Gilded Tears: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 2) by Nicole Fox (e book free reading .txt) 📕

blonde and tied into a tight knot at the back of her head. She’s talking to someone just out of my line of vision.

“My baby!” I gasp, breaking free of the parched hoarseness that grips my throat. “My baby…”

She doesn’t hear me. She’s so engrossed in her conversation that she doesn’t even glance in my direction. The panic builds as bits and pieces of memory resurface.

I don’t remember much, apart from the fact that I’d been preparing to run.

No, wait—I’d assaulted a man. Possibly even killed him. I needed to get out of town.

And then my water broke in the middle of a bus depot.

I remember being in pain.

I remember feeling scared and helpless.

I remember worrying about the future.

But not once did I ever envision waking up alone. Hollow. Terrified beyond reckoning and drowning in fears and nightmares and long-buried memories.

The emptiness I feel now makes sense.

I glance down at my stomach. There’s only a small bump left. There’s certainly no baby inside me anymore.

My body craves the fluttering kicks I’ve gotten used to over the last few months. Without them, I feel lost. Unmoored.

“Where’s my baby?” I demand, raising my voice to anyone who will listen.

The blonde nurse gives a start of surprise and turns to me. “Oh, my,” she says. “You gave me a fright! Well, I’m glad you’re awake.”

She comes forward and begins examining the IV drip attached to my hand. I flinch away from her as my eyes flit across the room.

There’s a baby bassinet in the corner, but there is no baby in it.

Oh, God, did I lose…

Him?

Her?

I don’t even know what I was having.

All that stress, all that anxiety, all that panic… has it finally caught up with me?

Did it cost me my child?

“My baby,” I beg desperately. Tears are pouring unchecked down my face. “Where is my baby?”

She looks at me finally. For the first time, she looks me right in the eye and sees the panic on my face.

“Oh, honey,” she says. Her eyes soften. “Don’t worry.”

I try to breath, but nothing helps. Nothing will help but the knowledge that my child is okay.

“We’ll bring him up momentarily,” she tells me. “He’s just fine. He’s beautiful.”

I feel relief rest over me like a warm blanket on a freezing cold day. I fall back against my pillow and breathe deeply, taking in as much oxygen as I can.

He’s okay.

Oh, God. Thank you. He’s okay.

Wait.

“He?” I ask, looking up at the nurse again.

She smiles. “You didn’t know you were having a boy?” she asks.

“No,” I admit, almost embarrassed for some reason. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

A second later, another nurse walks into the room, but I don’t register her at all. My eyes are focused on the blue bundle in her arms.

I sit up immediately, ignoring the slicing pain in my stomach.

“Easy there, honey,” the blonde nurse cautions me. “You’re fresh out of surgery. You need to go slow.”

I nod impatiently, but I lift my hands up and out, waiting for my baby to be placed in my arms.

The second nurse walks forward and puts the little blue bundle in my arms.

I see a flash of dark hair—a mess of it, really—and then I see his eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” I murmur.

I stare down at my son, unblinking. He’s gorgeous. More beautiful than my imagination could have ever concocted.

And he looks like Artem.

The resemblance is indisputably obvious. He has Artem’s coloring, lighter than mine. He has Artem’s square jaw, his angular nose, his straight and direct gaze.

The only thing that I recognize that has come from me, are the eyes.

My son has large hazel eyes, framed by dark eyelashes. I can see my own reflection as he stares up at me, as though he’s trying to figure out who I am.

“Hello, little bird,” I say again. “It’s me. Your mama.”

It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. Raw emotion wells up inside me. My vision blurs behinds tears, but I force them back, unwilling to lose sight of my son for even a moment.

He gurgles in my arms. I cradle him tenderly as I press a delicate kiss on his forehead.

“You are beautiful, mijo,” I whisper.

“He really is,” the blonde nurse agrees. She smiles down at the both of us. “Pure beauty. And trust me, I don’t say that about every baby.”

Laughter bubbles up to my lips.

For the first time in a long time, I feel truly and freely happy.

“Is there someone we can call for you, dear?” the blonde nurse asks.

And just like that, my happiness deflates just a little, reminding me of all the problems that still exist. All the trials I have yet to overcome.

“No,” I answer swiftly. “There’s no one.”

The second nurse moves forward just a little. The two of them exchange a glance. I can see pity in their eyes, but it doesn’t affect me anymore.

“What about the father?” the second one suggests gently.

I open my mouth, but snap it shut a moment later. How do I answer that question?

I left the father.

We wanted different lives.

I had to save my child from the world I was born into.

“There is no father,” I say simply. “It’s just me and him.” I leave it at that.

The blonde nurse moves forward and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Sometimes, that’s all you need.”

I smile gratefully at her. “Thank you.”

“He’s going to need a name.”

A name.

It’s strikes me that in all the months I had to plan and prepare for his birth, I’ve never once thought about names.

At least, not since those early days in the cabin, when it was just Artem and me. When we’d still been wrapped up in the glow of new love and fragile hope.

Thinking about it now, I realize how idealistic those conversations were.

We were just pretending.

Pretending that happiness was possible.

Pretending that we could make it as a family—against all the odds.

My son gurgles loudly and I wrench my attention back to him.

“Are you hungry, my angel?” I ask.

He raises his little fists before settling