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Richard's smile is satisfied, almost smug. "The judge presiding over Avros's case? He's the same one from Miron's trial. And after the... shall we say, irregularities that came to light in Miron's case, he's eager to avoid any further scrutiny."
Miron leans back in his chair, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Well, well. Isn't that a stroke of luck?"
I look between them, a mixture of hope and unease swirling in my stomach. "So what does this mean? For Avros, for us?"
"It means," Richard says, his tone measured but optimistic, "that with your testimony and this fortunate turn of events, we have a very good chance of bringing Avros home soon. Very soon."
The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost painful. I press a hand to my stomach, feeling the slight swell there. "Did you hear that, little one?" I whisper. "Your daddy might be coming home."
Miron raises his glass in a toast. "To family," he says, his eyes shining with emotion. "And to bringing my stubborn brother back where he belongs."
As we clink glasses, I feel a sense of rightness settle over me. This is my family now—complicated, dangerous, but fiercely loyal. And soon, God willing, we'll be complete.
"So, Sydney," Miron says as we dig into our meal, "have you and my brother started thinking about names for the little one yet?"
I shake my head, smiling. "Not really. It still feels so surreal sometimes."
Miron's eyes light up. "Well, may I suggest Miron if it's a boy? It's a strong name, you know. A very peaceful name for a child."
Richard snorts into his wine glass. "Peace? You?"
"Hey, I can be peaceful," Miron protests, but his grin gives him away. "Alright, maybe not. But it's still a good name."
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. "I'll run it by Avros," I promise. "But maybe as a middle name."
"I'll take it," Miron says with a wink. "And if it's a girl?"
"Natalia," I say without thinking. At their curious looks, I explain, "It was my grandmother's name. She's the one who taught me to speak Russian."
Miron's smile is soft. "Natalia Mirovna Petrov. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
The casual way he includes his brother's surname, the easy acceptance of me and the baby into the family, brings a lump to my throat. "It does," I agree softly.
As the evening wears on and we delve deeper into the details of the trial, I can't shake a nagging sense of unease. What if something goes wrong? What if the judge changes his mind? What if Avros's enemies use this opportunity to strike?
Miron seems to sense my anxiety. As Richard excuses himself to make a phone call, he leans in close. "It's going to be okay, Sydney," he says softly. "I know my brother. He's too stubborn, too in love with you and that baby, to let anything keep himaway. And he's got us fighting for him too. We're Petrovs. We always come out on top."
His confidence is infectious, and I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. "Thank you, Miron. For everything. I'm glad... I'm glad you're here."
Miron's smile is warm, brotherly. "Me too, Sydney. Me too."
As I prepare for bed that night, my hand resting on my growing bump, I whisper a silent prayer. "Please," I murmur to whatever higher power might be listening. "Bring him home to us. Let us be a family."
With thoughts of Avros filling my mind, and the comfort of knowing his brother is just down the hall, I drift off to sleep. For the first time in weeks, my dreams are filled with hope instead of fear. I see Avros holding our child, Miron teaching them to ride a bike, family dinners filled with laughter and love.
It's a future worth fighting for. And with the strength of the Petrov family behind us, I know we'll make it a reality.
25
Avros
The harsh fluorescent lights of the jail cell have become a constant in my life over the past few weeks. Their unforgiving glare has etched every crack in the concrete walls, every rust stain on the metal bars, into my memory. The monotonous routine, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional shout or clang of metal—it has all started to blur together, days bleeding into nights in an endless cycle of regret and longing.
But today, something is different. The air feels charged, expectant. Even the usual stench of sweat and despair seems less potent.
The guard's keys jangle, an unusually cheerful sound in this grim place. "Petrov," he calls out, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "You're being released. Gather your things."
For a moment, I can't move. Released? Just like that? It seems too good to be true, and in my line of work, things that seem toogood to be true usually are. I sit on the edge of my narrow bunk, hands gripping the thin mattress, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
