Chapter 23 - Gaby
New York smelled different than I remembered.
Or maybe I was different. Maybe the woman who stepped off Vasily's private jet at Teterboro wasn't the same woman who'd been dragged from her apartment in the middle of the night all those weeks ago.
The city was the same—the same gray skies, the same honking taxis, the same press of humanity on every street corner. But I saw it through new eyes now.
Eyes that had witnessed violence. That had stared down death and survived.
Eyes that had learned what it meant to be loved.
"You're quiet," Vasily said as the car carried us through the Lincoln Tunnel toward Manhattan.
"Just thinking." I watched the tiled walls flash past, the fluorescent lights strobing through the tinted windows. "It feels strange. Being back."
"Strange how?"
"Like visiting somewhere I used to live a long time ago. Like it belongs to someone else now." I turned to look at him. "Does that make sense?"
"Yes." He took my hand, threading his fingers through mine. "You've changed. The city hasn't. It's disorienting."
"Have I changed? Or have I just become who I was supposed to be?"
He considered the question with the seriousness I'd come to expect from him. "Both, perhaps. You've shed the parts that didn't fit. Grown into the parts that were always there but hidden."
"That's very philosophical for a crime lord."
"I have depths."
I laughed despite the nerves coiling in my stomach. He always knew how to make me laugh—this man who'd terrified me, infuriated me, and ultimately captured my heart.
The car emerged from the tunnel into the gray light of Manhattan.
Skyscrapers loomed overhead, familiar and foreign at the same time.
We passed through streets I'd walked a thousand times—past coffee shops where I'd grabbed lattes, past subway stations I'd descended into every morning, past the building where I'd worked and struggled and never felt like enough.
None of it touched me anymore. It was scenery. Background. The setting of a story that had ended.
"The penthouse is ready," Vasily said. "Semyon's had it secured. We can rest there before you—"
"No." I squeezed his hand. "I want to see Lisa first. Before I lose my nerve."
He studied my face, reading something in my expression. "Are you sure?"
"No. But I need to do it anyway."
***
The Thai restaurant was exactly as I remembered.
Same red vinyl booths, same slightly sticky menus, same smell of lemongrass and chili oil. Lisa and I had eaten here at least once a week for years—celebrating promotions, mourning breakups, dissecting the endless drama of our lives over pad Thai and cheap wine.
I stood outside the door for a full minute before I could make myself go in.
She was already there, seated in our usual booth, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She was staring at her phone, her jaw tight, her knee bouncing under the table. Nervous. Angry. Both.
The bell chimed as I pushed through the door, and her head snapped up.
For a moment, neither of us moved. We just stared at each other across the restaurant—the best friend I'd left behind and the woman I'd become.
Then she was out of the booth and crossing the floor, and I was meeting her halfway, and we collided in a hug so fierce it drove the breath from my lungs.
"You're here," she said into my hair. "You're actually here. I thought—when you called, I thought maybe—"
"I'm here." I held her tighter, feeling her shoulders shake. "I'm really here, Lisa."
We stood like that for a long moment, two women crying in the middle of a Thai restaurant while the other diners pretended not to notice. When we finally pulled apart, her mascara was smudged, and my cheeks were wet.
"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "We're going to need wine for this conversation."
The waiter brought a bottle without being asked—he'd seen us enough times to know our usual order. Lisa poured two glasses, then looked at mine and stopped.
"Wait. You said on the phone—you're pregnant?"
"I am." I touched my stomach, the small swell now visible under my loose sweater. "About fifteen weeks now."
"So no wine for you." She pulled my glass toward herself and took a long drink from her own. "Great. I'll just have to get drunk enough for both of us."
"Lisa—"
"No, hang on. Let me just—" She set down her glass and pressed her palms flat on the table, visibly gathering herself. "I need you to start from the beginning. And I need you to tell me everything. Not the sanitized version you gave me on the phone. Everything."
I'd known this was coming. Had rehearsed what I'd say, how much I could reveal without putting her in danger. But sitting across from her now, seeing the hurt and confusion in her eyes, the carefully prepared explanations felt hollow.
"I can't tell you everything," I said quietly. "Some of it—Lisa, some of it would put you at risk. And I won't do that."
"Put me at risk? What does that even mean?"
"It means the man I married lives in a dangerous world. A world with enemies, violence, consequences for knowing too much." I reached across the table and took her hand. "I love you. You're my best friend. And because I love you, there are things I can't share."
She stared at me, something shifting in her expression. "Jesus, Gaby. What did you get yourself into?"
"Something I never expected. Something that started as—" I stopped, choosing my words carefully. "I didn't choose it. At first. The circumstances that brought us together were... not what I would have wanted."
"That's deliberately vague."
"I know. I'm sorry."
Lisa was quiet for a moment, her fingers tightening around mine. "He hurt you. This husband. Whoever he is. He did something to you."
"He took me from my life." The admission came out steady, calm. "Against my will. And then things became... complicated."
"Complicated." She said the word flatly. "You were kidnapped. Is that what you're telling me? You were fucking kidnapped, and now you're married to the guy who took you?"
"Yes."
The silence stretched between us. Lisa pulled her hand back, reaching for her wine, draining half the glass in one swallow.
"I should call the police," she said. "I should—God, Gaby. Stockholm syndrome. That's what this is. You've been brainwashed, traumatized—"
"I haven't been brainwashed." I kept my voice even, though my heart was racing.
"I know how it sounds. I know it seems insane.
But what I feel for him—what we have—it's real, Lisa.
He's not what you'd expect. He's done terrible things, yes.
But he's also kind, and protective, and he loves me in a way no one ever has. "
"He kidnapped you."
"Yes."
"And you love him."
"Yes."
She stared at me like she was seeing a stranger. Maybe she was. The Gaby she'd known—the anxious, insecure woman who'd let her father diminish her, who'd crumbled under Mr. Brown's criticism, who'd never believed she deserved more than crumbs—that woman wouldn't have been capable of this.
But I wasn't her anymore.
"I need another drink," Lisa said, and poured herself more wine.
We talked for two hours.
I told her what I could—the broad strokes of my captivity, the island, the marriage.
I told her about the danger that had brought us together, though I left out names and specifics that could be traced.
I told her about the attack, about being taken, about Vasily tearing through an army to bring me home.
Through it all, Lisa listened. Her expressions cycled through shock, horror, disbelief, and something that might have been grudging fascination. She asked questions I couldn't always answer, pushed against the walls I'd erected around the most dangerous truths.
But she didn't leave. Didn't call the police. Didn't storm out in righteous fury.
She stayed, and she listened, and slowly—so slowly—I saw understanding begin to dawn.
"You're happy," she said finally, her voice wondering. "That's what I keep coming back to. You're actually happy."
"I am."
"Happier than you ever were before."
"Yes." I smiled despite myself. "Is that so hard to believe?"
"Kind of, yeah." She shook her head, a disbelieving laugh escaping her. "You were always so anxious. So worried about what everyone thought, whether you were good enough, whether you were doing everything wrong. And now you're sitting here telling me you married a—a what? A mobster? A crime lord?"
"Something like that."
"And you're pregnant with his baby."
"Yes."
"And you're happy."
"Deliriously."
Lisa sat back in the booth, studying me with new eyes. "You've changed. I mean, I knew that from the phone call, but seeing you in person—you're different. Calmer. More... solid, somehow."
"He sees me," I said simply. "Not the version of me I was trying to be for everyone else. The real me. And he loves what he sees."
"Even the messy parts?"
"Especially those." I thought of Vasily—of the way he'd held me through nightmares, the way he'd watched me cry and never flinched. "He's seen me at my worst. At my most terrified, my most broken. And he never looked away."
Lisa was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and took my hand again.
"I don't understand this," she said. "I'm not sure I ever will. But you're my best friend, Gaby. You have been since the sophomore year. If you tell me this is real—if you tell me you're safe and happy and choosing this—then I believe you."
The tears came again, sliding down my cheeks. "Really?"
"Really." She squeezed my hand. "But I want to meet him. This mysterious husband. I want to look him in the eye and make sure he knows that if he ever hurts you, I'll find a way to destroy him."
I laughed through my tears. "He'd probably respect that."
"Good. Then we understand each other."
***
Vasily was waiting outside when we emerged from the restaurant.