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"We should've done it weeks ago," I tell her, taking her hand and lacing our fingers together as we walk past displays of tiny socks and pacifiers arranged in neat pastel rows. "I told you we were cutting it close."

"And I told you that I was afraid we’d jinx it if we bought things too early," she counters, squeezing my hand as she waddles beside me. Her center of gravity has shifted, forcing her to lean backward and I have a hand on her lower back to brace her. "Besides, you’ve been working so much that we barely had time to breathe, let alone shop for nursery furniture."

She’s right about that. She’s been handling most of the preparation herself while I’m out working double shifts. I’m trying to bank as much money as possible before the baby arrives, knowing that I’ll want to take time off when he gets here and that our savings need to stretch further than I’d like to admit.

"We’re here now," I say, steering her toward the back of the store where the furniture is displayed, rows of cribs and changing tables set up like little stage sets complete with stuffed animals and mobiles hanging from the ceiling. "And we’re going to find the perfect one."

Alana’s eyes light up as we enter the section, and she releases my hand to waddle toward a white convertible crib with curved railing, running her fingers along the smooth wood. "Look at this one," she says, glancing back at me with that expression she gets when she’s admiring architecture, even if it’s just baby furniture. It's such a good look on her and I know I can't say no to her about anything when she gets excited like this. "It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And it converts to a toddler bed, so we could use it for years."

I step up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. She's warm, and she smells like coconut sunscreen and the vanilla lotion she uses on her belly to keep the skin from itching. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing her in while my hands spread across the tight curve where our son is growing. "It’s perfect," I murmur against her neck, pressing a kiss there and feeling her shiver despite the heat. "Just like you."

"You’re just saying that because you don’t want to look at any more options," she teases, leaning back into my chest and covering my hands with hers. "But seriously, Dimitri, look at the craftsmanship. The lines are elegant, and the finish is⁠—"

"It’s just a crib, Sera," I say, using her alias name because we’re in public and I need to remember that we’re not Alana and Dimitri here, not anymore. We’re Sera and Devon, just ordinary people living ordinary lives. She tightens as I say it because we can’t afford to slip up, even in a baby store in the suburbs of St. Petersburg. "He’s gonna spit up on it and teethe on the rails and probably draw on it with markers when he’s older. It doesn’t need to be a work of art."

"Yes, but when we take the nursery photos to remember later on, it will be beautiful." Her voice trails off as I think of the future she's imagining—one where we're supposed to be happy and celebrate. But who will we show those photos to? Certainly not our family. We can't even talk to them, and some of the things in life we're doing seem less substantial without others around us to witness it. When she nudges me, I straighten, but I've missed half of what she said.

She turns in my arms, looking up at me with those dark eyes that see too much, and I watch her expression shift from playful to concerned as she studies my face. "You’re doing it again," she says softly, reaching up to touch my cheek where I haven’t shaved in two days. "You’re somewhere else."

"I’m right here," I insist, but even as I say it, I know she’s right. There's a tug of responsibility that never quite lets me go, no matter how many miles I put between myself and Moscow.

"You’ve been distracted all morning," she presses, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "Ever since breakfast when you checked your phone. Is it Maksim? Did something happen?"

I should protect her from the worry that’s been gnawing at me since I woke up to the message this morning, but I can’t lie to her, not when she’s looking at me like that. She's carrying my child and sharing my life in this cramped, beautiful existence we’ve built. Keeping secrets will only breed mistrust, which I hate the thought of.

"He sent an update," I admit, keeping my voice quiet even though the store is mostly empty. "The fighting spread to the docks last night. Three men dead, two more in the hospital. Alexei’s consolidating power, but it’s getting messy."

Alana’s hand drops from my face, and she steps back, wrapping her arms around her belly as a protective gesture. "I thought it was supposed to be getting better," she whispers, and I can see the fear flicker across her features, the same fear I’ve been trying to keep at bay. "You said the council was going to step in, that they’d negotiate a truce once the corruption was exposed."

As much as that sounds perfect, it just didn't happen that way. The anger was too hot, and our fathers are too stubborn.

"That was the plan," I say, running a hand through my hair and feeling the frustration build in my chest. I left Moscow to stop this and end the cycle of violence that my father perpetuated, and instead I just opened the floodgates. "But my father's not going down quietly, and without me there to lead, the factions are splintering. Alexei’s trying to hold it together, but he’s young, and some of the old guard don’t respect him yet. They see weakness, and they’re moving in for the kill."

"We started this," Alana whispers, hanging her head. When it lifts, she looks around the store at the peaceful displays of baby blankets and rocking chairs. The life we’re trying to build seems so peaceful, but our old life is burning to the ground four hundred miles away. "You know it's our fault."

I reach for her, pulling her close and feeling her resistance before she finally melts into me, her head resting against my chest where my heart's hammering. "Look, right now, our immediate families are safe."

"But I’m sure Natalia's scared," Alana mumbles against my shirt. "And your brother. God, Dimitri, Alexei already got shot once, and now you’re telling me the docks are burning? How many more people have to get hurt before someone stops this?"

I don’t have an answer for her because I’ve been asking myself the same question every night while I lie awake listening to her breathe, wondering if I made the right choice when I walked away from the Sokolov empire. I thought that leaving would absolve me of responsibility, that cutting ties would mean cutting away the guilt, but instead, I’m drowning in it.

"I could go back," I say, but I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here with my pregnant girlfriend and pick out cribs and argue about paint colors for the nursery. "You know? Try to broker the peace, call in the favors I’m still owed, force the council to listen."

Alana pulls back and shakes her head. "You’d be killed," she snips, and I hear fear in her voice. "You walked away, Dimitri. If you go back there now, they'll put a bullet in your head before you make it through the city limits."

"I can’t just do nothing," I tell her, frustration bleeding through into my tone. I don't want to sound hostile, but I hate that she’s right. "Those are my people back there, Alana. My blood," I say quietly, pointing at my chest. "I spent my whole life preparing to lead them, and now I’m out here living my fucking best life while they’re dying."

"What about us, though?" she asks, sliding her hand over her belly again. "What about this responsibility? You want to leave me here alone with a newborn so you can go play hero in Moscow? You want to die and leave me raising your son by myself, always wondering if you’d still be alive if we’d just stayed hidden?" I’m being pulled in two directions by love and duty and I don’t know which way to fall.

Before I can answer and tell her that I don’t know what the right choice is anymore, a sales associate appears beside us with a bright smile and clipboard clutched to her chest.

"Excuse me, are you folks finding everything okay?" she asks, chipper and oblivious to the tension crackling between us. "I couldn’t help but notice you were looking at the Davinci convertible crib. It’s one of our most popular models, and we just got a shipment of matching bedding in if you’re interested."

Alana blinks, and I watch her plaster on that fake smile—a happy, expectant mother. "Actually, we were just looking," she says calmly, but I see the unshed tears in her eyes. "But I'd love to see the bedding options. Do you have anything in sage green? I’m trying to avoid the traditional blue since we’re doing a nature theme."

"Oh, absolutely!" The sales associate lights up, gesturing toward the other side of the store. "We have the most beautiful organic cotton set in sage with little woodland animals. It comes with a quilt, bumper pads, and a mobile with felt deer and foxes. And if you’re interested in toys, we just got a new line of sensory development plushies that are perfect for newborns. Right this way."

Alana glances at me, and I see the plea in her eyes, the request for a truce, for us to table this conversation until we’re home behind closed doors where our words can’t be overheard by strangers. I nod, taking her hand again, and follow the sales associate past the cribs and toward the bedding section. The moment of confrontation is broken but not resolved.