Chapter 35 Savannah
SAVANNAH
I wake up to cold concrete against my cheek.
My head throbs. My wrists burn where something—zip ties, I realize when I try to move—cuts into the skin. My ankles are bound too, plastic digging into the swollen flesh above my shoes.
The baby.
My hand tries to move instinctively to my stomach, but the ties are too tight. I can barely shift my arms. But I can feel him moving. Pressing against my ribs.
He’s okay. For now, he’s okay.
I blink against the darkness, trying to orient myself.
The warehouse—because that’s clearly what this is—is massive.
Empty. High ceilings with exposed beams and broken skylights that let in thin streams of afternoon light.
The floor is concrete, stained with oil and rust and things I don’t want to identify.
It smells like metal and decay and abandonment.
My throat is raw. Did I scream in the car? I can’t remember. Everything after they shoved me into the SUV is a blur of panic and Morrison’s hand over my mouth and something sharp jabbing into my arm.
They drugged me.
I’m eight months pregnant, and they drugged me.
My baby moves again, a hard kick that makes me gasp. He’s agitated. Can probably feel my heart racing, the adrenaline flooding my system.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m going to get us out of here.”
But I don’t know how. Don’t know where here even is.
Footsteps echo across the concrete. Heavy boots. Multiple people.
I try to sit up, but my bound ankles and wrists make it impossible. I end up rolling onto my side, which sends a sharp pain through my hip.
“Awake. Good.”
The voice is accented. Russian. A man steps into view, backlit by one of the broken skylights. I can’t see his face clearly, just his silhouette. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing what looks like an expensive suit despite the filthy warehouse.
“Who are you?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“Dmitri Kozlov.” He walks closer, and now I can see his face. Late forties, maybe fifty. Hard features. Cold eyes that look like chips of ice.
“Of course.” My tone comes out bored. “I’m sorry about your brother—”
“Are you?” He tilts his head. “Sorry enough to die for his memory? Sorry enough to let me cut your baby out of you and send him to Volkov in pieces?”
Terror floods through me so completely that for a moment I can’t breathe. I can only feel the baby moving inside me and imagine—
No. I can’t imagine that. Can’t let that thought take root.
“Please.” The word comes out broken. “Please don’t hurt my baby. He hasn’t done anything. He’s innocent.”
“So was Viktor’s son. My nephew. He was twelve when your husband killed his father. Twelve years old when he had to be told his papa wasn’t coming home.” Dmitri stands. “But Ledger didn’t care about that.”
“Ledger will find me. He’ll come for me.”
“Will he?” Dmitri pulls out a phone—my phone, I realize with a jolt. “Let me show you something.”
He holds it up so I can see the screen. Text messages. Sent from my number to Ledger’s.
I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I need space. Don’t look for me.
I left some things at the penthouse. I’ll send for them later. Please don’t contact me.
I know you’re looking for me. Please stop. I made my choice. I need to start over somewhere new. Somewhere safe.
“No.” My voice is barely a whisper. “No, he won’t believe that. He knows I wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what? Leave him? Run away from the dangerous criminal who keeps you locked up like a prisoner?
” Dmitri scrolls through more messages. “We made it very convincing. Your clothes are gone from the penthouse. Toiletries missing, with thousands of dollars withdrawn from your accounts. All the evidence suggests you packed up and left.”
“He won’t believe it. He knows me.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve been married what, a few months? And most of that time, you’ve been trying to escape his control. Meeting your ex-boyfriend behind his back. Lying to his security. Making it very clear you feel trapped.”
“That’s not—” But I can’t finish the sentence because it is true. I did feel trapped. Did lie about meeting Mason. I constantly complained about the security and the restrictions.
And now Ledger might actually believe I ran.
“Right now, your husband is in his penthouse, staring at the evidence we left behind.” Dmitri’s smile is cruel. “He’s breaking, Mrs. Volkov. Wondering if his wife just abandoned him and their child.”
“No. Ledger wouldn’t—” But my voice cracks because I can picture it.
We fought after the restaurant. He called me reckless. Said I couldn’t be trusted. Said I endangered our family. What if he thinks I left because of that fight? Because I was tired of being controlled?
The thought breaks me.
“Please.” I’m crying now, tears running down my face and onto the filthy concrete. “Please don’t do this. I’m begging you. Don’t hurt my baby.”
“Your baby.” Dmitri crouches again. “Do you know what it’s like to lose a brother? To watch your family fall apart from grief?”
“My mother died. I know what loss feels like.”
“Then you understand. You understand that some debts can only be paid in blood.”
“My baby isn’t payment for anything. He’s innocent. Please.” I’m sobbing, the words barely coherent. “Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll tell Ledger to leave you alone. I’ll make him stop coming after you. Just please don’t hurt my baby.”
“Anything?” Dmitri laughs. It’s a cold sound, empty of humor. “You’ll do anything?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“Then watch.” He stands. “Watch as I take everything your husband loves.”
He pulls out his phone. Points it at me.
“No.” I try to turn my face away, but there’s nowhere to go. “Please don’t—”
“Look at the camera, Mrs. Volkov.”
“No.”
He walks closer, crouches down again so the phone is right in my face. “Look at the camera and tell your husband how you’re feeling. Tell him you’re sorry for running away.”
“I didn’t run away. I didn’t—”
“The camera, Mrs. Volkov. Now.”
I can’t help it. My eyes move to the phone.
“Good. Now say hello to Ledger.”
“Ledger—” My voice breaks. “Ledger, I didn’t leave you. I didn’t run. They took me. They—”
“Enough.” Dmitri stands, still filming. He walks around me slowly, capturing all the angles. My bound wrists. My swollen ankles. The way my pregnant stomach strains against the fabric of my dress. “Your husband needs to see what happens to the people he loves.”
He stops filming. Looks at the phone screen, reviewing the footage. Then he smiles. “Perfect. This will break him completely.”
“Please—”
“Begging won’t save you. Crying won’t save you. Your husband couldn’t save you even if he wanted to. Because right now, he thinks you left him.” Dmitri walks toward the door. “And by the time he figures out the truth, it’ll be too late.”
“Wait! Please, wait—”
But he’s gone. The door slams shut with a metallic clang that echoes through the warehouse. I’m alone in the dark.
The thin streams of sunlight from the skylights are fading as evening approaches. Soon it’ll be completely black in here.
I try to steady my breathing, try to think. But all I can think about is Ledger in our penthouse, looking at the empty closet. Reading those fake texts. Believing I left him.
And the baby. My son. Dante. Who’s moving inside me, who has no idea his life is in danger.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to my stomach, to the baby who can’t hear me but who I need to talk to anyway. “I’m so sorry, baby. I should have trusted your father’s instincts. Should have stayed home. Should have never opened the door to those men.”
He shifts inside me, pressing hard against my ribs.
The warehouse grows darker. The temperature drops. My wrists and ankles throb where the zip ties cut into swollen flesh.
And I think about my mother.
Not the sick version from the end. Not the woman wasting away in a hospital bed. But the healthy version from when I was sixteen, when she took me to Spain for the first time.
We went to her hometown, a small village near Barcelona, where she grew up before immigrating to America. She showed me the house where she was raised, the school she attended, and the church where her parents got married.
And then she showed me the café where she met my father.
It was a small place on a cobblestone street, with outdoor tables and red awnings. We sat at one of those tables, drinking coffee, while she told me the story I’d heard a dozen times before but never really understood.
“I was nineteen,” she said, stirring sugar into her espresso. “Working here to save money for university. And one day, this American soldier walked in. Young, handsome, full of confidence. He ordered in terrible Spanish, and I laughed at his pronunciation.”
“And he fell in love with you,” I said, because I knew the next part.
“He said he did. For three months, he came to this café every day. Bought me flowers. Learned Spanish properly so he could tell me how beautiful I was. Promised me the world.” She stared into her coffee cup.
“And I believed him. When he said he’d bring me to America, that we’d get married, that we’d build a life together. I believed every word.”
“But he left.”
“His deployment ended. He went back to California. Promised to send for me as soon as he got settled. I waited. Wrote letters. Called the number he gave me.” She looked up at me.
“The number was disconnected. The letters came back undeliverable. He’d given me a fake name, fake address, fake promises. Everything was a lie.”
I’d heard this story before, but sitting in that café where it all started, it hit different. “Did you ever regret having me?”
“Never.” She reached across the table and took my hand.
“But you were alone.”
“I was lonely sometimes. But I was never alone. I had you.” She squeezed my hand. “And that was enough. That was everything.”
Now, lying on the cold concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse with my baby moving inside me, I understand what she meant.
Dante is everything. This tiny person I haven’t even met yet is worth every sacrifice. Every moment of fear. Every second of pain. And I will fight for him even if Ledger doesn’t come, even if I have to do this alone.
Just like my mother did.
The baby shifts again, and this time it’s different. Harder. Lower. A tightening in my stomach that makes me catch my breath.
No. Not now. It’s too early. I’m only thirty-two weeks. He can’t come now.
But the tightening continues. Not painful exactly, but present. A warning.
Stress. The doctor said stress was bad for the baby. Said it could trigger early labor. And I’ve just been drugged, kidnapped, terrorized, and left in a freezing warehouse.
“Please don’t come yet,” I whisper to my stomach. “Please, baby. Just hold on a little longer. Your father will find us. I know he will.”
The tightening eases. The baby settles, going still.
I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing. Try to stay calm for Dante’s sake.
And I pray. For the first time since my mother died, I actually pray.