It makes sense. It’s the logical thing to do. My secret is heavier than ever now that Maksim knows I’m alive and somewhere in the city. Just the thought makes my pulse skitter.
Maks isn’t stupid. He must be wondering, pondering, weighing the pros and cons of telling someone. Anatoli, most likely. But as far as I know, all he has is the shock of seeing me breathing when he thought I was long gone.
If he hasn’t already figured out that I’m married to Petyr, he has no reason to assume it.
Unless he saw Luka.
Unless he put the pieces together.
My stomach twists. Still, maybe if I keep a low profile, he’ll assume I disappeared again. That I don’t want to be found. Which, technically, isn’t all that wrong.
I could stay tucked away in Petyr’s family home, surrounded by his walls and guards and ridiculously tall iron gates, a ghost to the outside world.
Maybe that would be enough. I’d do it if it meant I could hold on to my secret a little longer.
But I’d still have to tell him eventually.
Because every hour I don’t tell him, every minute I hide, I risk the truth exploding in a way I won’t be able to control.
And yet, I can’t make myself speak. Not when I’m wrapped in his arms and can almost pretend we’re something real. The tiniest spark of hope is already taking root inside me, fragile and dangerous.
But I know, in my heart, I’m not being realistic. Or fair to Petyr. He deserves the truth, even if it destroys what little we’ve built together. Even if that thought guts me.
If he’s going to find out, better that it comes from me than from someone else’s lips. The whole idea makes my stomach roil, but I force myself to breathe. To commit.
Because, if it were me?Iwould want to know. I would want to knowfrom him.
I would forgive him for it.
But will he forgive me?
I don’t give myself the chance to agonize over it a moment longer. Worse, to back out emotionally.
There’s a baby now. This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about “us”—an “us” bigger than just two.
Tomorrow,I tell myself as I roll over in Petyr’s arms.Before he leaves for Bratva business in the night, I’ll tell him. No more stalling, no more lies. Just the truth.
It’s the least he deserves. The least I can give him.
And, perhaps, the only chance I have to keep even a sliver of what we have intact.
53
PETYR
The call comes through while I’m in the car. “Shipment’s been found,” Mikhael reports. “Delivered to the Italians just now. All tied up in a bow.”
The knot in my chest loosens. “About damn time. Where the hell was it?”
“Some warehouse near the docks. Idiots guarding it thought no one would notice.” His tone is lighter than I expect. Almost like we’re cousins again, not rivals circling each other with knives. “I handled it.”
I let out a grunt, unsure whether to laugh or growl. “You handled it?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m capable of things that don’t involve scheming behind your back.” There’s a wry edge, but not sharp enough to cut. He’s baiting me, but in a familiar way, not the venomous tone he’s had lately.
It’s strange, this sudden return to normal. Part of mewonders if the attempt on our lives shook him awake. Reminded him how fragile our bloodline is.
Or maybe he’s the mole and this is all theater. I hate how the thought even crosses my mind, but paranoia is the air I breathe now. Too much Gubarev blood has been spilled already.
