Chapter 30
CLARA
Aman in a dark suit, tattoos visible at the cuffs, waits outside a dark SUV with black tinted windows when I come out of the Smirnov building. I don’t have to ask who’s inside.
I get a polite nod of greeting from the tall, suited man before he opens the door and I slip inside.
Dmitri looks like he just stepped out of GQ, every seam perfect, long overcoat over his dark suit, smelling, as usual, incredible.
He waits until I’m settled in the car to reach over and cup my cheek before placing a gentle kiss on my forehead.
“You look tired.”
“Gee, thanks. That's exactly what I was going for.”
His deep chuckle fills the car as the driver climbs into the front seat.
“It was merely an observation of concern,” Dmitri replies, then pulls me close and kisses my forehead again. “You are always beautiful.”
“To you,” I mutter. The subtle changes in my body, the exhaustion, the lingering nausea, all combine to make me feel like an absolute mess.
“No.” Dmitri’s fingers take my chin and turn my head so that I have to look at him. He makes sure he has my full attention before he speaks again. “You are beautiful, Clara. That is the end of the sentence. I won't hear you put yourself down anymore.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re going to be eating that statement by the end of these nine months.”
Dmitri chuckles, turning forward as the SUV eases into traffic, his hand lingering on my knee.
“You didn’t come home last night.”
“I did. You were already asleep.”
“You weren’t there when I got up.”
“I slept in the guest room so I wouldn’t wake you and left again before the sun was up. I do have an empire to run.”
It sounds evasive. It feels evasive. But it’s also entirely plausible.
“Where are we going?” I ask, instead of demanding clarification.
I have a feeling Dmitri will not tell me anyway.
And besides, maybe I don't want to know. I’m not sure where my boundaries are with him, yet when it comes to his chosen profession outside the corporation.
I feel like I'm leaning more toward a lawyer's perspective: If you don't know about it, you can't be held responsible, although that feels like wishful thinking on my part.
“Someplace a little birdie told me you like.”
The place is a restaurant called The Conservatory, a century-old botanical garden cut deep within a sprawling city park.
Since I moved here, it's been my refuge and my sanctuary.
It's a place filled with humid air, the scent of damp earth, and glass panels that display a light show of the New York City skyline to full effect.
We sit at a table against one of the large windows that overlooks the garden. Above us, plants thrive, as if it were the middle of summer.
“I thought I knew every place in the city, but I guess I was wrong.” Dmitri's gaze roams the conservatory and dining room, an appreciative expression on his face.
“Em and I used to come here once a month for their mimosa bar.
We couldn't really afford it, but it always got us out of the funk of studying and work.” My gaze follows his, taking in the place that probably hasn't changed in a century.
So many good memories here—some of them hazy from the mimosas, but all filled with laughter, a few tears, and an unbreakable bond of sisterhood.
“How did you find it?” Dmitri peers at me from across the table, his interest sharp.
“I was walking in this park one day. I wanted some greenery; I guess it reminded me of home. I didn't grow up in a big city.”
“Where did you grow up?”
My answer comes with a sly smirk. “I'm pretty sure you know that already.”
Dmitri chuckles. “Indulge me.”
“Well, I'm from a small town in New England, not far from Boston, but far enough that we had a lot of woodland and space.”
“And your parents?”
“My dad was—still is—a high school math teacher. My mom was a CPA. We have no idea where she is or what she’s doing now.”
“Your mother left when you were a child.” It sounds odd to be hearing my history coming from his mouth.
“Yeah, my mom left when I was nine. Left and didn't look back. The only reason I know she's still alive is that she sends cards every once in a while, but I never respond. She pretty much destroyed my dad, but he did the best he could.”
“It must have destroyed you, too.”
Dmitri’s observation is correct in a way that makes my throat feel tight, and I have to take a drink of water before I can continue.
“We were fine. One of us had to hold it together. He eventually woke up and remembered how to be a parent.”
“You're a fighter, a survivor.” There's a gleam of appreciation in Dmitri's eyes that makes me shift with discomfort.
“Are you a psychoanalyst, as well?” It's supposed to be a joke, but it comes off as defensive.
Dmitri doesn't seem to be offended, however. Instead, he reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I am merely trying to get to know the woman who is carrying my child—our child. A strong mother is something every kid needs.”
I flush at the compliment and look anywhere but at him. “I always wanted kids, just not as a surprise like this. Not exactly under these circumstances either. But I want to be a better mother than my mom was. I want them to know I will never abandon them and exactly how much I love them.”
“You're going to be a wonderful mother.” Dmitri says with a sincere smile on his face.
I just hope he's right. My choices thus far aren't a stellar endorsement of my future parental abilities.
We linger after dinner, learning more about each other.
The warmth of the conservatory envelopes us, making me feel like I’m glowing and warm inside.
And though I am loath to leave the cocoon of softness when we’ve finished, the inner warmth makes it more tolerable when we go back out into the cold, especially when Dmitri takes my hand to take a slow walk around the park.
Generally speaking, I would never be out here this late. And if I had to be, I certainly wouldn't be walking at such a leisurely pace. I would be walking as fast as possible, my keys out as a makeshift weapon, pepper spray easily accessible in my bag.
I know I don't have to worry about my safety when I’m with Dmitri.
Not only is one of his men trailing us at a discreet distance, but I can’t imagine the average criminal out looking for trouble is going to want to try to tangle with this giant man who exudes danger, lethal danger, if you look close enough.
Being with Dmitri is the safest I've ever felt when out at night.
I start to wonder what’s wrong with me that I find all of this exceptionally romantic.
We walk in companionable silence for a time before Dmitri slips his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him.
We stop and he rests his head on mine as we stare at the bright city before us, lit up even more so for the holidays.
I hear the slow rhythm of his heart, a steady, reassuring beat against my cheek.
One of his hands settles low on my back as he pulls me even closer, his warmth a stark contrast to the crisp winter air.
The tenderness of the moment overwhelms me in a rush, and tears sting my eyes.
Damn pregnancy hormones. I'm not usually this sentimental or romantic, and I squeeze my eyes shut before any of them can escape.
We stay like that until I start to shiver. With another of his deep chuckles, Dmitri guides me back to where the car waits. We're nearly there when he stops short, putting his arm across me.
“What’s—” I start to ask, but then I see it, there’s someone by the car.
“Stay here,” Dmitri says. He starts toward the car without looking back, expecting me to obey his command. I look around for the driver, knowing he can’t be that far behind, and wondering where he is.
I can't hear the conversation as Dmitri walks up to the unknown man, and despite his instruction, I creep closer, which allows me to see the bike leaning against the SUV and the red-and-yellow uniform the messenger is wearing.
There is some back-and-forth between Dmitri and the messenger before the messenger holds out a tablet for a signature. By this time, I'm nearly at Dmitri's shoulder. He gives me a withering look, probably annoyed that I didn't stay where I was.
Dmitri signs his name, and the messenger turns, preparing to take a box out of his bag.
But before the messenger can get the box fully out, Dmitri stiffens as if struck by a bolt of lightning.
He yanks the box out of the young man’s hands and heaves it away with all of his might.
His massive arm then hooks around my waist, and suddenly, we're running, landing behind a concrete pillar attached to a low wall, where he pushes me down.
I haven’t caught my breath before Dmitri descends on me, his bulk covering my entire body, just as the explosion hits.
The world turns white, hot, and deafening. Air is knocked out of my lungs by an agonizing pressure wave that seems to crush my eardrums and rattle my teeth. The smell of burnt sulfur, dust, and something coppery descends around us.
Debris pelts the few parts of me that Dmitri doesn't cover, a stinging across my cheek as Dmitri curls against me, his weight crushing yet protective, as shrapnel pings against his back.
And then silence. A terrible, ringing silence.
Dmitri moves, quick, brutal, practiced. He rolls off me, his gun already drawn. He scans the horizon, his eyes narrowed, his breathing ragged, blood trickling from several places.
I get to my feet after him, still not entirely clear about what just happened, what Dmitri knew that I didn’t.
I peer over the wall to see that everything within a small radius has been destroyed.
The trees around us are black, a cloud of thick, acrid smoke and tiny particles of dust hang in the air.
The statue that stood beside the street is shattered; all that remains is jagged rubble. The SUV's side looks like a tornado hit it, and the messenger's bike is nothing but a twisted scrap of metal.
“The messenger.”
“Don’t look.”
He turns my head quickly into his chest, but it’s too late. The flash of carnage I saw in that one second was enough to be burned into my memory for all time. The courier didn’t just die; he exploded.
Everywhere.
The nausea hits immediately, and I shove myself away from Dmitri just in time to throw up until my stomach is empty and all I can do is heave bile.
I hear screams, shouting, and sirens. Dmitri's man runs toward us, shouting in Russian.
Dmitri answers back roughly, his voice hoarse, tight, furious.
He waits until I'm done heaving to hand me a tissue, then pulls me to my feet.
I lean heavily against him, feeling the violent rhythm of his heart against my temple.
Fear floods through me, a sudden cold rush that leaves me shaking so hard, my teeth begin to chatter.
“This wasn't an escalation. This was a declaration of war.”
Dmitri’s words are a definitive statement.
And my baby and I are right in the middle of it.