Chapter 41
THEA
One day later…
The nausea is better. Not gone, but the low-grade hum of queasiness that seems to have taken up permanent residence just below my rib cage is manageable. Dr. Martinez said that it should start easing up by the second trimester. Almost there. Just a few more weeks of crackers and ginger tea.
I’m sitting in a waiting room on the Upper West Side, instead of being examined in the privacy—and safety—of the mansion. My OB/GYN’s mobile ultrasound unit is out of commission. Something about water damage to the imaging equipment.
Two of Gabriel’s men stand at opposite ends of the hallway. Marco is by the elevator. He’s tall, quiet, and built like a refrigerator. Enzo is near the stairwell. He’s young and hyperalert, his hand never far from his weapon. They’re trying to blend in but failing miserably.
I’m glad they’re here, guarding all accessibility in and out of the office.
And then there’s Amanda.
She’d literally insisted on coming. She called the mansion this morning and told me—told me—that she’d be joining us, her tone making it clear that it wasn’t a request.
“You need another woman with you,” she’d said in the car. “For something like this, a female presence is always a good idea. Trust me—you’ll be glad I’m there when you’re sitting in that sterile little room under those horrid fluorescent lights.”
“I could’ve brought Liza,” I replied, mostly to see how she would react.
“Liza? As in the woman who left you to fend for yourself the moment you turned eighteen?” she laughed nervously before looking away.
“Listen, I know we got off on the wrong foot,” she’d added. “But there’s no reason I can’t be one of the few people you trust.” She raised her palm. “Now I know I’ll have to earn that trust. But maybe this can be the first step in that process.”
A peace offering. From the woman who’d called me fat within ten minutes of meeting me for the first time.
Then again, she had kept my secret after finding out I was pregnant.
So here we are. Playing nice, trying on a version of friendship. Maybe she’s right; maybe it can be the first step toward me trusting her.
“This place is tastefully bland,” Amanda says next to me in the waiting room, taking her eyes from her phone just long enough to scan the scene. “I suppose it could be worse.”
Two other women sit in the waiting room besides me—one visibly further along, rubbing her belly absentmindedly while reading something on her phone, the other young and nervous, clutching the hand of the man sitting next to her.
I’m a little envious of both of them. They look like normal women with normal lives that don’t involve armed escorts in the hallway.
In fact, I envy them so fiercely that it surprises me.
Dr. Martinez’s nurse calls me in, breaking up my thoughts.
“I’ll wait out here,” Amanda says. “Hope it’s all good news.”
“Thanks.”
Her eyes are already back on her phone as I turn to head down the hall.
The examination is the routine I’m used to at this point—blood pressure, weight, urine sample, cold gel on my stomach while Dr. Martinez moves the wand with practiced ease. I stare at the grainy black-and-white screen, trying to spot a baby in the static.
“Solid heartbeat, as usual.”
A smile spreads across my face in the way it always does when I see that flicker, hear that whoosh-whoosh of my baby boy—or girl’s—tiny heart.
My eyes sting.
“Strong and steady,” she says. “Your blood work came back excellent, too.”
She gives me the rundown on my iron levels, thyroid function, and all the rest.
“So far, so good, Thea,” she tells me as she sets down the wand. “Everything looks about as healthy as we could hope for.”
So far, so good.
They’re reassuring words. But Dr. Martinez has no idea about what else is going on in my life, what my baby and I face outside the walls of this clinic.
All the same, I hold onto the words like a talisman.
For a life that doesn’t have the best track record for most of its twenty-five years, this one thing, this small flicker on a screen, this steady heartbeat, this little life growing inside of me that doesn’t know about human trafficking auctions or massacres, or the fact that its father is a Camorra don—this one thing is good.
“Let’s just get you cleaned up here and—”
Dr. Martinez has barely touched the cloth to my stomach when the first shot goes off.
It’s muffled, but I still hear it. Then I hear a burst of them, rapid and overlapping. Somewhere down the hall, a woman screams.
Dr. Martinez freezes, the paper towel midair in her hand. Time slows, and for one long second, all I can do is sit there, ultrasound gel smeared on my stomach, a tiny heartbeat still echoing in my ears.
The door bursts open. It’s Amanda.
“Move. Now.”
Her face is white and totally drained of color. But she’s somehow still calm and controlled. She grabs my arms and pulls me toward the door. I stumble after her, my shirt still untucked, pants still undone. As we rush out, I catch a glimpse of the main floor hallway.
Marco is on the ground, just outside the office doors.
He’s on his back, one arm flung out to the side. There’s a lot of blood spreading across the pale linoleum in a growing pool. His eyes are open, but they’re vacant.
Oh God.
“Don’t look,” Amanda says quietly, in almost a hiss. “Don’t look.”
But I’m already looking. I crane my neck, looking beyond Marco to the end of the hallway where the elevator is. I see several men, all dressed in black. They’re masked and moving fast. One of them is dragging something, and it takes me a full second to realize what it is.
Enzo. He’s limp, leaving a red smear on the floor behind him.
A primal scream comes out of me. It’s a sound I didn’t know I could make.
“Thea.” Amanda’s grip on my arm is iron-like. She yanks me in the opposite direction, back down the office hallway. Nurses and doctors are in a panic. The women in the waiting room are being herded into a supply room.
But I don’t need to worry for them. I know, without a doubt, that the masked men aren’t here for them.
They’re here for me.
“Come on,” Amanda says, giving my arm another jerk and pulling me back into the moment. “This way. There’s a back exit.”
We run down the hall.
I don’t know this building, but Amanda apparently does. She pulls me through a set of double doors, past an empty nurse’s station, and around a corner into a narrow corridor that smells like medical supplies. Behind us, I hear boots on the linoleum floor and shouting in Russian.
These are Kolya’s men, no doubt.
My hand goes to my stomach by pure instinct. It feels almost silly, as if I could protect this tiny life from an armed group of men with just my palm and five fingers.
Amanda is ahead of me, moving quickly in her heels. It almost seems as if she’s moving too fast for a woman who should be as panicked as me. Then again, she’s been in this world longer than I have.
I suddenly realize I’m barefoot—I didn’t put my shoes back on in the ultrasound room. Can’t worry about that now. Too late to think about anything but getting the hell out and away from the danger.
A door crashes open behind us. More Russian shouting. The men are where we’d been standing only a few moments before.
“Here—” Amanda and I reach a gray door marked STAFF ONLY. When she hits the push bar, it swings open onto a concrete stairwell. Her unyielding composure and the fact that she’s not even winded does not escape me. “Down. One flight. There’s a service exit at the bottom that opens into the alley.”
How the hell does she know the building so well?
The thought appears in my mind but is quickly drowned out by panic and adrenaline.
“Amanda—”
“Go, Thea. I’m right behind you.”
I take the stairs two at a time, one hand on the railing, the other on my stomach.
The stairwell air is cold and stagnant. Concrete walls, metal railings, minimal space.
My bare feet slap against the steps, the sound of my panicked breaths the only other noise.
I keep glancing back, expecting the men to burst through.
One more flight. The door at the bottom has an EXIT sign above it. My heart sings at the sight of it.
I slam into the push bar with all the force I have and stumble out into the daylight.
Just as Amanda had said, there’s an alley. It’s narrow, with dirty dumpsters lining one side. I can hear the faint hush of traffic from the street beyond. Cold air hits my face, and I almost sob with relief because I made it out. If I can just get to the street…
Before I can register what is happening, an arm is around my waist, another clamping over my mouth. I’m lifted off my feet so fast that I don’t even have a chance to scream.
I bite down hard on the leather glove, but it’s not enough. The man yelps but doesn’t move his hand. I kick and fight with everything I have. Another set of hands grabs my legs as I kick, but they’re too strong. I try to scream again. I can’t.
They carry me toward a black sedan, idling at the mouth of the alley. The trunk is open. The leather hand moves, replaced by a cloth that’s wet, filling my mouth and lungs with something chemical and sour.
One of them says something in Russian as they hoist me into the trunk. My strength fades. The only sensation I have as the trunk closes is that of pure, absolute terror.