Chapter 34
Ashia
The Next Day
‘Rise Above It’ – I Prevail
Well, they say there’s a first time for everything.
I’ve seen it happen in movies, but never in real life.
Mafia films, especially, always have that creepy scene when the side character comes home from work, only to turn the light on and find someone sitting in an armchair with a mischievous look on their face.
Most of the time, it’s the villain, but sometimes it’s the main protagonist that visits someone’s right-hand-man or something.
That’s me right now. I’m the one waiting.
The only difference is that I’m sitting on a couch, and a terrifying, yet sweet, German Shepherd is on the floor waiting next to me.
There are two properties in West Virginia listed under Hugo’s name.
One is an old storage building, and the other is this cute little house I’m sitting in.
It’s nothing flashy or expensive like I was expecting, and thankfully, it’s nothing like Marco’s disgusting trash-heap.
Maybe that’s why he was harder to find. That, and I definitely did not expect him to have a storage facility instead of a warehouse, but we should’ve known better.
We’re just so accustomed to their routines that we figured he’d stick to it.
Well, we’ve got you now, asshole.
The guys have been rotating shifts and watching him for over a week now.
His inventory is sitting inside that storage complex, but that’s not our concern.
Once Popov is handled, we can always come back to retrieve it or just call it in, but he’s what I need right now.
He doesn’t know it yet, but he will be giving me answers.
I’m prepared to do whatever it takes, and he hasn’t met someone as desperate as me before.
He'll never expect us to be waiting here—especially since the rest of us arrived only about an hour ago, and we watched from a very far distance. We had to be sure that he couldn’t escape this time.
There’s absolutely no evidence of us even being in the state, and if he’s here, he’ll have his guard down—just like we want.
He’ll think everything is normal until he steps inside, and Zeke, Alex, Chris, and Ezra ambush him.
From our surveillance, it looks like he only uses this house to shower, eat, and sleep—which is perfect for us.
When we’ve watched him here, he was alone every time.
It’s almost like this place is a little cave that he retreats to when he needs peace, and I’m happy to take his safe space away.
There’s not a worse feeling out there than having your sense of security stolen.
They took mine from me. So, it only seems fair that I return the sentiment.
Twenty. Five. Days.
I’ve gone almost an entire month without seeing, feeling, or hearing my husband.
It’s the worst pain that I’ve ever felt.
Every move I make feels like a betrayal.
I feel like an imposter sitting on this couch.
While every step I take is solely to get him back, it feels like I’m chipping away at pieces of him.
Each command I give doesn’t have the same authority, and I get this scratch in my throat—like even my body knows I shouldn’t be giving it.
It all feels like a lie, and I know that nothing will feel right again until he’s standing beside me.
The worst part of it all is that I can’t allow myself to feel it.
Not the sadness, the despair, the aches and pains, and certainly not the exhaustion.
I’m so damn tired. As much as I would love to snuggle in our bed and relax, I just can’t.
It feels wrong without him, and I can’t give up.
Serena tells me that I should take a break, and that Zeke and the guys can handle things for a while, but I just can’t convince myself that it’s okay.
It doesn’t feel okay. Nothing is alright, and I don’t know how to settle the uneasiness.
It’s hard to stay calm while chasing a bunch of mad men, running an organization, and growing a baby.
It's like trying to balance three buildings, and they’re all on fire.
Because of the stress, my blood pressure hasn’t really gone down, and I’m still not gaining weight.
I feel like I’m eating as often as I breathe, I’m taking frequent walks, and I haven’t done any strenuous activity—not that Zeke, Carter, or Alex would let me, even if I tried.
The baby is still moving regularly, and I’ve even started to talk to them when I’m alone.
I’m trying to look on the bright side and enjoy the little moments like Ser suggested, but I can’t help but worry.
It hurts to feel like you’re on a constant time clock.
At first, it was just making it to thirteen weeks.
For a little over a month, I spent every day hoping and praying to just stay pregnant another day, but I expected the worst. Now, I’m holding onto their movements like an anchor.
I can’t help but make another goal for five weeks from now, when the baby hits viability.
Once again, my physique is failing me. and I just want my husband.
He would fix everything somehow—even if it was just by giving me a hug.
I need Damien. I’m falling apart without him, but I can’t let it show.
If I break, then so will everything else around me.
I just want to scream, cry, and destroy anything in my direct vicinity.
The urge to let it all out is a constant ghost that follows me, but I can’t.
I have to stay calm, because if my blood pressure stays elevated, then that will cause more issues.
So, instead of lashing out like I want, I keep my thoughts and urges to myself.
I don’t even cry in front of the guys anymore.
The best cry I’ve had in days was when I talked to Richard.
After John was shot and Kade found that crime scene, it really opened my eyes.
There’s no room for weakness right now. My focus needs to remain on only two things.
Getting Damien back.
And protecting my baby.
God, I’m so tired…
Daisy nudges her head into my thigh before resting on top of my leg, and I pet her to calm myself down.
I smile down at her, but then the dread I’ve started to feel washes over me, and I don’t know what I’m going to do once Darnell needs to take her back.
I can’t even think of it. He wouldn’t take her before we get Damien back, would he?
I mean, of course he could, if he needed to—she’s his dog.
I just… The thought alone of having to walk through life without Damien, and not having Daisy, is too much to even try to digest. Daisy nudges her head a little more, and I scratch under her chin like she loves me to do.
A car door shutting outside alerts me to Popov’s presence, and I pull the metaphorical mask back on.
This should go pretty easy. Well, for me anyway, because the men are doing all of the hard work.
Zeke stands directly beside the door, in the shadows.
A part of me was worried that his position wouldn’t work, but then he mimicked it at the Attic and scared the ever-living shit out of me as I walked into the conference room. So, I changed my mind. Asshole.
Alex is hiding in the opposite corner, away from the windows.
He’s close enough that once Zeke initiates the contact, he can quickly and easily step in.
Chris and Ezra are hiding behind the couch I’m sitting on, waiting to jump out like a jack-in-the-box, and Carter’s here, but he’s parked about a quarter of a mile away in his mom’s van.
Dumb, I know, but it was the least inconspicuous thing we could think of.
If we rolled up in the HEMTs or one of the all-black muscle cars, it would look suspicious.
We could’ve taken the equinox, but Zeke insisted that taking something with my name past state lines wasn’t a good idea.
Mrs. Leighton’s powder-blue, soccer-mom van doesn’t call for questions, and it would take some serious digging to find out how it was connected to us.
The lock turns in the door, and before I can even see Popov’s full body, Zeke and Alex jump into action.
I can’t really tell what’s going on, but as Ezra and Chris practically leap out from behind the couch, Alex slams the door shut and plummets the room into complete darkness again.
The tumbling and kicking in my belly almost makes me laugh, because now all I can envision is one of the dust clouds from Looney Tunes in front of me.
Grunts, groans, and ‘fuck you’s come from the tumbleweed, and I don’t miss the harsher whoosh in my belly—like they’re enjoying it.
Yeah, you’re definitely your father’s child, I think to myself.
Within a matter of a minute, I hear a chair scraping and shouts in Russian.
Once Zeke cuts the lights on, I have to blink a little to focus, but Popov quickly comes into view.
In that small time, they managed to restrain him to one of the dining chairs with tape, rope, and cuffs.
It seems a little extreme, but there’s no way he’s escaping this time, and that’s exactly what we set out to accomplish.
Popov looks as dastardly as ever. He’s still big, bald, and burly, which is not a good look for him.
He’s not as pale as he looked at the Dust party, but that’s probably because of the flush to his face after the fight.
There’s even a vein sticking out on the top of his head, and I’m not sure I’ve seen something so grotesque.
That’s saying something, considering my profession for the last seven years has been cutting hair and touching heads.
Popov starts spouting off more Russian lingo, and I grow impatient, because it’s useless. I don’t care what he has to say unless it has to do with Damien and we can understand it.