53. Chapter 53
53
Bella
T he lavender hits first.
Not in a subtle, spa-day kind of way. No. This is more like an aggressive olfactory slap to the face. The kind of thing that says, “You will relax, even if your ribs are still cracked and your arm’s strapped to your chest like an emotional support limb.”
I lean back into the tub, careful not to jostle the arm strapped across my chest. One good leg stretches out; the other rests on the rim, still a war zone of stitches. Twenty-seven, to be exact. I counted. Twice. Because I had time. Because apparently, being kidnapped, nearly killed, and then force-fed duck breast in front of an entire mafia family resets your entire sense of what counts as a “busy week.”
“You sound weirdly calm for someone who was zip-tied to a car frame, babe.” Elena’s voice floats through my earbuds, the only piece of normal I’ve had all week.
The phone’s perched on a towel nearby, far from any electrocution hazard but close enough that I can pretend she’s sitting right here, gripping a bottle of overpriced mineral water, judging my bath products like a sommelier of sadness.
“Calm is a strong word,” I murmur, blowing a strand of damp hair off my forehead. “Let’s go with ‘selectively disassociating.’ Or maybe it’s the lavender. I’m 90% sure this bath bomb is laced with Xanax.”
“You’d still be the most functioning trauma survivor I know.” Elena exhales. “Jesus, when you didn’t pick up for two days, I thought you were dead. Or worse—converting to barefoot-homesteading-wife TikTok.”
“Both still possible,” I say. “Except the barefoot part. Pretty sure I’ll have a limp for the next decade.”
She goes quiet. That Elena silence—the one that only ever lasts a beat but holds a thousand unsaid things.
“I want to come see you,” she says finally. “I know you keep saying you’re okay, but I hear it. In your voice. You sound like you’re floating just above everything. Like if you stop for two seconds, you’ll crash.”
I stare at the ceiling. White marble. Gold fixtures. The kind of bathroom that belongs in some overpriced hotel suite or a mafia wife’s Pinterest board.
Oh, wait.
My throat tightens. “I had dinner with the kids. Helped Lev and Nikolai with their writing assignments, and Alya fell asleep on my lap while we were drawing. They make it easy to pretend things are fine.”
I pause.
“But I can’t pretend with Julian and Lila. Not about this. They’d freak if they found out.”
She exhales like she’s trying not to argue, but she’s also not agreeing either.
“Still think you can keep it from them?”
“They’re on their class trip, remember? Some eco-immersion program in Monterey with beach cleanups and whale-watching and— God, I hope someone packed Lila’s allergy meds. I lied to them, Elena. I said I slipped on the stairs.”
“Technically not untrue. You just didn’t specify it was the stairs of a moving car.”
I snort. Which hurts. Which I immediately regret.
“Anyway,” I shift in the tub, water sloshing gently around me, “Anya helped me strip down like I’m eighty-seven. But I made her leave before the actual bathing. So I’m half-proud, half-exhausted, and maybe mildly concussed. But clean.”
Elena makes a humming sound. “You always did prefer a solo mission. Even when you had pneumonia in college and refused to let me help you shower.”
“That’s because you tried to wash my hair with body wash.”
“It smelled like mango margarita!”
We laugh. Together. For the first time in what feels like weeks.
But then… silence again. Not her usual dramatic pause. This one’s heavier. And I know exactly what she’s about to ask.
“So,” she says too casually. “Where’s Tall, Brooding, and Russian?”
I blink at the ceiling. “New York.”
“What, just—vanished? After the world’s most awkward family dinner?”
“Said he had to check out a new construction site.”
“In person? With a healing wife and three kids and a literal assassination attempt in the rearview mirror?”
“Elena—”
“I’m just saying,” she huffs. “That’s some top-tier avoidance. Did he even text? Call? Send a raven?”
I hesitate. Because no, he didn’t. Not since he cut my duck breast and told a table full of mafia royalty that he was feeding his wife.
“It’s been eight days,” I say quietly.
Elena lets out a slow breath. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I spend time with the kids. Help Lev and Nikolai with their essays. Alya’s glued to me like a koala. It’s… weirdly sweet. They’ve all grown on me.”
“Of course they have. You’re basically biologically engineered for chaos and small humans.”
“You know what else I just realized?” I shift upright, heart skipping.
“What?”
“I’m late.”
Pause.
“Like, your period?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Maybe it’s stress,” she offers.
“Maybe it’s something else.”
“You mean… Russian-swimmer-sperm-level something else?”
I groan. “Please never say that again.”
“Too late. I’m sending you a care package. It’s going to include five kinds of chocolate, a heating pad, a test, and an exorcism kit.”
I laugh. Again. But this time, I feel it in my ribs and in the place behind them. The part that aches a little too much when I remember he’s been gone.
Eight days. And not a word.
Outside, the sun dips lower beyond the glass doors of my balcony, spilling amber light across the rugs. I rest my head back. And wait.
He’s probably going to kill me.
I know this is all supposed to be hush-hush. Eyes-only. Secret compound with an ocean view and enough silent hallways to film a horror movie. No one’s supposed to know where I am—not even the mailman. Definitely not my best friend with boundary issues and a screenshot addiction.
But I texted Elena the full address. Latitude. Longitude. Gate code. Annotated Google pin.
In my defense, I needed to be sure I’m not pregnant. I’ve always been regular—clockwork, even. And now? Now I’m late, trapped in a luxury fortress with stone bathtubs and mafia ghosts, healing from a crash I barely survived. I miss my life. My siblings. My deadlines. I needed something real to hold on to. Elena is that.
I also told her not to come unless I go radio silent for more than 48 hours or start posting inspirational quotes about loyalty.
So, really, it’s a safety measure. Kind of.
It’s not that I don’t trust the people here.
Okay. No, that’s exactly it.
But I also kind of do. In a weird, mafia Stockholm Syndrome sort of way. Which is probably a red flag. But the point is—Elena’s the only one who knows the real me. The before-all-this me. If I don’t keep some thread of that girl alive, I’m gonna wake up one day with a diamond gun holster and my own seat at the family table and think that’s normal.
It’s not.
None of this is.
Twenty minutes later, I leave my room. I promised Alya we’d paint together before dinner, and I meant it. Instead of taking the main stairs, I veer right—toward the kids’ wing. The hallway on that side is longer, a little quieter. More art on the walls. Soft rugs.
I walk slowly, crutches thudding lightly beneath me. I’m in leggings and a long, oversized T-shirt from the stack of clothes I packed from my own closet when I came over—the softest thing I own that doesn’t scream “tragic hostage.” My hair’s still damp and dripping down my back in little curls. I smell like jasmine shampoo and a little bit of paranoia.
I turn a corner near the far bedrooms. That’s when I hear it.
Voices.
Soft. Low. Muffled through a half-open door I’ve never really noticed before. Yelena’s room? Her study?
“—bloodwork came back this morning,” Dr. Katya says.
Yelena answers after a pause. Her voice is clipped, low. “I want it confirmed.”
“She’s pregnant. There’s no doubt. We caught it early because of the trauma panel we ran after the wreck. I didn’t think she even knew yet.”
Silence.
Then: “No one can know,” Yelena says coldly. “Not yet. Especially not Konstantin.”
The silence is a different kind now. Like the floor just dropped.
“What are you going to do?” Dr. Katya asks cautiously.
A pause. Then Yelena’s voice drops to a razor whisper.
“If word gets out, everything we’ve built will be questioned. She’s not ready. He can’t know. Not yet.”
Another beat.
Dr. Katya says quietly, “Yelena—she’s the one who—”
Yelena interrupts, voice icy and controlled. “No one else needs to know yet. Not her. Not Konstantin. Not anyone.”
A pause. Then softer, almost to herself: “She may not even realize yet.”
My breath catches.
She? Who is—
Pregnant?
Am I—?
Pregnant.
Preg. Nant.
The hallway tilts. I swear the cashmere rug beneath me actually gasps.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.