Alessia
I’m trying not to cry because I know it will distress Vlad.
The orphanage breaks my heart. Of course it does. These babies don’t get enough love or attention or time out of their cribs. At least they seem clean and fed and relatively healthy.
The workers eye me nervously, like I’m a government inspector here to give out demerits, but that’s understandable. I’m an American, brought in by a dangerous bratva member. I’m sure they don’t know what to make of the whole thing. I feed the baby in my arms. I don’t want to put her down, but there are other crying babies who need attention, so I spread a blanket on the floor and put the baby on it.
One of the workers points at it and then the crib where the baby came from.
“I know,” I answer in English, even though they won’t understand
