Even as I know she isn’t.

  20

  TAYLOR

  “Ow!” I gasp, keeling forward at a sudden stab of pain and grabbing my stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” Mila asks.

  “I…I can’t breathe…”

  She scoots closer to me and cups the back of my neck. Her hands are cool and dry. “Put your head between your legs.” She gently pushes me down into position. “And breathe deeply.”

  “I…I… What if she’s dead?” I gasp, trying to suck in air between my words. “She can’t be dead… If she’s dead, how can she beat the cancer…? Oh, God, something hurts…”

  “Take deep breaths,” Mila instructs from just above me. She barks something at the driver in what I’m fairly sure is Russian. We pick up speed. The engine whines and growls beneath us.

  I can breathe better hunched over like this, but it’s not doing a thing for my panic. Every time I close my eyes, I see Mom’s face. The shock, the horror, the numbness. It’s how she looked when the doctor told her she had cancer. When I found her at the kitchen table with the phone in her hand humming a dull dial tone, the call long since ended but the news of her sickness still fresh and terrifying.

  And the rest of my family… I haven’t even seen what happened to Dad and Celine. Who knows where they are? If they’re okay? If they found a tunnel like I did, or if the bullets found them first?

  The more I think, the more I spiral. I see Mom lying on the grass, blood spilling out of her as the life drains from her.

  And what did I do?

  I ran.

  Is that the last image she’ll be left with? The fleeting sight of her own daughter fleeing in the opposite direction after witnessing her get shot?

  “Taylor!” Mila yells.

  I jerk upright, wild with panic. “We have to go back.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “W-what?”

  I look down at my torso, the same place Mom had been shot, expecting to see blood there. Is it possible that I was hit as well and just didn’t notice? It would explain why I have this pain in my side.

  “I think you just got your period,” she says wearily, as though I’ve just sprung an irritating inconvenience on her.

  I slide down the seat and realize that I’ve smeared blood on the black cushion. “Oh, God,” I gasp, realizing what might be happening, as another jolt of pain lances down my side. “This can’t be happening…”

  “What do you mean?” Mila asks. She glances towards the driver. “For fuck’s sake, Anton, step on it, will you? Taylor, is there something I should know?”

  I should be telling my own family about this. Not this violent, random stranger who threatened me at gunpoint. But the words slip off my tongue, fueled by fear and the growing realization that I do want this baby. More than I thought I did.

  And that, if I don’t speak the truth now, it might be too late.

  “I-I’m pregnant,” I gasp, clinging to the edges of my seat. “And I think…I think I might be miscarrying.”

  I close my eyes and lie back against the seat. I spent so much time worrying about this pregnancy that I hadn’t stopped to consider everything else that came with it. I’ve been worrying about the consequences, the reactions—so it’s ironic that it takes something like this to make me think of the baby at the end of all of it.

  “How far along are you?” It’s a thoughtful question, but I know she’s not asking to be sweet. She’s like Ilarion in that sense: gathering info, cold, calculating, always assessing the angles and weighing the odds. I’m just a variable in her equations. My baby is, too.

  “Ten weeks,” I whisper.

  Her eyes meet mine, rife with suspicion. I can practically hear the gears whirring in her head. Please don’t ask me, I think to myself. I don’t have the strength to lie today.

  She nods crisply. “We have a doctor on staff. He’ll meet us at the Diamond.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s another one of the Zakharov family properties,” she says. “You’ll get the help you need there.”

  I want to scream, but I don’t have the strength to do any more of that. Doesn’t she get it? The only thing I really need is to know that my family is okay. The only thing I need is to get out of this fucked-up world as soon as I can.

  And take my family with me.

  21

  TAYLOR

  As it turns out, the Diamond is just like Zakharov House, but miniaturized. The same lush wilderness swaddling it from the rest of the world, the same ornate sandstone blocks rising into gargoyles and spires and flanged spikes on the walls. The only difference is the huge diamond shape laid into the tile floors in the foyer. Very subtle.

  Not that I’m in the mood to appreciate architecture. I’d rather be in hell, if it meant that I was assured of my family’s safety. Surely, surely, Celine couldn’t have known about all this. She couldn't have known that her fiancé was some kind of crime boss.

  I mean, the likelihood that a man as young as Ilarion Zakharov could have amassed so much wealth without doing something illegal is slim to none, and slim just left town. But like I said before, my sister chooses to believe the best in everyone.

  Even when she shouldn’t.

  The car comes to a stop, but I don’t move to get out. I feel like I’m floating inside the confines of my own body. My limbs are dead and numb and my mouth tastes like ash. The blood smeared on the insides of my thighs has cooled to a scab.

  It’s not until Mila pulls open my door that I’m forced back into my body.

  “Come on,” she says, a bit gentler than she’s said anything else to date. “Let’s get you inside.”

  “I don’t want to come inside.”

  She sighs audibly, then bends down so that she’s at eye level with me. “If you’re miscarrying, Taylor, you need a doctor.”

  “Then drive me to a hospital so I can see one.”

  “We have a doctor right here.”

  “I’m not letting your morally corrupt voodoo mob doctor poke and prod me and then pronounce me ready for euthanasia,” I snap, ignoring the pain in my stomach that accompanies my rising temper.

  Mila arches one skeptical eyebrow. “So you’re okay with losing the baby then?” I flinch, and she nods. “That’s what I thought. Dr. Baranov delivered both Ilarion and me. He’s a family doctor, not a—what was your word choice?—a ‘morally corrupt voodoo mob doctor.’ And considering everything I just went through to get you out of that disaster, letting him kill you is not high on my list. Same goes for your child. So unless you decide you don’t want this baby, I’d suggest you get your ass out here and follow me.”

  Geez. And I thought I was blunt.

  I get out of the car reluctantly, and almost immediately, my head spins. “Shit,” I gasp, keeling forward.

  Mila lunges forward to grab me before I faceplant in the gravel. I’m impressed at how sturdy she is. Not that she’s small or anything; I just didn’t expect to feel biceps flexing in those slender arms as she takes some of my weight.

  “Okay, dial it back,” she croons. “Let’s go nice and slow.”

  She tucks an arm around my waist, loops one of mine over her shoulders, and together, we shuffle up the drive, up the stairs, and through the front doors.

  She leads me past a wall of stormy ocean paintings and into a room that overlooks an enclosed part of the garden. There’s a bed in the center of the room, a writing desk by the window, and an intricately carved wardrobe that looks like it’ll lead me to Narnia.

  “Lie down,” Mila instructs me. “Dr. Baranov should be here any moment.”

  She helps me onto my back. Every motion brings a fresh wave of pain, but I grit my teeth and bear it. I won’t cry out. I won’t beg for help.

  Mom would want me to be strong.

  I’m not on the bed five seconds before I ask the same question I asked earlier: “Who are you people?”

  Her frown sharpens. She’s got a lot of her brother in her features. Her eyes are the same shape, but where his irises are a misty blue, hers are such a dark chocolate brown, they’re almost black. She also shares his square jaw and thick eyebrows, though her high cheekbones and full lips are uniquely her own.

  She’s unconventionally beautiful. Still, though, there's a kind of pent-up violence inherent in her posture. Even when she’s at ease, it feels like she’s poised for attack.

  “Who do you think we are?” Her head tilts to one side as she waits for me to answer. It’s just short of patronizing.

  I roll my eyes before wincing at the sharp jolt of pain that skitters along my spine. “I hate people who answer questions with a question.”

  “And I hate people who ask questions they already know the answers to,” she snaps back.

  We glare at one another, eyes narrowed and jaws tightened. It would be a lot more impressive if I weren’t lying on a bed, soiling the sheets with blood.

  “Okay,” I say at last, conceding the high ground. “We’ve established how we feel about each other. Now, how about you answer my question?”

  “You’ve met my brother?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Her lips don’t so much as twitch, but her eyes shimmer like she’s laughing. “He’s the pakhan of the Zakharov Bratva.”

  “Pakhan? B-Bratva?” I stutter over the unfamiliar words. “Sounds… Russian.”

  “Ding-ding-ding,” Mila says, touching a finger to her nose.

  “Sounds a little sus, too.”

  “Nothing gets past you, does it, angel?”

  “Shit.” I close my eyes and try to breathe through my shock. It’s not difficult to piece things together. I’m surrounded by the Russian mob, away from my family, who may or may not be dead, and all because… oh, double shit.

  “Does my sister know?”

  Before she can answer—if she was ever going to answer—the door opens and the doctor walks in. I suddenly believe Mila’s story about him delivering both her and her brother, because this man looks older than time itself. His nose hairs have lived longer than I have.

  His gray hair is shorn close to the scalp, and he has the tired grace of a war veteran. He places his black leather medical bag on the floor and looks at me through his round, rimmed glasses.

  “Hello, my dear. What’s your name?”

  He talks to me as though we’ve just been introduced at a garden party. Presumably one that wasn’t overrun by psychopaths wielding guns. “Taylor.”

  “Taylor,” he repeats with a kindly smile that puts me at ease. “My name is Dr. Baranov. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”

  I nod, in part because he does seem genuine and competent, and also because I can sense Mila lurking right next to me, and I don’t doubt that she’d love to pull out her gun and convince me to talk to Dr. Baranov if I was entertaining any notions of doing otherwise.

  He gives me another warm smile. “Wonderful. How far along are you, Taylor?”

  “Ten weeks. I went for a check-up this morning, actually.”

  “Excellent, excellent. Do you mind if I examine you, Taylor? You’ll feel mild discomfort, but no pain.”

  I nod again mutely.

  “Mila,” Dr. Baranov says as he tugs on a pair of black latex gloves, “would you mind giving Taylor and me some privacy?”

  Mila doesn’t look very happy about it, but she slips out of the room without argument. The moment the door snaps shut, I sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. Tell me, Doc, did she come out of her mother’s womb scowling?”

  He chuckles as he begins to poke and prod at my stomach. “No, that was her brother. Mila came out with tears in her eyes. It was almost like she was made for suffering.”

  I shudder as I regard the old man with new curiosity. “That’s… bleak.”

  “Life is indeed bleak at times, in this house more than most,” he agrees solemnly. “The fact that you’re here at all proves that.”

  I have no idea if he’s referring to me being here with the Zakharovs, or me being here miscarrying. Honestly, it’s a toss-up, and I don’t feel like asking him to clarify.

  “Can I ask you a question and will you promise to be honest?”

  “As honest as I can be.” He rummages through his bag for some complex-looking medical device and begins gliding it around the surface of my stomach.

  “That’s a shady response.”

  He chuckles again. I like that; it makes me feel more at ease. It makes me feel like things can’t be so bad as long as that sound exists in the world.

  “Yes, I suppose it is. I can only promise that I will do my best.”

  “That’s not much better, but I’ll take it. Are you a mob doctor?”

  He doesn’t so much as lift an eyebrow. “I’m whatever I need to be to serve the Zakharov family.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He smiles and peers at me over the top of his glasses. “Where’d they find you, little truth-teller?”

  “They didn’t,” I rasp. “They found my sister. I’m just… a casualty.” The truth of that statement hits deeper than I intended.

  The doctor shakes his head. “No, I think not. You’re no casualty.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “A casualty would never have made it past the door.”

  “Are you trying to tell me I’m special?” I snort. “Because I gotta tell you, Doc, I just saw my mother get shot. I have no idea where my sister and father are. I have no idea if any of them are dead or alive. I have no trust in any of the people here, and—no offense, because you truly do seem lovely—that includes you. And on top of all of that, I’m miscarrying. Which I should want, but the fact is, I don’t.”

  The tears are sliding down my face by the time I’m done speaking, but I’m too wrecked to care. Dr. Baranov rests his liver-spotted hand over mine and gives me a smile that makes me feel guilty about telling him I don’t trust him.

  “You’re dealing with many burdens,” he says. “But miscarrying isn’t one of them.”

  “W-what?”

  “The fetus is intact, Taylor,” he informs me, helping me to sit upright. “I heard a heartbeat and it was strong as an ox. You’re still pregnant, and from what I heard, it sounds like you’re going to stay that way.”

  I watch as he puts his tools away. He performed an entire examination on me, and I was too busy talking to notice.

  “B-but…I was bleeding.”

  “A result of the trauma you just experienced, most assuredly. It was triggered by stress,” he explains. “Bleeding can sometimes occur during even the most relaxed of pregnancies. It’s what’s known as a ‘breakthrough period.’ Even given what you’ve suffered through today, it’s nothing a little rest won’t cure.”

  I collapse back against the pillow and stare up at the ceiling for a moment. “I didn’t lose the baby,” I whisper. “I didn’t lose my baby.”

  I didn’t lose our baby.

  I take a deep breath and it’s a relief to realize that they’re coming a little easier. Then the door bursts open…

  And Ilarion storms in.

  His eyes land on me and it’s as good as if he’d zapped me with a cattle prod. I shove myself upright on my elbows while my heart rampages in my chest. His hair is mussed, his shirt sweaty, his knuckles bruised at his sides. But of all the signs of war painted all over him, it’s his gaze that scares me the most.

  He looks like he could kill without blinking.

  “Grisha? Is the baby—”

  “Healthy, happy, and perfectly safe,” Dr. Baranov tells him before he can even finish his sentence.

  He nods once, curt and detached. It’s almost enough to convince me he doesn’t give a damn one way or the other. But there’s no way he’d storm into a room and demand to know the outcome if he didn’t care about the outcome, right?

  Right?

  It crosses my mind that having Ilarion care about this pregnancy is an inconvenience I’d rather avoid. Especially considering I don’t intend for him to be a part of this child’s life. That’s a sentiment I’m clinging to for all of us—including and especially my sister.

  If she’s alive, that is.

  “Thank you, Grisha. Please give us a moment.”

  “Of course, sir,” the doctor says, collecting his bag and making for the door. When he steps out, I spy Mila lurking in the hallway.

  The upside is that he shuts the door behind him, keeping her at bay.

  Downside, I’m left alone with Ilarion.

  And I have a feeling that being alone with this man—under any circumstances—is trouble.

  22

  ILARION

  “My mother,” Taylor pleads, her eyes wide and searching. “If she’s dead…just tell me.”

  I admire that she comes right out and says it. Most people are too afraid to even name their fear. Not her, though.

  She stands in the middle of the road and lets it barrel toward her.

  I open my mouth to give her the answer she wants, but I pause when I sense her starting to unravel in the seconds before I speak.

  “You need to take a breath,” I growl instead.

  She swings her legs off the bed and struggles to her feet. She’s shaky at first, but her fists stay knotted tight, her jaw held firm, and when she raises her gaze to meet mine, it doesn’t waver.

  “I know I’m just a random, insignificant cog in your wheel—”

  “Wrong,” I interrupt. “A cog implies that you serve a purpose, and you do not.” It’s a cruel thing to say. But it’s not far from the truth. She does not serve a purpose in everything I have going on.

  The infuriating part is knowing she could have. That she should.

  But I fucked up. I fucked up by overlooking some very important details. I have only myself to blame for the mess that’s come spewing onto my doorstep.

  She ventures closer to me. Her dress is torn in half a dozen places, but she doesn’t even seem to register the state she’s in. The fact that she’s half-naked, blood dripping down her thighs, doesn’t seem to faze her at all.