“When have I ever liked any of your ideas?”
“Frank Moretti contacted me,” Bastian says.
I go still. “Frank? You can’t be serious.”
“The one and only. That backstabbing son of a bitch.”
My mind races backward through memories of a life I’ve tried to forget. Frank’s nervous energy during those final site inspections. The way he couldn’t meet my eyes when we walked through spaces that should’ve been complete but weren’t. The cigarette butts outside his trailer. The voices I heard yelling inside.
“He fucked you over, and yet you trust him with your little brother’s life now?”
“Does it look like I have a lot of options here, Eliana?”
“No,” I admit. “It doesn’t.”
I lean against the wall. “What did Frank say exactly?”
“He called two days ago and left a voicemail saying he had information about ‘recent developments’ and wanted to meet.” Bastian sighs. “Could be a trap. Could be genuine. Hard to tell with Frank. The man’s always been a coward, but he’s not stupid.”
“Why would he reach out now?”
“Guilt, maybe? Or he finally figured out that working for Aleksei comes with a very short life expectancy.” There’s a bitter edge to Bastian’s voice. “The Bratva doesn’t exactly offer 401ks and a pension.”
“When are you meeting him?”
“Tonight. Back room of a shady strip club a couple miles off the highway.”
“That’s not ominous at all,” I mutter.
“Again,” he says with a humorless chuckle, “I’m not exactly rich with solutions here.”
Another strained pause ensues as both of us squirm in place and think to ourselves about what the hell we’re doing here. The creep in Room Twelve was right: a blind girl showing up at a nasty motel at the ass-crack of dawn is the setup to a bad joke that can only end with an even worse punchline.
“There’s something else,” I hear myself blurt suddenly.
I don’t know why I say it—or, on second thought, maybe I do. It’s because, if I’m demanding complete honesty, then it has to run both ways. Even if every cell in my body is screaming at me to keep this particular secret locked away forever.
I take a breath, then rip the Band-Aid off. “I’m pregnant.”
The air in the room goes still. Even the ice machine outside seems to hold its breath.
“Eight weeks along,” I continue, keeping my face and voice as neutral as I know how to do. “It’s yours.”
Nothing. No suck of breath, no shift of weight, no sound at all. I wish I could see Bastian and read whatever emotions are playing across those brooding features. But maybe it’s better this way. Maybe blindness is a mercy right now, letting me stand here with my spine straight and my chin up instead of crumbling under the weight of whatever horror or calculation is written in his eyes.
“Say something,” I finally whisper. “Please.”
I hear him move. The air displaces, and I know he’s reaching for me even before I feel the heat of his hand hovering near my arm.
Then he stops himself, and that almost-touch hangs between us like a question he doesn’t have the right to ask anymore.
“Are you…?” He stops, clears his throat, and tries again. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Had an ultrasound and everything.”
“Jesus. Is it— Are you… are you okay? Do you need—what do you need? Vitamins? A better doctor? Money for?—”
“Stop,” I say. “I don’t need anything from you.”
