Page 96 of Brutal Vows

And my wife.

My wife who is trying to keep her cool, but who can really stay cool when their baby’s life is on the line?

Milana is driving down the road again and slows as if she’s looking for parking outside Masha’s apartment building. When she spots one, she turns to park, but a figure steps into the headlight beams, almost colliding with the car.

“God!” she cries out, and brakes so hard we both fall forward. “Masha!”

Fuck. My heart sets off on a gallop. This isn’t in the script.

A woman, clad in a thick black winter coat, black scarf wound tight around her lower face, taps the hood and comes up to the passenger window. It’s only then that I notice she has a baby strapped to her chest, also clad in black, her little hands in black mittens and a black cap on her head, camouflaged.

Masha taps on the window with a gloved finger, and I open it, cautious. I can’t read her face, what with the fur-lined hood of her coat obscuring most of it.

“Masha, what’s going on?” Milana says as she leans over me, her voice spiked.

“Don’t kill the car,” she says softly, in perfect English, laced with a Russian accent. “Eyes on my gun. Hands on the dashboard.”

I was already fisting a gun in my coat pocket, but then I drop my gaze and spot the barrel of a handgun pointing straight at the baby’s side.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I knew it. My sixth sense not the trust Masha kicked in a long time ago, but this is unprecedented.

I’m shaking. Milana has turned to stone next to me, hardly breathing.

“Masha—”

The woman interrupts her, gabbling something in Russian, and Milana puts her hands on the dash.

“Hands on the dash, Luca,” Masha repeats, in a tone that sends shivers of dread creeping up my neck. Milana didn’t expect this at all.

I do as she says, letting go of every weapon in my arsenal. Buckled into my seat, my body too big to maneuver easily in this small car, all I can do is obey. As I put my hands on the dash, I caress Milana’s pinkie with mine, the only assurance I can give her.

“Okay. Good,” Masha says, leaning in at the window. “No sudden movements. I’d hate to abort my plans early because you don’t know how to follow simple instructions.”

“Annushka,” Milana whispers, eyes wide, her pinkie trembling against mine.

“She’s fine,” Masha says, “and I plan for her to stay that way. Just do exactly as I say.” She straightens, shoots a glance up and down the road, then leans forward again. “First, you two are going to swap places. Luca, you drive. Milana, you will get into the passenger seat. But”—she raises a hand to pause us— “Luca gets out first, and you scoot into his seat. Don’t leave the car. Nobody gets to see you.”

Fuck. I have no idea what her agenda is. I know in my gut she has no intention of hurting the baby, but there’s a glint in her eye that speaks of madness. Fucking Masha Baykova. Not finding anything on her even on the dark net didn’t mean she was safe—it meant she’s as fucking dangerous as anybody else who leaves no digital trail. Fuck these Russians and their layers upon layers of secrets.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, not lifting my hands off the dash, feeling like a fucking drunk driver pulled over by the local sheriff.

“Ending this, once and for all. Don’t worry. I have planned everything down to the last T.”

“And holding a gun to a baby is how you go about it?”

“You don’t get to question anything. Needs must. Where’s the money?”

“In a suitcase in the trunk.”

“Open it, Milana.”

She slowly reaches down for the lever, not wanting to spook her friend, and pop the trunk.

“Don’t move,” she says as she walks around and glances at the two small suitcases. “Which one?”

“The black one.”