Chapter 21
Celia
T he nausea has finally subsided by afternoon, leaving me with the hollow exhaustion that follows being sick.
I curl up on the small couch in our shared room, watching Yefrem work at the desk by the window.
Sunlight pours through the reinforced glass, casting patterns across the papers and laptops that have become the focal point of our existence.
He’s been different since this morning’s revelation. More protective, more intense in the way he studies our surroundings and checks security protocols. Every few minutes, his attention drifts from the financial records to me, as if he needs constant confirmation that I’m still here and still safe.
I press my hand to my stomach, feeling nothing yet but knowing everything has changed. In nine months, give or take, there will be a baby. Our baby. The thought fills me with equal measures of wonder and terror.
What kind of world are we bringing this child into?
The question circles through my mind like a vulture, refusing to be dismissed.
Right now, we’re hiding in a fortified compound, surrounded by armed guards, planning to expose a network of corrupt federal agents who will kill us without hesitation if they find us.
In a few months, I’ll be holding a newborn while wondering if today is the day our enemies finally track us down.
I think about my mother’s gentle lectures about settling down and starting a family.
She’s been pushing the topic for years, especially after my breakup with Tripp, convinced that marriage and babies are the cure for all of life’s uncertainties.
I can almost hear her voice now, that particular tone she uses when she thinks she knows what’s best for me.
“Celia, honey, you’re twenty-seven. You can’t wait forever to find the right man and have children. Your biological clock is ticking.”
She definitely didn’t mean this scenario. Finding the right man, sure, but she probably envisioned someone with a normal job and a normal life, who could provide stability and safety. Not a Russian Mafia boss with a price on his head and enough enemies to populate a small city.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I finally find someone I can imagine building a life with, someone who makes me feel things I didn’t know were possible, and he comes with the kind of baggage that could get us all killed.
“You’re thinking too hard.” Yefrem’s voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. He’s turned in his chair to face me, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
“Just processing everything.” I shift on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position. “It’s a lot to take in.”
He sets down his pen and moves to sit beside me. “Talk to me. What’s worrying you most?”
Where do I even start? The pregnancy, the danger, the uncertainty about our future, or the fear that we’re making a terrible mistake by trying to fight instead of run?
“I keep thinking about what kind of life we’re giving this baby.
” I lean against his shoulder, drawing comfort from his solid presence.
“Growing up in hiding, surrounded by violence, and never knowing which day is when everything falls apart.”
His arm tightens around me. “That’s not going to happen. Once we expose Lang’s network, once we eliminate the threats against us, our child will be free to live normally, though we can’t continue to be the people we are now. Our old lives are over, but we can build a better one together.”
I sniffle slightly. “What if we don’t succeed? What if something goes wrong, and we have to keep running?”
The silence that follows tells me he’s considered the same possibility. “Then we adapt. We find a way to give our child the best life possible, whatever circumstances we’re dealing with.”
I want to believe him, to trust that love and determination will be enough to overcome the obstacles we’re facing, but doubt gnaws at me like hunger, impossible to ignore.
“My mother would have a heart attack if she knew what I was dealing with right now.” The words come out before I can stop them, carrying more vulnerability than I intended.
Yefrem’s body tenses slightly. “Are you thinking about her?”
“All the time. Especially now.” I sit up and face him. “Thank you for arranging that music box delivery. The Nutcracker one to let her know I’m alive.”
His expression softens with understanding. “You said it was important. That you go to the ballet together every year and buy those music boxes from the vendor in the foyer.”
I’m touched he remembered, though I shouldn’t be.
He has a razor-sharp mind and doesn’t miss much.
“We’ve done it since I was seven. It’s our tradition.
” My throat tightens with emotion. “She’ll know it’s from me, that it means I’m okay, even if I can’t tell her where I am or what’s happening.
It was the perfect way to let her know I’m thinking about her. ”
“The tracking confirmed delivery to Mrs. Loretta Bourn. I checked it myself.” He reaches for my hand. “She received it safely.”
“I know.” I remember him confirming it three days after our return to the compound. A moment later, I’m engulfed by longing so intense it’s almost painful. “I just... I miss her. I want to call her and tell her about the baby or see her face when she realizes she’s going to be a grandmother.”
His expression softens. “I understand. Family is important.”
“I keep imagining what it would be like to call her, to tell her about the baby.” Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes. “She’s wanted grandchildren for so long. She’d be over the moon, asking a million questions about nurseries and baby names and when she can meet you.”
“Loretta will meet me.” His voice carries quiet certainty. “When this is over, and it’s safe, we’ll introduce her to her grandchild and son-in-law. If she’s willing, we’ll bring her with us to wherever we settle.”
The casual mention of marriage makes my heart skip. “Son-in-law?”
“You don’t think I’m going to let the mother of my child remain unmarried, do you?” A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “I may be a criminal, but I have some standards.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Most romantic proposal ever.”
“The real proposal will be better.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “When we’re not surrounded by armed guards and evidence of federal corruption.”
The promise settles like a warm ball in my chest. Maybe we really can have this—love, marriage, a family, and a life that’s ours instead of being dictated by our enemies.
“I want to show her our home someday.” I lean back against his shoulder.
“Wherever we end up, I want my mother to live nearby and see we built something good together.”
“She will. I promise you that.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself imagine introducing Yefrem to my mother, watching her hold our child, and explaining how we met without mentioning murdered FBI agents and buried bodies.
The fantasy feels both impossible and inevitable, though I realize she’s going to have to know at least part of the story about the corruption we’re taking down to explain why we have to change our identities and move far away.
Later that evening, after dinner and another round of analyzing financial records, I find Yefrem in the small office space with his laptop open to what looks like real estate websites.
Property listings in foreign languages fill the screen, with photos of houses that look nothing like the functional compounds we’ve been living in.
“What are you looking at?” I settle into the chair beside him.
“Possible relocation areas for when this is over.” He clicks through several listings, each more beautiful than the last. “Places where we can start over, reinvent ourselves, and disappear into normal lives.”
The properties are stunning and offer a plethora of choices, including seaside villas, mountain retreats, and urban apartments with views of ancient cities. All of them are far from here, and far from the corruption and violence that’s defined our relationship so far.
“You’ve been researching this for a while.” I study the detailed notes he’s made about each location.
“I want to be ready with options when the time comes.” He opens a new tab with what looks like a comparison chart. “I’ve narrowed it down to two main possibilities—Montenegro or Morocco.”
The names feel exotic and distant, like something from a travel magazine rather than potential new homes. “Tell me about them.”
He leans back in his chair, his tone taking on the practical efficiency he uses when explaining tactical plans.
“Montenegro is small, mountainous, and on the Adriatic Sea. It has no formal extradition treaty with the United States, and enforcement is inconsistent at best. The eastern European culture would feel familiar to me, and there’s already a community of wealthy expats and people looking to disappear.
They aren’t part of the EU but wish to join, so it’s possible their position on enforcing extradition might change. ”
I frown slightly. “That sounds lovely but also concerning. What about Morocco?” I think of the famous F1 racing scene I recall seeing a few times on TV, since Dad was a huge sports fan, following everything from F1 racing to curling.
“It’s in North Africa and has no extradition treaty, but it does have a completely different culture and geography.
It’s easier to blend in among the chaos of cities like Marrakech or Casablanca, or we could disappear into a mountain village in the Atlas range.
” He clicks to a listing that shows a traditional riad with intricate tilework and a central courtyard.
“The country offers more diverse options for disappearing, and the bureaucracy is chaotic enough that tracking people is difficult.”