once.
I go down to the floor, kneel beside her, and take her other hand, holding it so her eyes don’t track the needle. The nurse talks to her about which sweet she likes best, which fruit she would pick after this is over. Before she can answer, the nurse steps back and says it’s done.
I look at the small vial of her blood sitting on the tray and my stomach turns. I don’t fold or gasp, but something in me feels tight. I reach for Mila and hold her close.
While we wait, the doctor flips through Mila’s chart. His finger stops on a line. He looks at the date longer than necessary. Then he frowns, just slightly.
“This marker,” he says, tapping the page with his pen, “it’s uncommon. Not alarming on its own, but unusual to see without context.”
My pulse climbs. I keep my face still.
“What does it mean?” Dominik asks.
“It can mean nothing,” he says, voice calm. “Or it can mean we ask a few more questions.” His eyes lift to mine. “Was she born here?”
“No,” I say. “She was born elsewhere.”
“Hospital birth?”
“Yes.”
He writes again. “Any complications?”
“No.”
Dominik doesn’t speak. He doesn’t interrupt. He watches the doctor’s hands, the way the pen moves, the way the questions land.
The doctor smiles at Mila again. “You’re going to be fine,” he says. “We’ll send the results once we have them. If anything needs attention, we’ll call.”
We walk out with a prescription for fever reducers and instructions I already know.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The cold feels thick. In the car, Mila slumps against me, worn out. I buckle her in, smooth her hair back, kiss her forehead. Dominik drives without speaking, jaw set, eyes on the road.
At the house, I put Mila to bed first. She’s asleep before I finish pulling the blanket up to her chin. I stay there a moment, listening to her breathing, counting until the rhythm settles before I turn and leave the room. When I step into the kitchen, Dominik’s setting the medicine down on the counter one by one, labels facing out.
“So much paperwork. This form, that document,” I say, my voice high. “All for a fever.”
“You’re worked up,” he says, still not looking at me.
“It delayed treatment.”
“There are rules.”
“Rules make us visible.”
“So does dodging them,” he says, his voice steadier than mine.
I fold my arms and step in. “You’re the reason any of this matters. You walk into a room and people look twice.”
