Chapter 33 Savannah
SAVANNAH
The nursery is finished.
I stand in the doorway, looking at the room we’ve spent the last two months preparing.
Pale gray walls. White crib in the corner with a mobile hanging above it—little elephants and stars that spin slowly when you wind it up.
A changing table stocked with diapers and wipes.
A rocking chair by the window where I imagine sitting at three in the morning, feeding our son.
Our son.
We found out six weeks ago. Ledger cried when the doctor said, “It’s a boy.” Actually cried. I’d never seen him cry before.
Now there’s a name embroidered on the blanket draped over the crib rail: Dante.
The mobile above the crib spins slowly, elephants and stars rotating while a tinny melody plays. I stand in the nursery doorway, one hand on my stomach where Dante presses against my ribs.
I’m thirty-two weeks pregnant. Eight months. And I haven’t left this penthouse in seventy-three days.
Not since the restaurant. Not since the Kozlovs put a gun to my head. Not since Ledger moved us to Las Vegas.
After the restaurant attack, the New York penthouse wasn’t safe anymore. The security had been compromised. So Ledger brought us here—me, Alexi, Marie, Pedro, everyone. His main base. Where he has real control.
The baby shifts, rolling under my hand. The doctor, who makes house calls now, says he’s healthy, about five pounds, and measuring on schedule. Says labor could start anytime in the next month.
But I can’t picture it. Can’t imagine going through labor when I’m living like a prisoner.
I turn away from the nursery and walk to the living room.
Four guards in the lobby. Two at the elevator. One outside the door. Cameras everywhere. Metal detectors. ID scanners. No one gets to this floor without passing through multiple checkpoints.
I understand why. The Kozlovs tried to kidnap me. They want me dead, want my baby cut out of me as revenge.
But understanding doesn’t make it easier.
I sink onto the couch and check my phone. Nothing new. The friends I had before have stopped reaching out. I never responded anyway. How do you explain that your husband runs a criminal empire and you’re under constant threat?
You don’t. You just disappear.
Silas told me three days after the shooting that Mason survived. Two weeks in ICU, then transferred to a regular room under police protection. He’ll face federal charges for the twenty thousand the Kozlovs paid him.
I didn’t ask for details. I don’t want to know if he can walk, if he’s in pain.
The guilt I carry isn’t about Mason. He made his choices.
It’s about my baby. About putting Dante at risk because I needed to prove I could handle one conversation alone. Every time he kicks, I remember that gun against my temple. Remember how close I came to losing everything.
Marie appears from the kitchen. “Lunch is ready, Mrs. Volkov.”
“Thank you.”
The dining table is set with a single place. Salad with grilled chicken, arugula, and tomatoes. It looks good, but I barely taste anything anymore.
I pick at the food, staring out at the Vegas skyline. Somewhere down there, Dmitri Kozlov is planning his next move.
My phone buzzes. Just an email notification. I check the time—1:47 PM. Ledger said he’d be in meetings until at least three. Something about another Bratva family, solidifying alliances.
The elevator dings.
I freeze. The elevator requires a key card and code. Only Ledger, Alexi, and authorized security have access.
Two men step out wearing dark suits and earpieces like Ledger’s security team. But they have badges clipped to their belts—official-looking FBI shields. One of the regular guards is with them. Isaac, who started six weeks ago. He won’t meet my eyes.
“Mrs. Volkov.” The older man steps forward. Maybe fifty, graying hair, weathered face. “I’m Special Agent Morrison with the FBI. This is Agent Dalton. We need to ask you some questions about your husband’s business activities.”
“I can’t speak to you without my lawyer.”
“We’re not here to arrest you. This is routine questioning.” Morrison pulls out his badge. The FBI shield looks authentic, with raised metal and official seals. His photo ID shows his name, badge number, and expiration date.
Dalton does the same. Younger, early thirties, built like a gym rat. Cold eyes.
“How did you get up here?” My voice shakes. “This floor requires clearance.”
“Federal agents conducting an investigation have legal access. We presented credentials to building security downstairs.” Morrison’s smile is patient. “We’re not here to cause distress. We just need a few minutes of your time.”
“My husband isn’t home.”
“We’re aware. We’re hoping to speak with you first.”
I look at Isaac. “Where’s Pedro?”
“Downstairs. Security breach in the parking garage.” Isaac still won’t look at me. “I’m covering until he returns.”
Wrong. Pedro never leaves this floor during his shift. Never.
“I need to call my husband.”
“Of course. But refusing to cooperate with a federal investigation can be interpreted as obstruction.” Morrison pulls out a notepad. “We’re just asking for twenty minutes to discuss Mr. Volkov’s import business. Some irregularities in shipping manifests.”
I dial Ledger. It rings twice, goes to voicemail. He’s in that meeting.
I try Silas. Same thing.
Panic crawls up my throat.
“Having trouble reaching someone?” Morrison asks.
“My husband’s attorney—”
“Mrs. Volkov, we can do this here, or you can come to our field office on Stewart Avenue for a formal interview. Given your condition—” He gestures at my stomach. “We thought here would be more comfortable.”
I stare at the badges again. They look real. Everything looks real.
But something feels wrong.
“What do you want to know?”
Morrison flips open his notepad. “We’re investigating shipping containers that arrived at the Port of LA over the past six months. Manifests list furniture and art for your husband’s hotels, but intelligence suggests additional undeclared merchandise.”
“I don’t know anything about his shipping operations.”
“You live with him. Attend business dinners. Surely you’ve overheard conversations?”
“I don’t pay attention to business talk.”
“What about Marelli’s Restaurant nearly three months ago? You were present during a gang shooting.”
My mouth goes dry. “I was having lunch.”
“With Mason Porter, who’s been charged with conspiracy to commit kidnapping. He claims he was paid by organized crime to lure you there. That suggests your husband has dangerous enemies.”
“I’m not discussing that without my lawyer.”
“We’re trying to help you, Mrs. Volkov. To understand the threats against you and your child.” Morrison closes his notepad. “The FBI has resources your husband’s private security doesn’t.”
“I don’t need your protection. I need you to leave.”
“That’s not how this works.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded document. “We have a federal warrant for your testimony.”
I take it with trembling hands. Federal court seal at the top. Judge’s signature at the bottom. My name in the middle.
“I’m eight months pregnant. I can’t just leave—”
“We’ll have you back in two to three hours. This is just questioning. You’re not under arrest.” Morrison checks his watch. “But we need to leave soon. The judge is expecting us at the courthouse by three thirty.”
Dalton speaks for the first time, voice flat. “Time is a factor, ma’am.”
I look at Isaac again. “Is Pedro really downstairs?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He’s lying. I can see it in how he holds his body, how his eyes dart away.
“Can I get my purse?”
“Of course. Agent Dalton will accompany you.”
Dalton follows me to the bedroom, staying close. I grab my purse and pull out my phone, typing fast.
FBI agents here. Taking me to the federal courthouse for questioning. Stewart Ave. Something feels wrong. Call me.
I hit send.
“Ready, Mrs. Volkov?” Dalton asks.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Morrison smiles. Something in that smile makes my blood run cold. “Thank you for cooperating.”
We walk to the elevator. The doors open. Morrison gestures for me to enter first.
The three men crowd in with me. The doors close, and we descend.
“Which courthouse?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Federal District Court on Las Vegas Boulevard,” Morrison says smoothly. “About fifteen minutes from here.”
But he said Stewart Avenue before. That’s where he claimed their field office was. The discrepancy is small, but it’s there.
And now I’m trapped in an elevator with three men who might not be who they claim to be.
Twenty-three. Twenty-two. Twenty-one.
My phone vibrates in my purse. Probably Ledger calling back, but I can’t answer now.
Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.
“You’ve suddenly gone pale, Mrs. Volkov. Are you all right?” Morrison’s voice is gentle.
“Just tired. Pregnancy.”
“My wife had three children. I remember those last months being difficult.”
Eight. Seven. Six.
The elevator slows. Through the glass walls, I see the lobby approaching. One guard at the security desk. Not anyone I recognize.
And Pedro is nowhere.
The doors open.
Morrison places his hand on my lower back. “This way. Our vehicle is right outside.”
We cross the lobby. The guard doesn’t look up.
The front doors slide open. Sunlight blinds me after being inside for so long. There’s a black SUV at the curb, windows tinted, engine running.
“Right here,” Morrison says, opening the back door.
I stop. “Where’s your official vehicle? FBI agents don’t drive unmarked SUVs.”
“Budget cuts.” Morrison laughs. “We use whatever’s available.”
Dalton’s hand closes around my upper arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. “Let’s not make this difficult, Mrs. Volkov.”
And in that moment, I know with absolute certainty.
These men are not FBI agents. They’re Kozlov’s men.
“No.” I try to pull free. “No, I’m not getting in that car. You’re not—”
Dalton’s grip tightens. “Get in the car.”
“Let go! Someone help! They’re not—”
Morrison’s hand clamps over my mouth. Between them, they lift me and shove me into the back seat.
The door slams.
The locks click.