“Okay.”
“This war isn’t over,” she says confidently. “The struggle for power in Brooklyn is never going to end.”
“That’s true.” I nod
“If I leave with you, it’s not because I’m a prize you won by killing Mikhail. You don’t get to parade me around and act like I’m your property.”
My jaw tightens. “Of course you aren’t, Anya,” I tell her earnestly. “I didn’t save you because I think you’re a prize. I saved you because I love you.”
Her eyes soften for a fraction of a second, so small most people would miss it. Then she nods once, decisive in the way she always is when she finally chooses.
“Then I’ll come with you,” she says. “Just don’t get any ideas about what this means.”
I hold my hand out to her carefully. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say with a smile. “Now let’s get out of here before the cops show up.”
She steps forward and places her hand in mine. Her grip is firm, but I keep my promise. I don’t take it to mean anything more than survival. With Anya, I’ll take whatever I can get.
We move fast after that, because the room is still dangerous even with Mikhail dead. Sergei barks orders. My men clear a path. The cars are positioned to move immediately. We leave before the police get close enough to complicate things, and before any coward decides to take a shot for revenge.
Anya is quiet in the backseat, her hand resting over her abdomen. Her face stays neutral, but her eyes are distant. She is processing everything that’s just happened, and I don’t interrupt her. She’s can take as much time as she needs.
When we reach my home, I get her upstairs and into a secure room. This isn’t a safehouse. We aren’t hiding. This is my place in Brooklyn. The only home that actually feels anything like home me. Even so, it’s incredibly secure.
Guards patrol the grounds and hallways at every hour. There are security cameras almost everywhere. We’re safe from any retaliation that may come after tonight. Though, I don’t expect any noise. We killed anyone who mattered in the Grinkovempire, and I doubt any of his allies are going to rush in to incur my wrath.
My only objective over the next few weeks is to make her feel safe.
Grinkov’s structure fractures immediately, and everyone in Brooklyn moves to claim what they think they deserve. The smaller families that once asked me for help are now fully sufficient without his iron fist ruling over them. A few factions try to condemn the violence, but no one outright defies me.
I handle it the way my father taught me. I secure routes. I cut off weak crews. I buy loyalty where it can be bought and remove problems where it can’t. It takes time, of course.
Ivan Malenkov tries to get in my good graces after the wedding. He wants to see his daughter. He wants the opportunity to meet his grandchild.
I refuse without Anya’s express permission. She gets to call the shots on that aspect of her life. For now, she doesn’t want him anywhere near her, and that’s good enough for me.
She heals slowly. The physical wounds don’t take as much time as the psychological. She refuses the offer of a new nurse, but she does finally allow me to bring in a companion for her. Someone who can keep her company when I’m busy, who is also good at keeping an eye on her.
The pregnancy becomes more obvious by the week. Once the first trimester officially ends, she seems to get a lot of her old spark back. She isn’t combative anymore, though. She doesn’t have to be. This isn’t a prison and she can leave whenever she wants. Whatever is out there in the world for her is hers to take. Still, she decides to stay by my side.
I try not to hover. Not at the ultrasound appointments or at the checkups. I try not to be suffocating, even though all I want is to get clarity on how she feels. I laid all my cards on the table, but she keeps hers so close to the vest. Most days, I’m not even sure that she likes me very much.
Then, in the blink of an eye, seven months have gone by. She comes into the kitchen with her jaw clenched and one hand braced against the counter, breathing shallowly like she did a lot after she was shot.
“Don’t panic,” she says vaguely.
“Why would I panic?” I ask curiously.
Her mouth twitches once. “My water just broke.”
I nod and make my way to the door, where I’ve had a bag packed for the last three weeks. I help her out to the waiting town car and we have a relatively peaceful drive to the best hospital in the city, where I’ve had the deluxe birthing suite on hold.
She bears the pain with the same amount of grit she bears everything. She doesn’t scream or cry. The doctor brings her an epidural, and she merely winces as they stick the longest needle I’ve ever seen into her spine. I’ve killed a lot of men in my time as pakhan, but I was about ready to pass out from the sight of that.
Hours pass in a blur. The nurses who help her are steady and blunt. The doctor gives instructions. Anya actually listens and follows their orders. It’s a modern-day miracle.
Near the end, when exhaustion finally cracks the edges of her composure, she grabs my wrist and pulls me closer.
“If something happens to our baby,” she says through clenched teeth, “You have to make them all pay for it.”