Page 113 of Bride of Vengeance
"Al... Alex... shut up."
I laugh, and baby B joins the gymnastics routine. They're active, these two. The doctor says it's a good sign, but at 3 AM when they're having a dance party on my bladder, I have doubts.
We pull up to the estate, and I immediately see what Mikhail meant. There are at least fifty cars here.
"Small gathering my ass," I mutter.
"Mila doesn't do small."
"Clearly."
Inside, the house has been transformed into what looks like a baby store exploded. Pink and blue everything, though we haven't told anyone the genders yet. Mostly because we asked not to know ourselves.
"MARIANA!" Mila appears in a cloud of expensive perfume and excitement. "You look amazing! Pregnancy suits you!"
"I look enormous."
"You look fertile. It's very Russian."
"I'm Mexican-American."
"Details." She pulls me into the living room where approximately eight thousand women are gathered. "Everyone! The mother-to-be!"
The next two hours are a blur of gifts, games, and horrifying birth stories that make me want to keep these babies in forever. Mikhail, Alexei, and Boris have wisely disappeared to what Alexei calls his "strategic planning room" but is clearly just a man cave.
"The key," an older Russian woman is saying, "is to curse your husband in your native tongue during labor. They can't get mad if they don't understand."
"Curse in Spanish."
"He's learning Spanish."
"Then make up words. Men are simple—they just need to feel blamed for something."
The women laugh, and I realize something: I have a community now. Not just Mila and family, but these women who've welcomed me despite everything. Despite being American, despite being a former FBI agent, despite being the woman who tamed an infamous criminal.
"Mariana?" A familiar voice makes me turn.
"Mamá?"
My mother stands in the doorway, looking smaller than I remember but smiling wider than I've seen in years.
"Mila flew me in," she says in Spanish. "Surprise!"
I'm crying before I reach her, pregnancy hormones and shock making me a mess. She holds me like I'm still five years old and scared of thunderstorms.
"My baby's having babies," she murmurs. "With a Russian criminal."
"Former criminal."
"Who treats you well?"
"Like a queen."
"Good. Or I'll kill him myself."
"You'd have to get in line. Mila has first dibs."
We laugh through tears, and then she's examining my belly with the expertise of a woman who raised me alone after my father died.
