"Probably not. But we can try to stack the odds slightly less terribly in our favor."
I find Kira curled up in the bed, a thin blanket draped over her legs. The TV flickers with some Russian drama she's not really watching. Her hand rests on her stomach—a habit she's developed in the last few days.
"Hey, Semyon and I need to head out for a bit."
Her eyes sharpen immediately. "Out where?"
"Just picking something up. Supplies." I keep my voice casual. "Won't be long. Couple hours at most."
"Maksim." She sits up, the blanket falling away. "What kind of supplies?"
I hate lying to her. But the truth will only terrify her. The stress could hurt the baby.
"Weapons," I say, which isn't exactly a lie. "We're meeting with some people who can help us. Need to make sure we're properly equipped just in case."
She studies my face, looking for deception. I meet her gaze steadily.
"You're being careful?" she asks finally.
"Always." I lean in to kiss her forehead. "I'll be back before you know it. Just rest. Take care of yourself and the baby."
"I don't like this." Her hand catches mine. "Something feels wrong."
"It's fine." I squeeze her fingers. "I promise. Just a quick pick up and we're back."
Anya appears in the doorway; paint smudged on her cheek. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," I assure her. "Just running an errand. Keep an eye on your sister for me?"
"Always do." Anya moves to sit beside Kira.
I kiss Kira one more time—longer than necessary, like I'm trying to memorize the taste of her lips—then force myself to pull away.
"Be safe," Kira whispers.
"Always."
Semyon is waiting by the door, weapons already concealed under his jacket. We head down to the street where a different car waits. It’s stolen and untraceable.
"She buy it?" he asks as we climb in.
"Not entirely." I buckle up. "But she didn't push."
"Smart woman."
"Too smart sometimes."
The drive takes us to the industrial district again. I'm starting to hate this part of Moscow—too many bad memories accumulating in these gray streets.
The warehouse Semyon directs me to looks abandoned. Broken windows. Graffiti covering the walls. Exactly the kind of place you'd conduct illegal business.
Three cars are already parked outside. Men lean against them, smoking, weapons visible but not drawn. They watch our approach with wary eyes.
I recognize two of them—loyalists to my father who survived Roman's purge. The others are unfamiliar.
"Barinov." The older of the two I know steps forward. His name is Leo. He's been in the bratva longer than I've been alive. "Heard you came back from the dead."
"Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated." I shake his offered hand. "Good to see you, Leo."
