Chapter 48
Mary
They’re choosing their words carefully.
I can see it. The way Dima’s jaw works. The way Lev won’t quite meet my eyes. The way they both stand there in the living room like they’re defusing a bomb instead of talking to a pregnant woman.
“Tell me what?” I repeat.
Lev opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at Dima.
Dima’s face is stone. “Sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Mary—”
“Now.”
Something shifts in my chest. Hardens. Because I’m done with this. Done with being handled like glass. Done with people deciding what I can or can’t handle.
I’m in this life now. For better or worse. Anton put a baby in me. Put me in this penthouse. Put guards on me twenty-four seven.
I don’t get to opt out of the hard parts.
“Whatever it is,” I say, voice steadier than I feel, “I need to know. I can take it.” I press my hand to my stomach. “We can take it.”
Dima studies me for a moment. Then nods once. “Okay.”
We move to the couch. I sit. They remain standing.
Military briefing positions.
This is bad.
“Boris sent a message two days ago,” Dima starts. “Anton was going to Igor’s last known location. A meeting. Supposed to be quick—in and out.”
My heart’s already racing. “And?”
“And he hasn’t checked in since.”
The words land like punches.
“What does that mean?” I ask. “He’s busy? He’s undercover? He’s—”
“We don’t know.” Lev’s voice is tight. “Boris has tried every protocol. Every backup channel. Every emergency contact. Nothing.”
“How long?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
Forty-eight hours of silence.
Forty-eight hours since anyone heard from him.
“All our Moscow contacts have gone dark,” Dima continues. Flat. Factual. “No intel coming through. No whispers. Nothing. It’s a complete blackout.”
I’m not breathing. Can’t breathe.
“So, he’s…” I can’t say it. Can’t even think it.
“We don’t know,” Dima says. “He’s not confirmed dead.”
“But he’s not confirmed alive.”
“No.”
The room spins. I grip the couch cushion. Force air into my lungs.
“There are protocols for this,” Lev says quickly. “When someone goes dark. It doesn’t always mean—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off. “Don’t lie to me. Not now.”
Lev stops. Jaw tight.
I look at Dima. “Tell me the truth. All of it. What are the odds he’s alive?”
Dima doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften it. Just says: “Fifty-fifty. Maybe less.”
The honesty cuts deeper than any lie could.
“Igor’s smart,” Dima continues. “If he knew Anton was coming—if someone tipped him off—he could’ve set a trap. Taken him somewhere Boris can’t track.”
“Or killed him,” I say.
“Or killed him.”
The words hang in the air. Heavy. Final.
I should be crying. Should be screaming. Should be falling apart.
Instead, I’m just… numb.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“We wait,” Lev says. “Boris is working every angle. If Anton’s alive and can make contact, he will.”
“And if he can’t?”
Silence.
“If he can’t,” Dima says slowly, “then he’s either captured or dead. Either way, Boris will find out. Eventually.”
“How long do we wait?”
“As long as it takes.”
I stand. Start pacing. Hand on my stomach. Thinking. Processing.
Anton’s in Moscow. Possibly captured. Possibly dead. Possibly fighting for his life right now while I’m standing here in his penthouse doing absolutely nothing.
“There has to be something we can do,” I say.
“There isn’t,” Dima says. “This is Boris’s job. He’s the best we have. If anyone can find him, it’s Boris.”
“And if Boris can’t?”
Dima’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Then we proceed with contingencies.”
“Contingencies?”
“Plans Anton made. In case something happened to him.”
My blood runs cold. “What kind of plans?”
Dima and Lev exchange a look.
“Tell me,” I demand.
Dima sits. Finally. Across from me. Hands clasped. Voice steady.
“When he knew he was going to Moscow, when he realized he was going to be a father, Anton updated everything. His will. His accounts. His entire estate.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
“Because he’s not stupid. He knows what he does. He knows the risks.” Dima leans forward. “And he wanted to make sure you and the baby were protected. No matter what.”
“Protected how?”
“Financially, you’re set for life. Multiple accounts. Offshore. Untraceable. Enough money that you’d never have to work. Never have to worry.”
My throat closes.
“The penthouse is yours,” Dima continues. “Free and clear. Along with the properties in New York, Miami, and London. All transferred to a trust with you as the sole beneficiary.”
“I don’t want—”
“Let me finish.” His voice is gentle. For Dima. “Lev, Boris, and I are named as guardians. Legal guardians. To you and the baby. If something happens to Anton, we don’t just walk away. We stay. We protect you. We raise that child like it’s ours.”
Tears blur my vision.
“Until we die,” Lev adds quietly. “That’s the deal. We don’t leave. Ever.”
“There’s more,” Dima says. “Security protocols. Safe houses in six countries. New identities, if you need them. Contacts who owe Anton favors—people who will help you disappear if Igor comes after you.”
“He thought of everything,” I whisper.
“He always does.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because he’s coming back.” Dima’s eyes are dark. Serious. “He made these plans because he’s careful. Not because he thinks he’ll need them.”
“But he might.”
“He might.”
I close my eyes. Try to breathe through the pain.
Anton planned for this. Planned for dying. Planned for leaving me and the baby behind.
Not because he wanted to. But because he loved us enough to make sure we’d be okay without him.
“I don’t want his money,” I say. “Or his properties. Or any of it.”
“Da.”
“I just want him to come home.”
“Da.”
Dima stands. Moves to the window. Looks out at the city.
“He’s The Reaper,” he says quietly. “He’s survived worse than this. He’s gotten out of situations that would’ve killed anyone else.”
“But what if this is the one he doesn’t get out of?”
“Then we honor his wishes. We protect you. We raise that baby to know who his father was. What he sacrificed.” Dima turns to look at me. “But until we have confirmation—until Boris tells us otherwise—we assume he’s alive. We assume he’s fighting. We assume he’s coming back.”
“How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you stay so calm?”
“Because falling apart doesn’t help him. Doesn’t help you. Doesn’t change anything.” His voice is steady. Certain. “So, we wait. We hope. And we prepare for both outcomes.”
I nod. Swallow hard. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” I stand. “I’m not falling apart. Not yet. Not until we know for sure.”
Lev looks surprised. “You’re… okay?”
“No. I’m terrified. I’m dying inside.” I press my hand to my belly. “But I have to be strong. For the baby. For Anton. For myself.” I meet Dima’s eyes. “He’s coming back. I know he is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he promised. And Anton keeps his promises.”
The rest of the day passes in a blur.
Jasper shows up at six. Takes one look at my face and knows something’s wrong.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” I’m stirring pasta sauce. Mechanically. “Everything’s fine.”
“Mary—”
“I’m fine, Jas. Really.”
He doesn’t believe me. But he doesn’t push.
We eat dinner. I barely taste it. Make conversation. Laugh at Jasper’s stories about his celebrity fittings.
Pretend everything’s normal.
Pretend I’m not dying inside.
At ten, Jasper leaves. Hugs me extra long.
“Call me if you need anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”
“I will.”
I won’t.
Lev and Dima say goodnight. Lev squeezes my shoulder. Dima nods once.
They know I’m barely holding it together.
But they let me have this. Let me pretend I’m strong.
I shower. Change into Anton’s T-shirt. Climb into bed.
Stare at the ceiling.
And finally—finally—let myself feel it.
The fear. The grief. The absolute terror that he’s not coming back.
The tears come hard. Silent sobs that shake my whole body.
I curl around his pillow. Breathe in his scent.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please come back. I need you. The baby needs you. We need you so much.”
My phone sits on the nightstand. Dark. Silent.
No calls. No texts. Nothing.
Just like the past five days.
“I love you,” I say to the empty room. “Ya lyublyu tebya. Please be alive. Please be fighting. Please—”
My phone buzzes.
I freeze.
Stare at it.
It buzzes again.
Unknown number.
My heart stops.
I grab it. Hands shaking so hard that I almost drop it.
Open the message.
Unknown: Almost home, my love. Wait for me.
I stop breathing.
Read it again.
Again.
Almost home, my love. Wait for me.
It’s him.
It has to be him.
No one else calls me “my love.” No one else would say it like that.
He’s alive.
He’s coming home.
I clutch the phone to my chest. Sob into the pillow.
Relief. Pure, overwhelming, devastating relief.
He’s alive.
And he’s coming home.