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Monday.

The first day of trial. It’s been a long time coming, an entire month of being sequestered in Vasily Borisov’s lake house. Strategizing with his incredibly competent and secretive team, and getting way too intimate with…his criminal empire.

Among other things.

I sit at the defense table with my hands folded neatly in front of me, pretending they aren’t fidgeting beneath the edge of my legal pad. It’s unlike me, but then I’ve never had my own future tangled this tightly with a client’s. I can defend a man whose choices I dislike. Caring this much about everyone waiting for the verdict is new.

The judge denied our suppression motion. Yuri feeding the police a tip didn’t make their warrant disappear, and the challenged records are coming in. So the jury will see them. They’ll also see the approval copies we found, and hear an expert explain why the two sets don’t match.

The courtroom at Essex County Court is smaller than I expected, with dark wood, narrow pews, and barely enough space between the tables for the attorneys to move comfortably. Still, there are several people in the gallery.

Most of them are strangers.

I recognize a few faces from the prosecution’s team, a handful of court staff, and some reporters. Nowhere near as many as I’d see in NYC, especially with my normal client base.

But there are men scattered throughout the pews that I don’t recognize at all. They aren’t dressed like reporters, family members, or even businessmen. They wear clean, simple clothes and wary expressions. They are spread throughout the room and aware of one another, but not making eye contact. They seem like the kind of men who look like they’re here to observe rather than participate.

I try not to look at them again.

My pencil skirt is fitted enough to make sitting uncomfortable, and my heels were a terrible decision. I knew that when I put them on this morning. It’s been long enough away from my practice that I’ve gotten used to sweats, workout pants, sports bras, t-shirts. But now I need armor, and as uncomfortable as the heels are, I know I can use them to cut throats.

Metaphorically.

I glance at Mikhail. He looks exhausted. Jail has not been treating him well.

“You weren’t kidding,” I murmur, uncrossing and re-crossing my legs. “You weren’t born to fit into the criminal underworld, were you?”

He shoots me a glare, but it isn’t an unfriendly one. “You might see Vasily as a monster,” he murmurs back, careful not to be overheard, “but he takes care of those who are loyal. Makes sure we have safe, comfortable lives. The only time I’ve felt vulnerable was the day the cops came for me and I saw one of Yuri’s men watching from the end of my street. That’s your monster. Not Mr. Borisov.”

I clench my teeth, not sure how to respond. Because the truth is, I stopped thinking of Vasily as a monster weeks ago. I’m not sure when exactly; maybe when I realized the household staff were taking care of an injured teen at his orders. Maybe even before that, when I saw that the legitimate side of his business supports more than just criminals.

The prosecution is preparing for opening remarks. The judge is speaking to the jury, and I should be listening carefully.

Instead, my mind keeps circling back to the fact that I am pregnant.

There is a baby inside me.

My baby.

Vasily’s baby.

Thursday’s appointment made it real in a way the urine test hadn’t. The obstetrician confirmed the pregnancy was in my uterus, removed the implant after I told her I wanted to continue, and arranged follow-up care. For once, someone had asked what I wanted without looking over my shoulder for Vasily.

Another complication in this already treacherous-to-navigate case. Another reason to get back to the city as soon as possible, and out of this mess.

I shift in my chair and force my attention back to the courtroom.

This is what I do. This is the part of my life I understand. Evidence, arguments, strategy. Things with rules. Things I can control.

I smooth my skirt beneath the table and take a slow breath. Then I look toward the gallery again.

One of the unfamiliar men is watching me.

Not casually, but intently—like he knows me. I’m positive I don’t know him. My fingers go still. For the first time since I walked into this courtroom, the nervous energy in my stomach feels less like anticipation and more like warning.

Vasily’s warnings, the SUV following Jeff and me days ago, and now sharp eyes on me. It’s a reminder that this isn’t a game. Not just some tourist town, low-level financial crimes.

The courtroom doors open again.