“Like…actual mafia. Not ‘my uncle is sketchy and sometimes launders money through his bar’ mafia.”
“Actual mafia,” I say. I make a face.
She’s silent for a moment. The only sound is the turn signal clicking as we change lanes.
“So,” she says eventually, in that slow, deliberate tone she uses when she’s trying not to freak out, “you reconnected with your one-night stand, who turns out to be your child’s father, who also turns out to be a Bratva boss, and your solution was to…climb out of a bathroom window with a toddler?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds insane,” I say.
“It is insane,” she replies. “It’s also exactly what I would expect from you.”
I let out a broken laugh. “Maya.”
She glances over, softer now. “Hey. You did the only thing you could do. You got her away. You got yourself away.”
I stare at my reflection in the glass for a moment. I look tired. Older than I feel. “It doesn’t feel like we got away,” I say quietly. “It feels like…borrowed time.”
Maya doesn’t argue. She just nods. “Maybe. But for now, borrowed is better than gone.”
We drive the last few blocks in silence, the wordBratvahanging between us like something toxic.
When we pull up in front of her building, she kills the engine and turns to me fully. “Okay,” she says. “We’re going upstairs. You’re taking a shower. Lily’s getting food that isn’t crackers. And then we’re going to sit on my couch and figure out what the hell to do about your homicidal Russian baby daddy.”
Despite everything, a tiny, hysterical laugh bubbles up in my chest. “Don’t call him that.”
“What, Russian?”
I press my fingers to my eyes. “All of it.”
She grins, a little vicious. “Too late. I’m adopting it.”
She gets out, comes around to my side, and opens my door before I can. “Come on. You survived him. You survived a highway ambush. You can survive my third-floor walk-up.”
I take her hand and step out, Lily warm against my shoulder, my life in tatters and something sharp and stupid still twisting in my chest at the thought of Aleksander.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “We’ll see.”
Maya’s apartment smells like garlic and something tomato-based by the time I get out of the shower.
I feel a little less like roadkill and more like a person—damp hair, Maya’s oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, bare legs, socks that don’t match. Lily is on the living room rug surrounded by blocks and a stuffed animal I’ve never seen before. She looks more relaxed than she has all day.
Maya hands me a mug of tea and nudges her laptop toward me on the coffee table. “Here. Wi-Fi password is the same. Don’tlook at my search history. Or do, actually, maybe it’ll distract you.”
I manage a weak smile. “Thanks.”
She disappears back into the tiny kitchen, humming under her breath. I sit on the couch, tuck one leg under me, open the laptop.
For a minute I just stare at the blank browser bar. Part of me doesn’t want to know anything. The other part can’t help it.
I type the flight number.
A few results pop up. News blurbs, mostly copy-pasted from the same source.
“International flight diverted to Boston due to onboard incident.”
“Authorities investigating death of passenger on transatlantic route.”
There’s a grainy photo of the plane on the tarmac. That’s it. No names. No details. Comments are locked on most of the articles. The official statement calls it “an unforeseen medical situation” and “a matter for law enforcement.”
