Chapter 39
LYRA
“Let’s see… there it is.” Dr. Okafor tilts the ultrasound screen toward me, tapping a spot on the gray-white blur with the tip of her pen. “You see that flicker? That’s the heartbeat.”
I see it. It’s surreal as hell, but I see it—a tiny, rapid pulse in the center of what looks like a kidney bean in the middle of a snowstorm.
She turns up the volume, a quick whoosh, whoosh, whoosh filling the room.
“That’s a strong heartbeat,” Dr. Okafor says. She’s a tall woman in her early fifties with close-cropped hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the exact kind of warm, steady calm you want from an OB/GYN.
“Everything looks good?” I ask.
“Everything looks healthy, Ms. Thibodeaux. Baby’s developing normally. Your blood pressure is a little low, but that’s common in the first trimester. Just make sure to stay hydrated and keep up with your vitamins and pregnancy guidelines.”
She prints out a screen grab and hands it to me. It’s a black-and-white grainy square, and I take it from her and hold it like it’s the most precious thing in the world. It’s all so surreal. I still can’t believe what I’m looking at.
“What about the nausea? I know it’s normal, but it seems like it’s been getting really bad.”
“Nausea is a very common symptom during the first trimester. With both of my girls, it felt like a three-month-long hangover that just wouldn’t go away.
The best course of action is ginger tea, small and frequent meals, and doing what you can to avoid triggering smells. Oh, and tamp down your stress.”
That’s funny. Trying to limit my stress sounds like a sick joke with the kind of life I lead.
“Okay, tea and tiny meals. No stress. I can handle that.”
Well, maybe not the last part, but I’ll try.
Dr. Okafor smiles warmly. “Of course, you can. It should ease up as you move into the second trimester.” She rolls the ultrasound cart aside and peels off her gloves.
“But keep in mind what I said about avoiding stress—stress hormones can affect fetal development in the first trimester. Whatever you can delegate, defer, or simply remove from your plate—I encourage it.”
The way she’s emphasizing the point makes me wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.
“I’ll do my best,” I tell her.
“That’s all any of us can do.” She follows up her words with another warm, professional smile.
“I’d like to see you again in three weeks.
We’ll do a more detailed scan then. In the meantime, small, frequent meals, lots of sleep and rest, and hydrate often.
Let’s try to give that baby a calm ride for the next few months.
” I thank her, and she hands me a towel to wipe off the gel, then leaves.
I get dressed, and walk out of the exam room, clutching the printout.
Misha sits in a corner chair in the waiting room. Ethan assigned him to me—his most trusted guard—while he and Julian attend the council meeting. He’s one of my favorites. He raises his eyebrows a bit as I enter.
“Well?”
I hold up the printout. “Strong heartbeat, healthy. Looks like a kidney bean, right?”
I offer him the picture, and he takes it carefully, studying it like a surveillance photo.
“Is that the head?”
“Probably.”
He smiles. “Looks like a weather system,” he says as he hands the photo back. “Congratulations, Lyra.”
There’s something about the simplicity of him congratulating me that makes my eyes sting. Misha plucks a tissue out of the box on the side table and hands it to me.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Just a bit over-emotional.”
“Something like this is worth getting emotional about.”
“Or maybe it’s the hormones.”
He chuckles, then asks the receptionist for an envelope. He hands it to me, and I slip the photo inside before dropping it into my purse.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”
We take the elevator down and step out onto East 68th Street, walking right into a wall of rain.
It’s the kind of rain that turns Manhattan into a smeared watercolor—headlights bleeding into taillights, umbrellas colliding, pedestrians clutching their coats and walking faster.
Our car is parked right out front, thankfully.
Misha holds the door open while I duck into the passenger seat.
Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel.
I take out the photo. I still can’t believe it’s real. My little kidney bean.
“You’re going to wear a hole in that picture,” Misha says as he pulls out onto the street.”
“I’m memorizing it.” I say as I take a deep breath. “Dr. Okafor said everything’s on track, and that she wants to see me in three weeks.”
“Good.” He merges onto the FDR and heads south, wipers slashing. “Have you told Julian about the appointment?”
“I texted him from the waiting room.”
“Any response? Sorry to be nosy, but I tried to get in touch with him while I was in the waiting room. He never responded.”
“Is that normal when he’s in a council meeting?” Just saying the words makes my stomach tighten. He told me it would be fine, that he had it all in order, and when the day was over, he’d be the clear and supported leader of the Bratva.
“They’re usually not on their phones during. But I would think it’d be over by now—a vote to put him in charge, and that’s the end of it.”
Another twinge of fear roils my stomach. It must be obvious, because Misha’s expression softens when he looks over at me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. The length of the meeting varies, but all it takes is one syndicate head to drag it out. I’ve been to a few, and you never know what to expect.”
That calms me, but just a little. The truth is, I’m going to be a wreck until he’s home safe, my head on his shoulder, the ultrasound picture in his hands.
“Anyway,” he says, “I’m sure it’ll—”
My phone rings, cutting him off. My eyes go wide, and I yank the phone out of my purse, hoping to see Julian’s name.
But I see Sophia’s instead.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Lyra, listen to me.” Her voice sounds weird, like she’s running, her breathing ragged. “Don’t go back to Julian’s penthouse. Don’t—”
“Soph. Slow down.”
“Something happened at the meeting. Alex called me. It sounded like he was bragging. He said that things are about to change, that Julian’s finished. And then he hung up, and now I can’t reach him. I don’t know what to do, but I think he’s up to something.”
My stomach drops. My hand is trembling as I put Sophia on speakerphone.
“Misha, try Julian again.”
He’s already got his phone out.
“Same as before,” he says. “No service.”
“Soph, what exactly did Alex tell you?”
She takes a breath. “He said Mrs. Lee was handling things and that it was already done.”
Already done. My blood runs cold. Could he…? No. I push the thought out of my head.
“And then, then…”
“Sophia, breathe. You need to tell me anything else he said. Right now.”
“He said he was going to make sure you were taken care of, Ly. I don’t think he meant it nicely.”
Misha and I share a look. I take a slow, deep breath. No stress—that’s what the doctor said. Even if it means staying calm in the face of a potential mob hit.
“I’m on the street in Williamsburg. I didn’t know where to go. I’m scared, Ly. I know you hate me and probably don’t trust me, and I don’t deserve—”
The line goes dead mid-sentence. I look down at my phone and stare at the screen. No signal. Every single bar is gone.
“Misha.”
“I see it.” He turns his attention to his own phone, and I can see that it’s dead, too.
His expression changes from civilian to soldier in a heartbeat. He flicks his gaze up at the rearview mirror.
“We’ve got company.”
I turn around to see two black SUVs, about thirty feet back. Their headlights slice through the rain.
Misha speeds up and the SUVs match our speed. He changes lanes, veering hard and suddenly, and they follow, closing the gap quickly. A third SUV appears, boxing us in.
“Misha, the baby—”
“I know. Hold on.”
He yanks the wheel to the right hard, cutting across two lanes toward an exit ramp. Tires scream on wet asphalt while a clap of thunder cracks in the distance. The first SUV is too slow to react, continuing along. But the second follows, right on our tail.
Misha flies through the red light at the bottom of the ramp. I scream as we zoom through the intersection, other cars blaring their horns at us. Rain hammers the windshield so hard that the wipers can barely keep up.
“I’m going to get you out of this,” Misha says. “Whatever happens—”
The impact comes from behind, cutting him off. The car lurches forward as the SUV slams into the rear bumper. My seatbelt locks and my head snaps back.
The world goes white, then comes back in fragments—shattered taillight glass, hissing steam, Misha’s hands frantic on the wheel fighting the wild turn.
The car spins around and we careen across the road before slamming into a concrete construction barrier. The airbags explode. There’s a chemical dust in the air, and my ears are ringing.
“Lyra! Are you hurt?”
I hear the question, but my mind is a blur.
“No, I don’t think so. The baby.”
“We need to move. Right—”
The driver’s-side window explodes. I see a gloved fist, then an arm, a masked figure dressed all in black reaching through the shattered glass and grabbing Misha by the collar.
Trained and lethal, Misha quickly reacts, reaching for the weapon on his hip. He raises the gun halfway up before the masked man shoots him.
Misha’s body jerks. He drops the gun into the footwell as blood blooms across his chest. His body slumps against the steering wheel and the horn blares, one long continuous noise as the rain pounds against the glass.
I let out a blood-curdling scream.
"Misha!"
The passenger door is wrenched open. Roughly gloved hands grab my arms. I kick, scratch, and fight with everything I have.
"Don't touch me! Get off me!” I shout to no avail.
They drag me from the car. Rain hits my face as the ultrasound printout falls out and lands in a puddle, the picture of my little kidney bean dissolving into the water.
I scream Julian's name as a hood is placed over my head.