Chapter 10 Ransome
RANSOME
BARON: Did you find her?
The text comes in like a stroke of telepathy, the moment I step outside Amara’s room.
Visiting hours are over. They want to hold her overnight, monitor her vitals. I am both glad and annoyed. On one hand, I’d love to yank the tubes out of her arms and shove her on my jet so we can run all these tests back at a hospital I know and trust.
But since I can’t do that, I suppose at least they’re taking adequate precautions.
RANSOME: Yeah.
BARON: And?
RANSOME: She’s pregnant.
BARON: No offense, cuz, but we been knew.
BARON: Is it yours, though?
RANSOME: I don’t know yet.
The texts are repetitive enough to make my jaw tighten. I’m not in the mood for any of this. It was one thing to see her again. Seeing her pregnant was another. Confirming that she could be carrying around my child sets off a whole different storm of feelings inside me.
The idea that she may be pregnant by another man bumps that storm up to a category five.
I need to know. And I need to know as soon as possible. Which means that Amara is getting on my plane as soon as she is released from the hospital whether she likes it or not.
My bones ache and my head is worse. It occurs to me that I am probably jet lagged. There’s a two-hour time difference here that is very much not working in my favor, because I just want this day to be over.
That said, I bite the bullet and head to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.
My skin crawls at the very idea of it—not just the coffee, but the cafeteria in general.
I am only slightly comforted when I see they serve Starbucks.
I’m sure by ‘serve’ they mean it’s purchased in bulk at Costco and brewed here.
As I suck down the first sip, reminding myself that I am only doing this for the caffeine and so that I have something in my stomach other than acid, my phone rings.
It’s Baron.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asks as soon as I answer.
“I need to figure out if she was unfaithful.” I take another sip and walk outside. Getting a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup from a hospital is one thing. Drinking it around sick, sobbing, panicky people is another. I may be in Montana, but I still have standards.
“I guess that’s the obvious place to start,” he agrees with me. “So, worst-case scenario, the kid isn’t yours. Then what?”
I feel my skin burn at the suggestion. “I find out who the fucker is that touched her and drag him along the highway until he’s nothing more than a three-mile grease stain.”
“Oh, is that all?”
Baron laughs, but I’m not joking. The idea of another man coming within ten feet of her with the intention of getting under her clothes makes me homicidal in a way I haven’t been before. Which is saying a lot, considering some of the sins I’ve committed in my adult years.
“And then I write her off forever,” I add.
“Fair enough, boss. And if the baby is yours?”
“Then I see to it she gets what she needs to deliver him safe and sound and drag her ass back to New York. I can’t have a future Rozanov pakhan living in Fuckballs, Montana. He has a legacy to meet up to.”
“He?” Baron asks.
“Yeah,” I let out. “That’s what she says anyway. The baby is a boy.”
“Wow. A son.”
Son. The word stings. I don’t know if it's a good sting or a bad sting, but it’s a sting either way.
“So, if scenario one is the reality…” He trails off awkwardly. “Have you thought about—”
“Don’t say it,” I cut him off, because I know where he’s going with this.
“You have to consider it though, don’t you?” Baron asks. “I mean… Tristan and Amara have been caught together, more than once.”
“I’m having her take a paternity test. Until then, I’m not speculating.”
“I get it,” he says quickly. Then there’s a pause before the next bullet flies. “And if the baby’s yours, how do you plan to handle it? Logistically speaking.”
“You mean because I’m married to Jenica?”
“Well, yeah. There’s the living situation to think about too. I mean, you want to bring Amara back here. Surely you’re not planning on having her live in your house, under the same roof as your wife? It would be a reality TV show gone wrong.” Baron chuckles. “God. Bratva Housewife. Imagine that.”
“She would not be living in the same house,” I growl.
“Just kidding. But for real, cuz—you sold the penthouse. Where is she gonna stay?”
You’d think my own cousin would give me some credit. Obviously I’ve thought everything through. Even if it’s still a hairy situation.
“I can get another penthouse, you know. And I also have my estate.”
“So you’d be bouncing between the two? Baby mama by day, wife by night.”
“Stop calling her that,” I snap.
My free hand clenches at my side. I am very much done with this conversation.
“Which one?” he asks. Baron’s gotten ballsier since I became pakhan. I’m not sure if I like it. He needed to remember who’s in charge.
“Both,” I spit out.
“I’m sorry. Just… Tread lightly, you know? You’re married to a Chadovich. And any Chadovich can’t be trusted, even if they are more made of plastic than real human cells. And their brains are oversaturated with Bachelorette stats.”
“She’s not as dumb as you think,” I mutter.
“Oh, I know she isn’t. Which is why I’d be careful no matter what. This is a lot to juggle.”
“I’m aware.”
That’s the end of the phone call for me. I don’t need my cousin lecturing me on the weight of my situation. I know as well as anyone just how detrimental things are now.
If Amara is in fact carrying my baby, my son, then steps will be taken to secure the future pakhan. And if that’s the case, I am going to have to see to it that there’s no turbulence on the home front, even if that means lying to Jenica and hiding things from Amara.
I finish the last of the burnt, muddy water they passed off as coffee and look up bars on my phone.
If I’m going to figure this shitstorm out, I’m going to need something stronger.