I’m in the middle of a business call with our Prague contact when Maksim walks into my office without knocking. He stands in the doorway with tension that suggests whatever he’s carrying is going to complicate my day significantly.
The conversation on the phone involves final arrangements for Irina’s capture. Our team has her under surveillance and will move within the week. It should be the culmination of ten years of searching, but I’m distracted by Maksim’s presence, along with the lingering, intermittent memories of Sabrina that constantly haunt me, blindsiding me during the most mundane and the most dangerous moments, with no apparent trigger. Forgetting her is proving to be impossible.
He says nothing at first, just standing there holding a manila folder like it contains something explosive, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
I wrap up the call quickly. “We’ll continue this later.”
After ending the call, I look up at him expectantly. He crosses the room with deliberate steps and tosses the folder onto my desk without ceremony. “Close whatever you’re working on,” he says, nodding toward my computer screen. There’s almost a note of… pity in his voice.
His gravity makes me comply without question. I minimize the financial reports I’ve been reviewing and turn my full attention to whatever crisis requires his immediate intervention.
“I didn’t know whether to tell you about this,” he says finally, leaning against the edge of my desk. “It seemed like some kind of weird, twist of fate that she’d pick a business you own through legitimate means for this, but I don’t think she’s manipulating you. I doubt she knew you own the clinic.”
I open the folder, and my world tilts sideways. The first thing I see is a grainy surveillance photograph taken outside the urgent care clinic on Fifth Street. The timestamp shows it was taken three weeks ago. The image quality is typical security camera footage, functional but not particularly clear, yet I recognize the subject immediately.
Sabrina.
She’s captured mid-stride as she steps out through the glass doors, one hand cradling her stomach in a gesture that’s both unconscious and protective. The other hand holds what appears to be paperwork, and another woman walks beside her, arm around her waist as though offering support. Sabrina is wearing an oversized hoodie that makes her look smaller than I remember, and her face is pale and exhausted in a way that speaks to more than just lack of sleep.
Attached to the surveillance photo is a printout that makes the air leave my lungs in a rush. It’s her medical file, complete with test results, appointment notes, and a diagnosis that hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Pregnant. She was twelve weeks gestation at the time of visit.
I read the information once, my brain struggling to process what I’m seeing. Then I read it again, more slowly, as the news starts to sink in. She’s pregnant with my child, and she never told me.
I feel faint for a moment as I stare at the numbers on the page. Twelve weeks at the time of the visit, which was three weeks ago. That makes her fifteen weeks now. Fifteen weeks of carrying my child and saying nothing. Fifteen weeks of morning sickness and doctor appointments and prenatal vitamins, all handled alone. That can’t be because it was thirteen weeks, two days, and roughly six hours since she left me… Since I sent her away, I remind myself.
I look closer at the information and soon realize the NP calculated it from the date of her last period, not conception. There’s no question the baby is mine then. “How did you get this?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Maksim straightens and crosses his arms. “From a routine audit of all visitors to all your legitimate businesses. We do this every few weeks to make sure there are no known associates of our enemies scoping out our legit operations.”
I set down the papers carefully, fighting to keep my hands steady. “The medical file, I mean?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Easy enough since you own most of the urgent care facilities in the area. This clinic is one of them.” He pauses, studying my reaction carefully. “When her name flagged in our security review, it was simple to access her records through the backdoor our IT people programmed into all your businesses. All your medical properties use the same database system, and we have access to them all.”
Of course. I’d forgotten about the clinic on Fifth Street, which is one of dozens of legitimate businesses I own throughout California. Those investments provide both income and cover for our other activities. She had no way of knowing she was walking into a facility I controlled when she chose it for her pregnancy test.
I let out a harsh laugh when I see a note added to the file that it was also faxed to Women’s Associates four days after Sabrina’s visit at her request, which is another clinic I own. Her regular prenatal care will be done by a doctor technically in my employment as well. The irony would be amusing if I weren’t fighting the urge to put my fist through the wall.
I stand from my chair and move to the window that overlooks the forest surrounding my estate. It’s the same forest she ran through that night when she tried to escape, though from a different direction, where we have the safe house, bleeding and desperate and completely unprepared for the dangers that waited in the darkness.
Now she’s pregnant, and she’s still trying to handle things on her own. “She didn’t even give me the chance to protect her,” I say quietly.
“Sir?”
I turn to face Maksim, and whatever he sees in my expression makes him take a step back. “She’s carrying my child, and she’s trying to survive without me. Like I wouldn’t have moved heaven and earth to keep them both safe.”
“Maybe she thought you wouldn’t want—”
“She thought wrong.” The words come out sharp enough to cut glass. “She thought she could make this decision unilaterally, could carry my blood and handle it like it’s her problem to solve instead of our situation to navigate together.”
Rage coils low in my chest, cold and controlled but unmistakably lethal. Not rage at the pregnancy, which surprises me with an intensity that’s closer to overwhelming joy than anger. It’s rage at her presumption that she had the right to keep this from me, and rage at the thought of her facing prenatal appointments, morning sickness, expenses, and all the fears that come with pregnancy without anyone to support her.
Like she ever had the option to run from what we created together.
I’ve spent thirteen weeks telling myself letting her go was the right choice. She’s better off without me and safer in her normal life than she would be in my world. I convinced myself that caring about her meant protecting her from the dangers in my life, but this development erases all of that careful rationalization. She’s not just a woman I care about anymore. She’s the mother of my child, and that makes her mine in a way that transcends choice or preference or what might be best for her.
She belongs to me now just as the child belongs to me. Whatever fantasy she’s been living about handling this independently ends today. “Get my car.”
“Nikandr, maybe we should think about this—”
“Get my car,” I repeat, my voice carrying the kind of authority that ends conversations. “I want Viktor ready to move in ten minutes.”
Maksim doesn’t argue, knowing better than to question me when I’m using that tone, and the decision has been made and all that remains is execution.
He carefully sidesteps it but is still registering a different form of protest when he asks, “What about Prague? The operation is scheduled for tomorrow.”
I glare at him. “Prague can wait. This is more important.”
His eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. He looks genuinely shocked that I’d put anything about the operation to find and bring in Irina. Moments ago, I would have been shocked too if someone had been audacious enough to claim there could ever be anything more important than bringing down Vadim and getting revenge for my brother’s murder, but all it took was a grain surveillance photograph and new knowledge to change every damned thing once again.
After he leaves, I stare at the photo again, memorizing every detail of Sabrina’s appearance, including the protective way she holds her stomach. The exhaustion etched into her features worries me, and I wonder how she’s managing alone. The woman beside her must be her roommate Jessie, whom she mentioned several times during interrogation, so she isn’t completely alone.
Fifteen weeks.
I grab my phone and do a quick Internet search, learning the first trimester is already over, which means she’s past the highest risk period for miscarriage. She might have felt the baby move already and probably lies awake at night with her hand on her stomach wondering if it’s a boy or a girl. She probably has a hundred questions about labor and delivery and how she’s going to manage as a single mother.
Those are all thoughts I should have been part of from the time she discovered she was pregnant. These are all decisions I should have been helping her make the past three weeks.
I check my watch. It’s three in the afternoon, which means she’s probably getting ready for work. The club doesn’t open until evening, but the staff typically arrives around four to set up for the night shift. If I leave now, I can be there when she arrives. Fortunately, Viktor is waiting with the SUV when I step out of the house a short time later.
The drive to Modesto gives me time to think and plan exactly how this conversation is going to unfold. Viktor drives while I sit in the passenger seat, reviewing everything I know about Sabrina’s life since she left the safe house. Her work schedule, her living situation, and her financial struggles. Before this, it was all information that seemed irrelevant when I was trying to convince myself to stay away from her. Now it’s intel that will help me understand exactly how I’m bringing her into my world.
She’s been working at the club five nights a week, probably trying to save money before the pregnancy becomes visible, and she’s forced to take a lesser position or maternity leave. She shares that cramped apartment with her roommate, splitting rent on a place that’s barely suitable for two people, let alone two people and a baby. She has no family support and no safety net beyond whatever pathetic savings account she’s managed to accumulate on a cocktail waitress salary. Most of her salary goes to paying medical bills that aren’t even her legal responsibility.
She’s been trying to prepare for single motherhood with nothing but determination and hope, and the thought of her struggling alone while carrying my child makes something violent and protective surge through my chest.
That ends today.
The club is exactly as I remember it. The parking lot is mostly empty except for a few cars that probably belong to staff members. I can’t really be sure until I see her, but my senses attune to her, and I’m sure she’s here. She’s close, and she has no idea how things are going to change after today.
“Stay with the car,” I say to Viktor as he parks near the street. “I’ll handle this myself.”
“Sir, are you sure that’s wise? If she makes a scene—”
“She won’t make a scene. She’s too smart for that.” I check my weapon out of habit, then think better of it and leave it in the car. The last thing I need is for Sabrina to think I’m here to threaten her. “This is a conversation, not a confrontation.”
Viktor looks skeptical but doesn’t argue. He knows better than most that when I make up my mind about something, discussion is pointless. I see him getting out the parabolic mic as I start to jog toward the door. I allow it since he’ll be on edge enough without being able to see me. At least hearing me will reassure him I’m safe, and I don’t particularly care who hears the conversation that’s about to take place right now, still stewing in anger that she didn’t tell me despite my concerns for her.
