Page 38

"Why are you so upset with me today?" I ask, deflecting. I can change the subject and maybe he'll forget that I almost passed out. I search his face as his scowl darkens and then he scrubs a hand over his forehead, easing the furrows.

"Maksim sent me a message that Alexei was shot last night in a fight." He sounds worried, and I feel my heart flip. That's exactly what I don't need. More reason to freak out. I know Dimitri cares about his brother even if they're worlds apart right now.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine, just a flesh wound, but my God, Alana. What did we start?" I understand everything perfectly now and it breaks my heart. He does this to himself at least once a week. I should be used to it, but it still takes me by surprise.

"We didn’t start this, Dimitri. Ivan did, and we put an end to the cover-up. The council will clear it up eventually, right? That's what you said last time Maksim gave an update and told you it was bad." I cup his cheek and force him to look into my eyes. This war is eating him up. He really is the rightful leader of that family and he gave it all away because of that horrible corruption.

"Look, that's not what's important right now. Let's schedule an appointment and get you checked out. You need to see a doctor. You've been sleeping too much, and yesterday, I heard you moaning in the bathroom. Were you throwing up? What's going on with you?"

Nothing but the truth will assuage his fears over me, but the truth is complicated. I knew I was pregnant when I told him we couldn't be together and I was prepared to raise this baby alone. He might be heartbroken over that, and I'd hate for him to feel like I would purposefully try to hurt him.

But the concern etched around his eyes in tiny wrinkles and the insistent way he refuses to let this go means he's not going to forget about it any time soon. I have no choice but to tell him. So I brace myself and suck in a deep breath.

"I'm pregnant," I say plainly, the way my sister would if it were her. I don't feel confident, and I don't feel comfortable, but hard truths are better than lies. And it's time this secret saw the light of day.

"Say something," I tell him, and a slow smile cracks his face. It's my first sign that everything might just work out all right.

25

DIMITRI

"Idon't see it." I narrow my eyes, looking in the direction Alana is pointing, but I just don't see the parking sign she's trying to point out. We're on our way to the labor and delivery unit for a sonogram today per her doctor's orders, and I'm feeling flustered.

I've been a lot of things in my life—a thief, an enforcer, a murderer—but I've never been a father. The past three months watching her body grow and change have left me speechless. The minute she told me she was pregnant, I made the decision right then and there that she wouldn't work a day in her life unless she wants to. Now she's working with a team out of Berlin to restore an old church in downtown St. Petersburg before the summer solstice festival.

I'm proud of her, and I'm also worried she may be pushing herself too far. The stress test came back clean and now the sonogram will not only tell us what we're having, but it will also confirm the baby is healthy. Alana insists she's fine, but I worry—a lot.

"It's right there," she says, pointing again as the car creeps closer. "The large blue P." She chuckles and rests her hand on my shoulder.

"I see it now," I mutter, easing the sedan into the narrow space between two oversized SUVs. My hands are sweaty and my knuckles ache from grabbing the wheel too hard. I've faced down armed men without breaking a sweat, but parallel parking at a maternity hospital while Alana watches has my heart hammering. "There. Done."

"You're trembling," she says softly, her hand sliding from my shoulder down to my forearm. Her fingers ground me. "Devon, it's just parking."

I chuckle when she uses the fake name cooked up for me, even after four months. I've gotten used to my coworkers calling me that, but I don't like her using it. Still, I can appreciate that we're about to go in public and the public needs to hear us using our aliases, not our real names.

"Easy for you to say, Sera," I shoot back, but I'm smiling as I kill the engine. "You didn't almost sideswipe a BMW."

She laughs, and I smile at her. It's been too long since I've heard her laugh like that. "That BMW was three feet away. You're being dramatic."

I turn to look at her. At twenty weeks, she's showing now, a gentle curve beneath her light sweater that she still tries to hide. As if she could hide something so fundamentally miraculous. Her cheeks are flushed, her dark hair pulled back in a messy knot that makes her look both exhausted and effortlessly beautiful. I thank God every day that she's mine.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, reaching out to touch her cheek. "Any nausea?" Since I learned she was pregnant, everything changed. Life is about her now, making sure she's cared for, that she's eating right and resting well.

"Not since breakfast, which you made me eat even though I wasn't hungry." But she's grinning, leaning into my palm. "Stop worrying, Papa. I'm fine. We're fine."

I like when she calls me that, though I haven't gotten used to the idea that I'll be a father. And sometimes, it terrifies me. Like I'll be the one responsible for ensuring she is safe and that our child grows up protected and healthy. It's a lot to take on.

"Let's go meet our son," she says, and her confidence steadies me.

I help her out of the car, keeping one hand at the small of her back as we navigate the busy sidewalk. St. Petersburg in April is still chilly, wind cutting right through us, but Alana doesn't complain. She never complains anymore, not about the cold or the cramped apartment or the fact that she hasn't spoken to her sister in months. She's become someone else entirely—stronger, quieter, more resilient than the woman I whisked away from that Moscow street corner.

We check in at the front desk, and I watch Alana slip into her role as easily as breathing.

"Sera Volsky," she tells the receptionist, producing the fake ID with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Appointment with Dr. Volkov at two."

The receptionist—a bored young woman with purple hair and a nose ring—barely glances at the card before handing Alana a clipboard. "Fill these out. Insurance?"