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“Nothing.” Yuriy’s tone was too casual. “Just wondering.”

My back straightened. For most people, that answer would’ve been enough. For me, it was a warning siren.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just a feeling. He shouldn’t be gone this long. I’m gonna call him.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Yelena said, though she looked at Yuriy with gratitude.

“He’s not answering,” Yuriy muttered. He held the phone away from his ear so we could hear it. The phone rang several times, then went straight to voice mail.

He tried again. Same thing.

Yelena rose to her feet, and so did I as the room seemed to contract. Yuriy’s eyes met mine, all the easy teasing light gone. What looked back at me was sharp and cold and calculating. This wasn’t just a hunch anymore. He was worried about his brother.

“Maybe he lost his phone,” Yelena said, but even she didn’t sound convinced. She rubbed at her belly absentmindedly.

Before I could respond, her phone buzzed on the coffee table.

We all froze for a heartbeat.

She snatched it up. “It’s him. It’s Zasha.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

Yelena answered, smiling as she raised the phone to her ear. “Baby, where are⁠—”

The smile slowly vanished. Her face drained of color so fast I felt sick. Her hand flew to her mouth. The other clamped around her abdomen as if she’d been punched.

“Yelena?” I was on my feet in an instant. “Printsessa⁠—?”

She made a strangled sound, tears springing to her eyes. “Papa⁠—”

I took the phone from her with one hand and gripped her elbow with the other. “Who is this?”

Yuriy was already next to us, steadying her other side, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. “Put it on speaker.”

I did.

“Good. You’re all there.” A man’s voice crackled through, low and accented, thick with a satisfaction that scraped under my skin.

“Where is Zasha?” I demanded. “If you’ve hurt my son-in-law⁠—”

“Relax, Zhukovsky. He’s alive.” A slight chuckle. “For now.”

Yelena sobbed softly beside me, a choked sound that made my vision go red at the edges. No one was allowed to make my baby cry.

Yuriy’s gaze flicked to mine, then to the phone. “Who is this?” he snapped.

“Arrogant bastard,” the man spat. “If you want your precious brother to breathe into the new year, you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“Where’s my brother?” Yuriy asked. “What do you want?”

“Simple. You killed my brother. You humiliated us in our own city. And Zhukovsky…” The word came out sneered. “You convinced my boss to call it even. To ‘let it go.’ Well, I think not.”

“You’ve got a death wish, Bruno.”

So Yuriy recognized the voice of Mancini’s man as well.