36. Emma
Emma
By the twelfth day at the cabin, I almost forget we’re hiding. A small part of me looks for Ruslan every morning, but I shake it off as soon as Frank starts making coffee.
Despite his complaints that there are no bocce courts, no barbers (he doesn’t need a haircut), and no delis around, we’ve settled into a quiet routine.
I get why Rus’ father came here, and why Rus kept the cabin as well.
It’s quiet in a way that makes me feel settled and sure.
I’m not second-guessing myself the way I did in the hustle and bustle of Miami, Denver, and California.
Somewhere between making breakfast, reading in front of the woodstove, and walking the trails around the property, I’ve started sleeping through the night again. It scares me a little how easy it is.
Late that afternoon, Frank suggests we drive into West River to pick up groceries before another storm rolls through.
I haven’t heard anything from Rus in two days now, and it takes everything in me not to ask Frank, like a jealous teenage girl, if he’s heard anything or why my cell is radio silent.
You don’t have service; I remind myself, taking a deep, slow breath. You haven’t the whole time you’ve been at the cabin.
The air is cold enough to sting my cheeks as Frank and I climb out of the truck on the main street. Tiny white flakes drift lazily through the gray sky, dissolving before they ever reach the ground. They barely qualify as snow, but I stop walking anyway, smiling as I tip my face toward the clouds.
“It’s trying,” I murmur.
Frank follows my gaze. “The weather?”
“The snow.”
“It appears to be lacking commitment.”
“It still counts,” I laugh, grinning at the way his nose scrunches up in distaste.
A few flakes catch in my hair before disappearing.
They’re gone almost as quickly as they arrive, but somehow that makes them more beautiful.
The last traces of autumn cling stubbornly to the mountains around us, and for the first time in weeks, I feel something I haven’t allowed myself to entertain.
Hope.
Frank notices.
“I haven’t seen that expression in a while.”
“What expression?”
“The one that says you’re actually enjoying yourself.”
“I am.” The admission surprises me. “I think I needed to disappear for a little while.”
Frank smiles warmly. “I suspect everyone does, eventually. I tend to go to Umbria to do so, but…” He shrugs. “To each their own.”
The little grocery store smells of fresh bread, cinnamon, and coffee. It’s cozy enough that I immediately forget the cold outside, wandering toward the produce while Frank becomes unexpectedly invested in comparing jars of imported olives.
“Who would have thought?” He calls, holding up a jar that is too blurry for me to understand if it’s impressive or not. But he tucks it into his shopping basket, either ignoring or not noticing the look from the store owner.
I shake my head, laughing as I pull apples from a display. My phone buzzes.
It fumbles across my fingertips, almost taking a dive to the tiled floor, as I pull it out. Rus?
Three bars. Then the notifications begin flooding in.
Voicemails, missed calls, text messages. Before I can process any of them, my phone rings again. The name on the screen flashes up:
Matty.
“Oh, no.”
Frank appears at my side, a package of lox and fresh herbs now joining the jarred olives.
“Everything all right?”
“It’s my sister.”
His eyes search my face, probably taking in just how complicated this moment is even though he doesn’t know anything about my past. I’m sure at some point, Rus must’ve told him about my plans to start over somewhere. Which he can probably guess means my relationship with my family is strained.
“Answer it.”
I hesitate only a second before swiping across the screen.
“Hi, Matty.”
“Emma!”
I instinctively hold the phone away from my ear.
“‘Hi?’! That’s all you have to say? Where the hell have you been, Emma? Mom and Dad are worried—”
Several shoppers glance in my direction. I duck into the end of the aisle, lowering my voice. Frank lingers somewhere close, but gives me some privacy.
“I’m alive.”
“I can see that because you finally answered your phone!”
I close my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Your vacation ended almost two weeks ago, and we haven’t heard from you.”
“I just extended it a bit. And where I’ve been, I don’t have service.”
“You didn’t think you should let anyone know that you were disappearing somewhere with no service? Mom and Dad have been freaking out.”
I frown. Because while, yes, I did have quite a few missed calls, most were from Matilda.
“They’ve called twice,” I tell her, voice flat. Already this conversation is going down the same path it always does. “That’s... not exactly a campaign.”
Frank quietly cozies up beside me, pretending to compare pasta sauces while very obviously listening.
“I’ve been worried sick,” Matty continues. “Mom is convinced you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere, Dad keeps pretending everything’s fine, and I was this close to hiring a private investigator.”
Oh God.
“You were what?”
“I already had three recommendations.”
A laugh of astonishment and fear slips out before I can stop it. If she’d actually contacted a PI, I can only imagine that it would’ve gotten back to the FBI, who would’ve wondered where a key witness in a trial that put a crime boss behind bars went missing.
That’s not how I want Ruslan to find out about who I used to be; not when I haven’t even told him I’m planning on keeping the baby.
“Matty...”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. That’s too far.”
“No, you’re clearly not because you disappeared when you were supposed to be back home with Mom and Dad right after vacation.”
I glance toward Frank, who very politely studies a can of tomatoes.
“I appreciate that you’re worried,” I say carefully, “but I promise I’m okay.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
The question steals my breath. How do I explain that I’m hiding in a mountain cabin with a Bratva leader because his politician half-brother wants to destroy us?
How do I explain the baby?
Before I can come up with anything, Matty speaks again, her voice quieter now.
“Emma, every grocery checkout in New York has your picture on the cover of a tabloid.”
The world seems to stop. I slowly lift my eyes toward Frank.
His expression changes the instant he sees my face.
Because he knows.
Whatever my sister is about to say next, it’s far worse than any missed phone calls.
I stare down at the shelf in front of me, suddenly unable to remember why I’d picked up a bag of flour.
“Emma?” Matty’s voice cuts through the silence. “Say something.”
I draw a slow breath, knowing there’s no version of this conversation that ends well.
“I met someone.”
The words leave my mouth before I can reconsider them. On the other end of the line, my sister is quiet for all of three seconds.
“You met someone.”
“Yes.”
“On your vacation.”
“It’s why I extended the trip.”
“Emma. Please tell me the magazines are wrong.”
When I don’t say anything, she growls out, “You don’t even know him; you can’t. It’s been—”
“A month.” A little more than that, but now doesn’t seem like the right time to get exact.
Matty lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Emma, you can’t be serious.” I pinch the bridge of my nose as her voice hardens, gets technical, the way it used to when we argued as teenagers. It’s what makes her an intimidating and excellent lawyer. It’s also why we don’t talk much.
“You can’t possibly know somebody in a month.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that. This is exactly what I’m talking about. You dive headfirst into things without thinking.”
“I did think.”
“You always think you did.”
The words sting more than I expect.
“I’ve spent every day with him.”
“Thirty days.”
“We’ve been through things together.”
“Thirty days, Emma. And you’re pregnant.”
I sigh, already exhausted. And angry now, too, in a way I haven’t been before…the hormones, maybe?
“You don’t understand.”
“No,” Matty says sharply. “Apparently I don’t.”
I glance toward Frank, who has quietly moved farther down the aisle once more.
He pretends to study boxes of cereal, though I know he’s listening closely enough to intervene if he needs to.
Crazy that an older gay man I met in California and have only been around a handful of times is more concerned for me than my actual family.
“I know how this sounds,” I say. “But you need to trust me, Matty. I’m an adult.”
“Then listen to yourself. You’re twenty-six, Emma, and judging from the magazine covers, I’m guessing this guy is quite a bit older.”
I scoff, feeling a twinge of annoyance in my gut. Because yes, Rus is older. But he’s more of a man, more of a gentleman, than any guy “my own age” I’ve ever dated. And Matilda definitely shouldn’t be talking about relationships, considering her track record.
“I trust him, Matty, and that’s all that matters to me right now.”
“You trust a man you’ve known for a month.”
“Yes.”
She laughs again, incredulously.
“This doesn’t even sound like you.”
“Maybe it is me.”
“No.” Her answer comes instantly. “This is the Emma who quit the FBI because she got scared. You’re just looking for somewhere to hide, Emma, and this guy sounds like he’s more than happy to let a young, vulnerable woman come in and mess up his life.”
I stiffen.
“This is the Emma who ignored every red flag about that guy in Colorado—”
Andrei. Anger roils just under the surface, hot, because how dare she. She has no idea what I went through with Andrei.
“That’s not fair.”
“And now you’re doing it again.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No.”
“Then who is he?”
There’s something smug in her voice that makes me hesitate.
I should lie.
I know I should.
Instead, I hear myself answer honestly: “His name is Ruslan Smirnov.”
But she already knows that, it dawns on me as I slowly put the bag of flour back on the shelf. Matty is too smart not to have looked into him already. Which means—
“Get away from him.”
Her voice is cold and flat. Resolute.
“What?”
“I said, get away from him.”