Chapter 19
CINDY
Isit in the waiting room of the clinic, hands folded in my lap, trying to look casual while my heart hammers against my ribs. Around me, other women wait for their own appointments—some looking nervous, others resigned.
All pregnant.
Getting here wasn't easy. Grigori thinks I'm picking up prescription medication from the pharmacy in the complex. It’s a lie that bought me maybe an hour before he starts wondering where I am. But I need this. Need the confirmation.
Once I know for certain, I’ll tell Luka.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
"Cindy?" The nurse's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I follow her down a hallway lined with motivational posters about healthy pregnancies and prenatal care. Not long ago, I was a virgin. Now I'm sitting in a paper gown, waiting to confirm that I'm carrying the child of one of the most dangerous men in the city.
The nurse leads me through the routine—weight (up eight pounds), blood pressure (slightly elevated), urine sample (the third one today, thanks to this tiny bladder terrorist). I change into the paper gown that crinkles with every movement, feeling exposed despite the closed door.
"Any bleeding or spotting?" the nurse asks, fingers poised over her tablet.
"No."
"Nausea?"
"Constant until about a week ago."
"Father involved?"
I pause. How do I categorize Luka? Kidnapper-turned-lover? Mob boss? The center of my universe? "Yes. Very involved."
She makes a note, no judgment in her expression. "History of pregnancy in your family? Complications?"
"I... I don't know. My mother died when I was young." The familiar ache blooms in my chest. I'll never know if she had easy pregnancies or if she struggled like I am. Another piece of heritage lost.
"Any chronic conditions? Medications?"
"No to both."
"Alcohol? Smoking? Recreational drugs?"
"Not since I found out." Not that I was much of a drinker before, but the occasional beer with dinner is off the table now.
The questions continue—sexual partners (one), STD history (none), prenatal vitamins (the ones I hide in my tampon box).
Each answer builds a medical portrait of Cindy Russo, the pregnant woman.
Not Cindy, the mob girlfriend. Not Cindy, the kidnapping victim.
Just another woman growing a life inside her.
The doctor is a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and gentle hands. She gives me the official verdict I already knew was coming.
"Congratulations," she says, pulling off her gloves. "You're approximately twelve weeks along. Everything looks healthy and normal."
Twelve weeks. Three months. A quarter of the way through creating an entire human being while navigating kidnapping, surveillance, and whatever game Anna's been playing with my life.
"The baby is healthy?" I ask because I need to hear it again.
"Yep. You're doing everything right." She hands me a small envelope. “I want you to start taking some prenatal vitamins. I’m giving you a few samples. We’ll schedule an ultrasound to happen around twenty weeks."
I take the paperwork with trembling hands. Proof. Evidence. The physical reality of what's growing inside me.
"Thank you," I manage.
"I'd like to see you again in four weeks for your next checkup. The receptionist can schedule that for you on your way out."
I nod and get dressed quickly, my mind already racing ahead to the logistics of follow-up appointments and how to explain extended absences to Luka.
I leave the clinic and peek outside. Grigori isn’t there.
Weird.
Maybe now that I’ve agreed to stay with Luka of my own free will, I’m not going to be so heavily guarded.
I’m only a couple of blocks from my old apartment. I have no idea if it’s even mine anymore. Did Charles keep up on the rent?
Guess I’m about to find out.
I find the spare key I hid in the potted plant at the end of the hallway.
I knock first, just in case someone else has moved in. When no one answers, I slide the key in and push open the door.
My apartment is like a time capsule. Everything exactly as I left it. The landlord should have rented it out by now.
The fact that he hasn't tells me Charles kept up on the rent. I don’t question why that is.
I move through the small space carefully, looking for signs that someone has been here. But the dust patterns look undisturbed, and my personal belongings are exactly where I left them.
I drop the prenatal samples and paperwork on the table, then immediately second-guess myself. What if someone comes here? What if Luka has people watching this place?
Paranoid. I'm becoming paranoid like him.
But paranoid people live longer in this world, so I stuff the evidence into my bag instead.
I move through the apartment methodically, checking window locks, looking for signs of entry, and listening for sounds in the hallway..
Old habits die hard. Clear the space before you settle. Know your exits. Trust nothing.
In my bedroom closet, behind the stack of yellowed concert tees I could never throw away, I find the duffel bag.
Black, nondescript, and bought with cash at a military surplus store.
Inside: two changes of clothes, five hundred dollars in small bills, a prepaid phone, basic toiletries, and a laminated photo of my mother.
The emergency kit of someone who learned young that safety is temporary, that love can turn to abandonment in a heartbeat. I should feel pathetic that I still keep this. Instead, I feel smart.
I add fresh clothes, updating the kit with muscle memory. Underwear, jeans, shirts. My hands shake slightly as I realize I'm packing for two now. How do you prepare an escape bag when you're carrying someone else's whole world inside you?
I add some clothes and a few personal items that somehow survived my abrupt departure from this life.
But as I pack, nausea hits like a freight train.
I barely make it to the bathroom before my stomach empties itself violently, leaving me kneeling on the cold tile floor, shaking and exhausted. Morning sickness, the doctor called it, though it seems to strike at any hour without warning.
When the worst of it passes, I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet and place one hand on my still-flat stomach.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the tiny life growing there. "I know this is all crazy and dangerous and completely insane. But I promise you something—I'll keep you safe. Whatever it takes, whoever I have to fight or run from or lie to, I'll keep you safe."
The words feel like a vow, binding and absolute. Because that's what this is really about, isn't it? Not just my own survival anymore, but the protection of someone who can't protect themselves. Someone who didn't ask to be created in the middle of this violent, complicated world.
I splash cold water on my face and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. For a moment, I see the ghost of who I used to be—the woman who lived here, who worked on cars and minded her own business and never imagined she'd fall in love with her kidnapper.
But then I lift my chin and straighten my spine. This is who I am now. Not a victim and not a pawn.
Turns out, getting kidnapped may have been the best thing to happen to me.
I leave the duffel by the door and look around. Is there anything else I want to take? I don’t see myself ever coming back here. This is my old life.
I pick up the picture of me and my mom and add it to the bag.
A loud knock at the door makes me jump.
I stare at the door. Who knows I’m here? Anna? Drew? Are they tracking me again?
"Open the door, baby."
Luka.
He found me.
And judging by his tone, I’m in trouble.
I guess I am still being guarded.
I could pretend I'm not here and sneak out the fire escape.
And if I know Luka, there will be men out there waiting for me.
Oh shit.
He thinks I ran.
I quickly move to open the door and pull it open.
"How did you find me?" I ask, forcing a smile.
I hope to play it off.
One look at his face tells me everything. The fury radiating off him is like a physical force, making the air in the small apartment feel thick and dangerous. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin. And his eyes—God, his eyes are like chips of ice.
He pushes past me into the apartment, gun drawn and ready. I stumble backward as he moves through the space like a predator hunting prey.
"Who else is here?" His voice is deadly quiet as he checks the bedroom, then the bathroom, weapon trained and ready to fire.
"No one!" I snap, my own anger flaring to life. "What the hell, Luka?"
He emerges from the bathroom, gun still out, and fixes those cold eyes on me. "Empty your bag."
"Excuse me?"
"The bag. Empty it. Now."
I stare at him in disbelief. "Are you serious right now?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
No, he definitely doesn't. He looks like he's two seconds away from putting a bullet in someone. The problem is, I'm starting to think that someone might be me.
"I'm not emptying shit," I say, crossing my arms. "This is my apartment, Luka. Mine. You don't get to storm in here and—"
"Your apartment?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The apartment you're not supposed to be in? The one you lied to get to?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "I didn't lie."
"No? Because Grigori thinks you're at a pharmacy picking up medication. So either you're lying to me now, or you lied to him then."
I lift my chin defiantly. "I did go to the pharmacy."
"Bullshit." He takes a step closer. I can feel the violence coiled in his body like a spring wound too tight. "You want to explain the GPS tracker I found on my car this morning?"
My stomach drops. "What tracker?"
"The one you planted while you had the Mustang."
The accusation hits me like a slap. For a moment, I can't even process what he's saying. Then the fury comes, hot and clean and absolutely devastating.
"You think I planted a tracker on your car?" My voice rises with each word. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"Someone did."
"Well, it wasn't me!" I shove him hard in the chest, but he doesn't even budge. "Dammit, Luka. After everything—after last night, after what we—you really think I would betray you?"
Something flickers in his eyes, but the cold mask doesn't crack. "Prove it."
"Prove it?" I laugh bitterly. "Always the same with you! How exactly am I supposed to prove I didn't do something? Should I take a polygraph? Swear on a stack of Bibles?”
"Are you a spy?" he asks, his voice flat and emotionless.
The question is so ridiculous, I actually laugh. "A spy? A fucking spy? Are you listening to yourself right now?"
"Answer the question."
"No, Luka. I'm not a spy. I'm the mechanic you kidnapped, remember? How many times are we going to have this conversation?" I throw my hands up in exasperation. "You dragged me out of my life, brought me to your compound, and now you're acting like I'm the villain in this story?"
His jaw ticks. "Where were you today?"
"I told you—"
"Don't." He cuts me off with a sharp gesture. "Don't you dare lie to me again. Where the fuck were you, Cindy?"
The demand in his voice makes my spine stiffen. I'm not going to be intimidated. Not by him, not by anyone. "I'm not telling you anything."
"Wrong answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." I step closer to him, matching his energy with my own. "You trusted me last night, Luka. I came back. I could have kept driving and never looked back, but I came back to you. To Leo. That should tell you everything you need to know about my loyalty."
Something shifts in his expression—a crack in that icy composure.
In the back of my mind, I’m begging him to believe me. I want to tell him I’m going to have his baby, and I want him in our child’s life.
But pride has my lips sealed.