Chapter 29 Aria
ARIA
The leather seat of Nikolai's sedan is cool against my thighs despite the humid night air seeping through the barely cracked window.
I press my palm against the tinted glass, watching his silhouette move between shipping containers with that predatory grace I've come to recognize.
Even from this distance, even through the distortion of bulletproof glass, I can see the serpent tattoo winding down his neck, dark ink against skin that glows pale under the harsh industrial lighting.
My body responds before my brain can stop it.
Heat pools low in my belly, a traitorous warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the way he holds himself.
Like he owns every inch of space he occupies.
Like the world bends to accommodate him rather than the other way around.
I hate that I notice, hate that my pulse quickens when he gestures to one of his captains, his hand cutting through the air with absolute authority.
Hate that I'm sitting here, pregnant with his child, watching him conduct business I'm not supposed to witness and thinking about how those same hands felt on my skin.
My security guard shifts in the driver's seat, his eyes scanning the perimeter with mechanical precision.
He hasn't spoken since we arrived twenty minutes ago, just positioned the car at the edge of the dock with clear sight lines to all exits. Standard protocol, apparently. Keep the Pakhan’s woman safe while he handles things that would make her uncomfortable.
I press my other hand to my stomach, feeling the subtle swell beneath my sweater.
The baby has been active tonight, little flutters that the doctor says will soon become kicks.
I try not to think about what kind of world I'm bringing this child into, try not to calculate how many people Nikolai has killed to build his empire, to maintain his position, to protect what's his.
Try not to think about how I'm just another possession he's protecting.
Through the window, I watch him lean against a shipping container, his posture deceptively casual.
But I've learned to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rests near his hip where I know he keeps a gun.
He's listening to Cyril, his second-in-command's pale hair catching the light as he gestures toward something I can't see.
The explosion of gunfire shatters the night like glass breaking.
My scream dies in my throat, choked off by shock and terror as men emerge from behind containers like demons materializing from shadow.
Muzzle flashes light up the darkness in staccato bursts, deadly fireworks that paint everything in stark relief.
I see Nikolai's gun appear in his hand as if conjured, see him drop into a crouch with fluid efficiency, and I see the first man fall before my brain can process what's happening.
"Get down!" My guard's hand shoves my head below the window line, his body twisting to shield mine. "Stay down, Mrs. Levin!"
But I can still hear everything. The crack of gunfire, sharp and percussive. Shouted Russian that sounds like curses or commands or both. The wet, meaty sounds of bullets finding flesh. My hands shake as I press them over my ears, trying to block it out, but the violence seeps through anyway.
Time stretches like taffy, each second an eternity. My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my teeth, in my fingertips, in the pulse point at my throat. The baby does a somersault in my belly, responding to my spiking adrenaline, and I press both hands protectively over the swell.
"Please," I whisper to no one. "Please let him be okay."
The admission costs me something. I shouldn't care if Nikolai survives this.
Shouldn't feel this desperate terror clawing at my chest at the thought of him bleeding out on concrete.
He's a criminal. A killer. The man who kept us stranded on an island for his own selfish reasons, who monitors my body without consent, and who's turned my life into something I barely recognize.
But he's also the father of my child. The man who twisted his body to shield mine when we hit those rocks. The man who quotes Pushkin while weaving palm fronds and sometimes looks at me like I'm the only real thing in his violent world.
The gunfire stops as abruptly as it started, leaving behind a silence so complete it feels like the world is holding its breath.
I risk lifting my head, my guard's hand tightening on my shoulder in warning but not stopping me.
Through the window, I see bodies sprawled across the concrete in spreading pools of darkness that look black under the industrial lights.
Three of them wear suits I recognize. Nikolai's men.
The others are strangers, their weapons scattered around them like discarded toys.
Nikolai stands in the center of the carnage, his gun still raised, his eyes scanning for threats with mechanical precision.
There's blood on his white shirt, a spray of crimson across his chest that makes my stomach lurch.
But he's moving, breathing, alive. Relief floods through me so intensely that it makes my hands shake worse.
Cyril appears at his elbow, speaking rapidly in Russian. I catch one word repeated like a curse, spat out with venom that needs no translation. Ignatyev. Matvey Ignatyev. The rival Pakhan who's been circling like a shark since Nikolai returned from the island.
I watch Nikolai's jaw tighten, watch his expression shift from cold efficiency to something that looks like barely controlled rage.
The transformation is terrifying. This isn't the man who whispered Russian endearments against my skin.
This is the Pakhan in full force, the killer who built an empire on calculated brutality.
He turns toward the car, and our eyes lock through the tinted glass.
Even from this distance, even through the barrier between us, the intensity of his gaze steals my breath.
There's fury there, yes, but also something else.
Something possessive and protective that makes my skin flush with unwanted heat.
He's checking on me. Making sure I'm safe. Making sure his child is safe.
The realization should comfort me. Instead, it makes panic claw at my throat.
Because I see it now with crystalline clarity.
This is my life. This violence, this danger, this world where men die on concrete and the father of my child orchestrates death with the same casual efficiency he used to catch fish in the shallows.
There's no escaping it. No pretending I can keep one foot in normalcy while the other is planted firmly in his empire.
My child will grow up in this. Will learn to recognize the sound of gunfire before they learn to read. Will understand that Daddy's business involves things we don't talk about at dinner. Will carry the weight of the Alekseev name like armor and target both.
The thought makes something crack open in my chest, sharp and painful.
I need to leave. Need to take this baby and disappear so completely that even Nikolai's considerable resources won't find us.
Change my name, move to another state, build a life where my child doesn't have to duck below window lines while their father conducts business.
It's the only way to protect them from this world.
Nikolai starts walking toward the car, his stride purposeful despite the bodies he steps over. His eyes never leave mine, and I see the promise written in his expression. Retribution. Violence. The systematic destruction of everyone who dared threaten what's his.
My hand moves to the door handle, some irrational part of my brain screaming at me to run right now. But my guard's hand clamps down on my shoulder, holding me in place.
"Wait for the Pakhan."
Nikolai reaches the car and wrenches open the door, and the urge to run… somewhere, anywhere away from this life, is so strong that I almost bolt right then and there.