“Already on it. I’ve got someone at the hospital monitoring his room.”
I turn off the TV. Can’t watch any more. “What’s the federal response?”
“FBI is sniffing around. They know this was organized crime, but they don’t have specifics yet. I’d expect them to start making inquiries within forty-eight hours.”
“Then we have forty-eight hours to clean this up.” I walk to the windows and look out at the city lights. “Set up a meeting with the Chicago and Vegas families. I want everyone in the same room by tomorrow night.”
“That fast?”
“Dmitri is escalating. Today was public, messy, and desperate. That means he’s planning something bigger. Something he thinks will end this once and for all.” I press my hand against the glass. “I’m not waiting for him to make the next move.”
33
SAVANNAH
The nursery is finished.
I stand in the doorway, looking at the room we’ve spent the last two months preparing. Pale gray walls. White crib in the corner with a mobile hanging above it—little elephants and stars that spin slowly when you wind it up. A changing table stocked with diapers and wipes. A rocking chair by the window where I imagine sitting at three in the morning, feeding our son.
Our son.
We found out six weeks ago. Ledger cried when the doctor said, “It’s a boy.” Actually cried. I’d never seen him cry before.
Now there’s a name embroidered on the blanket draped over the crib rail: Dante.
The mobile above the crib spins slowly, elephants and stars rotating while a tinny melody plays. I stand in the nursery doorway, one hand on my stomach where Dante presses against my ribs.
I’m thirty-two weeks pregnant. Eight months. And I haven’t left this penthouse in seventy-three days.
Not since the restaurant. Not since the Kozlovs put a gun to my head. Not since Ledger moved us to Las Vegas.
After the restaurant attack, the New York penthouse wasn’t safe anymore. The security had been compromised. So Ledger brought us here—me, Alexi, Marie, Pedro, everyone. His main base. Where he has real control.
The baby shifts, rolling under my hand. The doctor, who makes house calls now, says he’s healthy, about five pounds, and measuring on schedule. Says labor could start anytime in the next month.
But I can’t picture it. Can’t imagine going through labor when I’m living like a prisoner.
I turn away from the nursery and walk to the living room.
Four guards in the lobby. Two at the elevator. One outside the door. Cameras everywhere. Metal detectors. ID scanners. No one gets to this floor without passing through multiple checkpoints.
I understand why. The Kozlovs tried to kidnap me. They want me dead, want my baby cut out of me as revenge.
But understanding doesn’t make it easier.
I sink onto the couch and check my phone. Nothing new. The friends I had before have stopped reaching out. I never responded anyway. How do you explain that your husband runs a criminal empire and you’re under constant threat?
You don’t. You just disappear.
Silas told me three days after the shooting that Mason survived. Two weeks in ICU, then transferred to a regular room under police protection. He’ll face federal charges for the twenty thousand the Kozlovs paid him.
I didn’t ask for details. I don’t want to know if he can walk, if he’s in pain.
The guilt I carry isn’t about Mason. He made his choices.
It’s about my baby. About putting Dante at risk because I needed to prove I could handle one conversation alone. Every time he kicks, I remember that gun against my temple. Remember how close I came to losing everything.
Marie appears from the kitchen. “Lunch is ready, Mrs. Volkov.”
