29. Ruslan
Ruslan
For forty-eight hours, I have managed businesses, taken calls, reviewed reports, and held conversations without absorbing a single word of what anyone said to me.
I’ve also spent those same forty-eight hours thinking about a baby.
The irony would be amusing if it weren’t so irritating. Frank, still in Denver despite my insistence that everything is fine, steps out into the hallway as soon as I do; his eyes narrow.
He’s been waiting for me. Trying to catch me because I keep insisting that I’m too busy to meet.
“You’re going to get coffee,” he deadpans. We’ve known one another for years. He knows my habits better than anyone else.
I nod curtly, and he adjusts the watch on his wrist, a Longines Heritage.
“I’ll join you.”
Outside, Denver has officially settled into crisp and cold mornings. Frank has a fashionable scarf around his neck, and for a moment I think to myself, Idiot—eyes are on you now that you’ll be launching a flagship store here. The least you could do is pay attention to what you wear.
Imagine. A fashion mogul out in worn jeans and a t-shirt, again. At least the jacket is a Luca Faloni bomber.
Only two blocks down there’s a coffee shop called Provision, and Frank and I dip inside wordlessly. I’m lost in thought, thinking of Emma; worrying. How far along is she? When will symptoms truly start? Will she be miserable? Will she even want to do this?
Will she let me be involved?
The declaration I made two days ago wasn’t a front. It wasn’t forced. I meant what I said.
I’d do anything for her, for the baby. Anything.
I’d even leave them alone entirely if that’s what she wanted.
Frank nudges me with a bony elbow, and I blink, staring in surprise at the barista patiently waiting for me. With a murmur, I order my usual—a flat white for myself, a mocha for Emma. Then I second-guess myself.
Should she have that? Chocolate? This much caffeine? Can she have that? I’ve never had to question anything like this before.
“Anything else?” the barista asks after punching in my order.
I hesitate, glancing at the display box, and order a myriad of pastries.
A plain croissant, vol-au-vent, Bavarian cream bomboloini.
I can feel Frank’s eyes boring into me from somewhere to the right; I ignore him, pay the bill, grab the bag, and step aside to wait for the drinks.
Frank orders, receives an espresso and tonic, downs them mere feet away. His gaze never leaves me.
“What’s going on?” he asks as I balance the drink tray on my wrist and we leave the shop.
“Nothing.”
“It’s Emma,” he says frankly, as if he’s a fortune teller. I scowl, but don’t deny it.
“She’s…dealing with something. I’m trying to give her space.”
His eyes narrow further, and I can practically see that Italian mind whirring away. “Should I ask her to dinner?” he offers lightly, apparently deciding not to interrogate a Bratva Pakhan at eight a.m. “Will that help her relax?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit, feeling helpless and frustrated. “I think she might just need time.”
Those were the exact words she said to me. I can still hear them echoing in my head, against my skull, like an omen.
Will she or won’t she? Why does it feel like so much is riding on her choice?
It takes me a moment before we reach the doors of the Four Seasons to realize that Frank has dropped behind. He’s paying a vendor for a paper, and half-folds it over, starting toward me with raised brows.
“Look.” With a wave, he puts it in my line of sight.
The headline reads: Is Denver Big Enough for the Brothers?
It’s followed by a split photo; on the right, me guiding Emma from the fashion shoot back to the hotel, a hand on her lower back. On the left, Andrei, smiling tightly at some kind of press conference.
They’ve finally figured out that there’s no love lost between us, at least.
“You didn’t see the headlines the day after the wedding,” Frank states, not a question.
I shake my head, and he explains quietly as we enter the lobby, “There were a lot of interpretations of your speech. A lot of underground movement. It seems Andrei has been making an effort to quash any negative opposition, but your actions at the wedding have given several people the chance to speak out.”
“Good,” I answer curtly. “It’s about time. You and I both know that whatever he’s doing, it isn’t for the benefit of the people.”
“Have you figured out your play yet, Ruslan? You need to return to California soon, at least to stabilize the business before openings in the mid-west.”
“Not yet.”
The admission is murmured, sparking annoyance in my gut. I should have it figured out. I should be focused. I should have a team digging for as much dirt as possible, ready to expose my brother for the monster he is.
Instead, all I can think about is Emma.
The elevator ride back up to the suites is quiet, scented with coffee and pastries. Frank seems uneasy now, though I’m too distracted to reassure him.
We part ways in the hall. He turns once and looks over his shoulder.
“If you need anything,” he says, “you know where I am.”
* * *
I stand at the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows with a cup of coffee in my hand and wonder when exactly I became a man who stares at skylines imagining children’s bedrooms.
The answer is deeply embarrassing.
Since Emma.
After getting back from the coffee shop, I leaned in the bedroom doorway with my offering of pastries while she pulled on a sweatshirt.
The sight of her face, pale and tired, sparked concern that I had to hold back.
If I rush her out to urgent care, people will notice.
If I try to push too hard, she might pull away.
She needs time to think.
The reminder is like an arrow in my lung, but I take a deep breath through it. It’s completely reasonable for a woman who was supposed to be a one-night-stand, turned into a hostage, turned into a contracted employee, to want to think over an unexpected pregnancy.
There’s a knock on the suite door and I turn, coffee sloshing over the edge of the cup as I curse.
“Blyat’.”
Emma pops out of the bedroom, her curls wild, eyes wary as they dart to the door. Hurrying over to it, she opens it and lets room service in. That’s when I notice the pastry bag discarded on the nightstand.
A young man rolls in a cart, murmurs and gestures, and leaves with a slight bow. Emma gathers up a plate of fruit and blushes high on her cheeks.
“Sorry. I love pastries, but I just…I don’t know, I just want…” She gestures with her chin down at the plate, the blush deepening.
Oh, cravings, maybe?
“It’s fine,” I tell her, waving off the apology, and watch as she curls up on the couch with a sudden appetite. “You’re packed?”
She nods, tongue darting out to lick her lips, apprehension in her eyes. I know what she’s thinking: Is he going to ask me?
But no. I made a promise to let her think, and we’ve reached the end of her contract.
The definitive date of her release, and already this morning I called my accountant to have him move the funds to her bank account.
From here on out, she’s free. She’s got a flight out to California tomorrow morning, and a future she gets to determine, while I stay here and figure out how to root my brother out of the core of Colorado.
Part of me would understand if Emma chose not to keep the baby. The timing is terrible. Our relationship is complicated. Her future remains uncertain, even with the money I offered her.
I’m tempted to blurt out, right this moment, that I’d give her my entire Californian empire if it would make her feel safe. If she would choose…
There are a thousand practical reasons not to go through with this.
Yet every time I attempt to imagine that outcome, something twists unpleasantly in my chest.
I have never considered myself a family man. Even when I found Kate after months of searching, my intention was always to give her back to her mother. But then Shannon was so afraid, and taking Kate back to Santa Barbara was the only option.
The thought softens something inside me. I wouldn’t give up my niece for anything, even though it meant struggling for a few years as she settled into our life, finding hair-ties all over the house, coming home to loud music and girls laughing.
A smile threatens despite my best efforts.
My niece would probably be excited enough to launch herself through a wall. She would immediately begin planning names, decorating rooms, and informing every person she has ever met that she was getting a little cousin.
A chuckle escapes before I can stop it. Emma looks up, eyes wide, cheeks full. I try a reassuring smile, and it must work, because she sinks back into the couch, content to watch re-runs of Baywatch on the television.
The image of Kate meeting a baby should not affect me this much, yet it does.
Enough that I find myself lingering on the idea.
Enough that I begin imagining a future.
My phone rings and the spell breaks immediately. Stepan. The moment I answer, I know something is wrong.
“Boss.” His tone is clipped. Controlled. The way it gets when he’s trying not to say something offensive.
“What happened?”
A pause. Then: “What’s happening out there?”
“That’s a broad question. And one you’re paid not to ask, Stepan. I’d be careful if I were you.”
The warning, apparently, doesn’t faze him.
“The wedding is over.” Another pause. “You’re still in Colorado.”
I lean against the window, turning away from the flicker of the TV and Emma’s curious eyes.
“Your observational skills remain impressive.”
Stepan ignores that. “The woman you’re with—is she pregnant?”
The coffee nearly goes down the wrong pipe. I cough once, hard, and then try to catch my breath—with nothing to say.
“How?”
Stepan is quiet for a moment. The silence alone tells me I’m not going to like the answer, and he tries maneuvering around it.
“How what?”
“How did you find out?”
He sighs. “A tabloid. Local.”
Fuck. It’s only been two days, and somehow, a tabloid in California picked this up?
“What exactly did they publish?”
Stepan makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like amusement. I make a mental note to fire him later. Not permanently; just enough to make a point.
“There’s a photograph. Taken outside a pharmacy.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache starting to pulse in my temples. “And?”
“And the woman accompanying Colorado’s most infamous returning son appears to be purchasing several pregnancy tests.”
My gaze drifts toward the Denver skyline beyond the hotel windows. And then the realization hits like ice water: if this story is being sold in California, Andrei is undoubtedly reading the same article, only neighborhoods away.
He has the upper hand now; he has leverage.
“Send it.”
My phone vibrates less than five seconds later. I open the photograph.
Emma is standing outside the pharmacy carrying the exact bag I ripped from her hands two days ago. Her head is slightly down, curls falling around her face as she walks toward the street.
The image itself is harmless. The headline beneath it is not.
Questions Surround Smirnov's Companion After Pharmacy Visit.
I swear fluently in Russian.
“Should I start preparing for whatever this is?” Stepan asks, straight to the point.
Somewhere in the last few days, my carefully planned revenge operation has apparently become front-page gossip. And the answer to his question is far more complicated than either of us would like.
For a moment, the absurd image of Stepan buying a crib or stroller crosses my mind.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I have to go, Stepan.”
“Boss—”
I hang up. Then I stand there alone, coffee cooling in my hand, wondering what the hell happened to my priorities.
When I turn, Emma is no longer on the couch. The plate is on the coffee table; the rest of breakfast, scrambled eggs and orange juice, is untouched. I scan the room, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
If Andrei saw that headline, or anything like it, he knows that might be a child. And “might” is enough. A child is a weakness.
I need eyes on her now, and for every single second after.
Movement from the bedroom draws my attention. Striding toward it, I push through the doorway and stop.
Emma is finishing packing. Clothes cover half the bed. An open suitcase sits near her feet. She looks up immediately.
The moment she sees my expression, her own face tightens.
“What happened?”
I cross the room. “You aren’t going back to California.”
Her hands freeze. “What?”
“You are not going back.”
Confusion flashes across her face. Then concern.
“Rus.”
“Look.” I hold out my phone, and she takes it. Reads the article.
Goes pale.
She understands immediately; smart girl. My l’vyonak.
When she finally lifts her head, genuine fear sits in her eyes.
“Oh, Andrei--?”
“He knows,” I confirm, taking the phone back. The words come out harder than I meant them to. “He has to.”
Emma lowers herself onto the edge of the bed. For the first time since discovering the pregnancy, she looks truly frightened. Not uncertain or overwhelmed, but scared.
I kneel in front of her, unable to stop myself.
“Emma.”
She looks at me.
“What if he comes after us?” The question is quiet, like she already knows the answer. I reach for her hands.
“They won’t touch you.”
“Rus—”
“They won’t.”
The certainty in my voice surprises even me. But I mean it, every word.
“I will move mountains before I let someone hurt you. Or the baby.”
Her eyes shine when she looks away, and I hate that. Hate seeing her fear and the fact that it’s there because of me.
This started as revenge. I could have let her go. Could have decided that she was nothing more than a one-night stand.
When did she become so much more?
I tighten my grip slightly, squeezing her hands to draw her attention back.
“You are safe.”
Emma searches my face. I’m not sure what she’s looking for—a lie? A monster?
“Both of you are safe.”
The words hang between us. Emma’s breath stutters, as does mine. But after a moment, she nods, easing the tension in my chest. Just a little bit.
I hesitate. Then ask the question that has been tormenting me for days.
“Do you trust me?”
Emma stares at me, and for one terrible second, I think she won’t answer. Then her expression softens.
“Yes.”
The word is simple. Honest.
And it changes everything because now I have something to lose.