Chapter 30
Alyona
The sedan eases to the curb in front of the clinic, its engine humming softly as if reluctant to disturb the quiet of the street.
I sit there for a moment longer than necessary, fingers resting against my lower stomach, feeling the faint, steady flutter of anticipation that has followed me all morning.
Twelve weeks.
Today we’re supposed to find out if it’s a boy or a girl.
The thought sends a warm rush through my chest, a ridiculous, buoyant excitement that makes everything else feel distant and small.
For a second, I consider calling Kaz again, even though I know he’s already in that meeting in Connecticut.
He’s probably seated at the head of some glossy conference table while men in suits pretend they aren’t terrified of him.
He sounded apologetic at dawn, voice thick with sleep and frustration.
“If I could be there, I would be.”
I told him I understood, that it was just an appointment and not the end of the world, but part of me still hoped the roar of a helicopter would suddenly blot out the sky and he’d step out, determined to make it in time.
He would have, if it were possible.
Knowing that doesn’t stop the disappointment from lingering.
Devin pops her door open and leans back to look at me. “You coming, Mama, or are you planning to use your mafia cred to have the staff come out to the car?”
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, but a brief smile skirts across my lips. “Do you think…?” My fingertips graze the phone in my pocket. For some reason, the last week or so, I’ve been thinking of Liev.
I haven’t seen him, but Kaz insists everything on the business end of things is going normally. It is strange that my father hasn’t flipped any tables or outright attacked his best-friend-turned-enemy in meetings.
Still, I’m surprised by the sudden feeling of want that aches in my chest. Not wanting my mom, which throws me off. In the back of my mind, I know she’d be livid and mortified at this whole situation.
No. A small part of me wants Liev to check in, be an over-excited grandparent, choose a ridiculous nickname like “G-pop” or “Chief” instead of the classic “deda” in Russian.
Knowing that I’m going to have a child is throwing me off balance.
I suddenly find myself wanting a family, wanting a little village gathered around me.
“Nevermind,” I murmur, ignoring the concerned look Devin gives me and sliding out of the car.
Rain falls in a steady drizzle that darkens the sidewalk and turns the air cool against my skin.
It isn’t a storm, just one of those persistent Savannah showers that soak through your clothes before you realize what’s happening.
Devin flips up her hood and hands me the umbrella from the back seat, nudging me forward with her shoulder.
“You nervous?” Devin asks as we hurry toward the door, sharing the umbrella.
“A little,” I admit. “Mostly excited. I keep thinking about names and then panicking because what if the name doesn’t fit the baby’s face? Or what if Kazimir wants to go, like, full Bratva with a classic Russian name?”
She snorts. “You’re spiraling already. Kaz is doomed. He’s going to come home to you with seventeen spreadsheets.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
I laugh, the sound light and easy, and for a moment everything feels normal. Ordinary. Just two women ducking into an early appointment before work. No bodyguards, no Bratva politics, no billion-dollar tech empire looming over us.
Just me, my best friend, and a baby on the way.
We’re a few steps from the door when something shifts behind us. There is a disturbance in the quiet that makes the fine hairs along my arms stand up. I start to turn, expecting maybe a passerby or someone from the nearby bakery stepping out for air, and the next second the world seems to tilt.
There’s a heavy, sickening crack, like a bat hitting wet clay.
Devin’s hand slips from mine.
I blink, confused, and she isn’t upright anymore.
She’s on the ground.
Her hood is twisted under her head, her body limp in a way that makes my brain stall out before the panic can even form.
“Devin?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
A man looms over her, broad and faceless in a dark hoodie, something metallic clutched in his hand. Before I can process what I’m seeing, he bends, hooks his arms under hers, and starts dragging her backward toward the narrow alley beside the building as if she weighs nothing at all.
Her shoes scrape across the pavement, leaving faint streaks of water behind.
“Hey! Stop! What are you doing?” I stumble after them, heart slamming so hard it makes me dizzy. “Let her go!”
He doesn’t answer or even look at me, just keeps hauling her away like she’s a bag of trash.
I take another step and collide with someone.
The impact is solid, unyielding, a chest that doesn’t budge when I hit it. I stumble back in surprise, losing my balance and landing flat on my ass.
The man standing over me is surprisingly lithe and lean.
He looks almost out of place here, like he wandered in from a completely different life.
Light clothes, sleeves rolled neatly, hair ruffled.
He has on dark sunglasses, and the kind of face that belongs in an advertisement rather than an alleyway kidnapping.
He’s handsome in a polished, effortless way.
Which makes the situation feel even more wrong.
He smiles down at me, the expression warm and pleasant, as if we’ve just bumped into each other.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “It’s slippery.”
My pulse roars in my ears as I try to shift out of the puddle I’ve fallen half-into. “Let her go. Please. She didn’t do anything.”
Is this some Bratva thing? Did Kazimir, or whoever supervises Devin, ask her to do something that could have gotten her into trouble?
“Relax,” he replies, still smiling, still gentle, like he’s calming a child. “We’re not here for her.”
The words sink in slowly, cold and heavy.
Not here for her.
He reaches out, and the twinge in my ankles tells me I have no other choice, though I still search for an out.
Rain thickens in the air, turning the street into a blur of gray and glassy reflections.
The man studies me with a kind of patient interest that makes my skin crawl, as if I’m no longer a person to him, but a problem he’s already solved.
He extends his hand, palm up, the gesture almost courtly.
“Come on,” he says gently, like we’re late for dinner. “Let’s not make this difficult.”
My body betrays me.
I place my hand in his automatically, the way you do when someone offers help as you are stepping off a curb. It feels like some ingrained reflex of politeness overriding sense. The second our fingers touch, his grip tightens.
Not enough to hurt, but enough to control. Despite his lean physique, he’s all iron under the flowy shirt and sunglasses.
His hand is warm and dry despite the rain; his hold precise, thumb pressing into the tendons of my wrist in a way that tells me he knows exactly how much pressure to use. My fingers tremble uncontrollably, and he notices.
Up close, the casualness reads like a costume. The leisurely clothes. The easy smile. The clean sneakers.
Everything chosen to look harmless.
I swallow and instinctively bring my free hand to my stomach, brushing over the small curve there as if I can shield the baby with my palm alone.
His eyes drop immediately.
That same flicker again.
Sharp. Assessing.
Satisfied.
“Well,” he says softly, amusement threading through his voice, “would you look at that. You must be Alyona Demsky. Soon to be Baranov.”
My heart stutters.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to get the upper hand over Kazimir Baranov for months,” he continues, almost conversationally, like we’re gossiping over coffee. “I didn’t think he’d let you roam around the city all on your own. And all I had to do was… wait.”
Ice floods my veins.
He doesn’t wait for a response. His grip tightens further, and he starts walking, tugging me with him toward a white G-wagon idling at the curb. The rain begins to fall harder, drumming against the roof and drowning out the sound of my breath.