Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ella
Eight fifty-eight a.m.
I stared at my phone screen, at that string of hospital numbers, my finger hovering over the answer button without pressing down.
It wasn't ringing.
I set the phone down, picked it back up, set it down, picked it back up.
Misha sprawled beside me, chin pressed against my thigh, brown eyes rolling up to look at me.
"I don't know either," I said softly. "Misha, I don't know why they haven't called yet."
Maybe the equipment wasn't fixed?
Maybe they forgot to notify me?
Or...
Or had they already called Sergei?
The thought coiled around my heart like a snake, tighter and tighter.
What if Dr. Levinson contacted Sergei directly?
What if he already knew I was pregnant, sitting in his study right now—angry? Disappointed?
Sergei was still in the study.
He'd gone in at eight, been on the phone ever since. Through the door, I could hear his voice, all in Russian, tone cold and clipped, like he was handling something urgent.
I took a deep breath, flipped the phone facedown on the couch cushion, and forced myself not to look at it.
Still a whole hour.
I should use that hour to figure out—how to tell him, when to tell him, what approach to use, what the first words should be.
But my mind was blank. Every thought that surfaced scattered immediately, like oil in water, impossible to gather no matter how hard I tried.
The study door opened.
Sergei emerged, suit jacket already on, tie knotted, phone in hand, looking at something.
"I need to go out," he said.
What? Was he going to the hospital?
"Now?" I stood up, studying his expression. "Where?"
"The docks," he said. "Viktor's got an emergency situation. I have to handle it personally."
My heart seemed to skip a beat.
"Ella?"
He was calling me. I realized I'd frozen in place.
"Nothing," I said. "You go ahead. I'll wait for you at home."
He walked over, stood in front of me, looked down, those gray eyes resting on my face for a second.
"What's on your mind?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just thinking about lunch."
He looked at me, didn't press, "Porter's outside. Call him if you need anything."
"Okay."
He turned, grabbed his keys from the table, and headed for the entrance.
"Sergei," I called after him.
He turned back.
I wanted to say something, but when the words reached my lips, they became something else. "Drive safe."
He nodded. "Two to three hours," he said. "Wait for me."
The door closed.
I stood in the entryway, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway, listening to the elevator doors open and close.
The apartment fell silent again.
Misha jumped down from beside my legs, walked to the entrance, sniffed at the door, then came back, nudging my hand with her nose.
I stroked Misha's head, soothing the anxious little dog.
I picked up my phone, thought about texting Sasha, put it down again.
Sasha would force me to spill everything, then lecture me about what I should do. But right now, I didn't want to be told what to do. I needed to figure this out myself.
I tossed the phone aside, stood up, walked into the kitchen, and poured a glass of water.
I should feel relieved.
Sergei wasn't here. I didn't have to worry about him suddenly getting a call from the hospital.
But somehow, I felt even more uneasy.
That unease—it wasn't about the hospital. It was something else.
Deeper. More instinctive.
Like something bad was about to happen.
I stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
The snow had stopped outside. A thin layer of white remained on the ground, crushed gray by passing wheels and footsteps. Only the tree branches still held clean snow, glinting faintly in the winter sunlight.
My hand rested on my abdomen, just lightly, over my sweater.
Misha walked to my feet, nuzzled my leg with her nose, let out a low whimper.
"You worried about him, too?" I crouched down, stroking her head.
She rested her head on my knee, those amber eyes looking at me, tail wagging once.
"We'll wait for him together, okay?"
Time crawled by.
I sat back on the couch, picked up the vest, but couldn't get the needle through.
My fingers were shaking.
That sense of unease kept growing stronger.
Pop.
A muffled sound, not from inside, like it came from somewhere far away, or muffled by walls.
I frowned, listening.
Another sound.
I clutched the needle and walked back to the living room.
Misha jumped up from the rug, ears perked, nose twitching, letting out a low, deep howl.
I'd never heard her make that sound.
"Misha?"
She walked to the door, started growling low, whole body tensed, fur standing on end.
My heart seized.
"Porter—" I turned, about to call out, when—
The door exploded inward.
BANG!
I stumbled backward instinctively, hit the coffee table behind me, and caught myself with one hand.
Two men in black jackets burst in from the hallway, faces covered, one already raising a gun.
Then a third man.
My brain short-circuited in that instant.
Because I recognized him.
Even with the lower half of his face covered, I recognized those eyes, that stance, that habit of leaning slightly right when he walked.
"Dmitri."
He pulled down the mask and grinned at me. "Ella. Long time no see."
That face, that smile, exactly like I remembered. But standing in my broken doorway now, two armed men behind him, filled me with complete, overwhelming absurdity.
"Wh-what are you doing here?"
"Taking you with me," he said, stepping inside. "Don't scream. Won't help. Your bodyguard's been dealt with."
"Porter—"
"He's not dead," Dmitri said, tone casual. "But he can't help you right now."
Misha lunged.
She went for Dmitri's leg, clamped down on his pants and wouldn't let go, growling low, whole body pulling backward like she wanted to rip his leg clean off.
"Fuck!" Dmitri staggered back a step, tried to shake her off. "Get her off me!"
But Misha's bite held firm, canines sunk deep, eyes blazing with a ferocity I'd never seen.
"Let go! You goddamn—"
He smashed the gun butt into Misha's head.
Once.
Twice.
"No!" I screamed, rushing forward. "Don't hurt her! Dmitri!"
Another man grabbed me, seized my arm, and yanked me backward.
I struggled, kicked, and clawed at his hands, but he was too strong. I couldn't move.
Then I saw—
The third blow, right to Misha's temple.
"No, don't!"
"Misha, run!"
Too late.
Misha let out a pained whimper, finally released her grip, and collapsed on the carpet.
Her eyes were still open, looking at me. Her tail tried to wag but only managed one weak thump against the floor before going still.
"Misha!"
My voice broke.
A gunshot rang out in the hallway, then sounds of fighting. Porter's voice.
One of the masked men went down with a muffled grunt.
But Dmitri already had me, arm locked around my throat, dragging me toward the door.
"Porter!" I screamed. "Por—"
"Shut up!" Dmitri's gun pressed against my temple, cold metal nearly embedding in my skin.
In the hallway, Porter was blocked by another man, the two grappling. He saw me being dragged away, his expression something I'd never seen before—fury burning to its absolute limit.
But he was blocked.
I was dragged to the balcony.
Cold wind rushed in, carrying snowflakes, stinging my face raw.
"Down!" He shoved me toward the fire escape.
The metal ladder swayed in the wind, creaking.
"Move it!"
The gun jammed into my back. I had no choice but to climb down.
My fingers were stiff with cold, couldn't grip the rails. Snow had accumulated on the ladder, slippery. I slipped several times and nearly fell.
"Faster!"
Footsteps pounded above, rapid, and Russian voices over radios.
But Dmitri had planned everything.
When we reached the third floor, he suddenly shoved me sideways.
"Jump!"
"What—"
Below was the first-floor awning, piled with thick snow.
"Jump!"
He kicked me in the waist. I lost balance and fell from the fire escape.
Landed on the awning. The thick snow cushioned the impact, but I still hit hard enough to feel my organs shifting.
Dmitri jumped down after me, landing beside me.
"Move!"
He pulled me to the awning's edge, we slid down, dropped into an alley.
A black car idled there, engine running.
"Get in!"
He shoved me into the back seat, then climbed in himself.
"Drive!"
The driver floored it. The car lurched forward, tires spinning wildly on the snow with a sharp screech, then shot ahead.
I was thrown against the seat. Dmitri pressed over me, gun against my ribs.
"Don't move," he said, panting. "Ella, behave. I don't want to hurt you."
"You already did," I said, voice shaking. "Porter, Misha—"
"They won't die!" he shouted. "I said I don't want to kill anyone!"
"Then why are you doing this?!"
"Because I have no choice!" His voice held something close to breaking. "Because this is my only chance—my only chance to take back what's mine from him!"
The car drove fast. Insanely fast.
Through Manhattan, through Brooklyn, toward increasingly remote areas.
The scenery outside grew stranger. Skyscrapers became low warehouses, streetlights grew sparse, finally almost disappeared.
The road changed from smooth asphalt to potholed gravel. The car bounced violently. My head hit the roof repeatedly.
"We're here," the driver said.
The car stopped.
Through the window I saw outside—abandoned docks, rusted shipping containers and broken planks everywhere. Old warehouses crouched in the darkness like monsters, shattered windows like empty eyes.
The East River nearby, black water glinting coldly in the moonlight.
"Out," Dmitri said, opening the door, pulling me out.
Cold wind hit my face, carrying the fishy smell of river water and the rust of industrial waste, choking me into coughing fits.
"Move!"
He pushed me toward the largest warehouse, gun constantly pressed to my lower back.
The ground was covered in broken glass and nails. I could feel their sharpness through my shoe soles.
The metal door stood half-open, dim yellow light leaking out.
I was shoved inside.