She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.
I stare at the monitors, watching the aftermath of violence. Bodies on the ground. Men limping, helping wounded comrades. Fires burning in the distance where explosions torethrough the defenses. This is Misha's world. This is the world I've stumbled into, carrying his child.
What kind of life am I bringing this baby into?
The thought is interrupted by a sound from outside the safe room door.
Gunfire.
Not the distant crackle from the monitors, but close. Right outside the door. Three shots in rapid succession, then two more, then a heavy thump that sounds like a body hitting the floor.
Anna is on her feet instantly, her body tense, her eyes fixed on the door. I scramble up beside her, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
More gunfire. A shout—Petrov's voice, I think—cut off mid-breath. Then another thump. Then silence.
We stand frozen, staring at the door. Anna's hand finds mine again, her fingers ice-cold.
"That was Petrov," she whispers.
I nod, unable to speak. Unable to do anything except stare at the reinforced steel that suddenly seems much less impenetrable than it did an hour ago.
The silence stretches. Five seconds. Ten. Long enough for hope to flicker—maybe they've gone, maybe it was a stray team that Petrov fought off, maybe—
The explosion shatters everything.
The door bows inward with a sound like the world ending. The shockwave knocks us both off our feet—I hit the floor hard, the breath driven from my lungs, my ears ringing. Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling. The monitors flicker anddie, plunging us into darkness broken only by the red glow of emergency lighting.
I can't breathe. Can't hear. Can barely see through the dust and the tears streaming from my eyes.
Then the door gives way entirely, and men pour through.
There are four of them. Maybe five—it's hard to tell in the chaos and the darkness.
They move with military precision, weapons raised, flashlight beams cutting through the dust like searchlights. Black tactical gear, faces obscured by balaclavas, voices sharp and professional.
"Two targets," one of them barks. "Secure them both."
Anna screams something—a curse, a warning—and throws herself at the nearest attacker. She's fierce, my almost-sister-in-law, all sharp elbows and desperate fury. She catches him off guard, drives him back a step, rakes her nails across the exposed skin below his mask.
He swears and backhands her across the face. She staggers but doesn't fall, comes back at him with renewed fury.
But there are too many of them.
Someone grabs me from behind, arms like iron bands pinning my own to my sides. I struggle, kick, try to twist free. My elbow connects with something soft and I hear a grunt of pain, but the grip doesn't loosen.
"This is the one," a voice says. "Dark hair, right age. This is Benedetti."
Another figure appears in front of me—tall, broad, his face obscured by the dust and darkness. He grabs my chin,forcing my head up, studying my face like I'm merchandise to be appraised.
"Bianca Benedetti," he confirms. "Sergei will be pleased."
I spit in his face.
He laughs—actually laughs—and wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. "Spirited. He said you would be."
"Go to hell."
"Eventually. But first, we have a delivery to make."
