“Look, I’ve seen this happen over and over again. Women lose themselves in being a mother. I don’t want to be treated likeglass because I’m having a baby. I have work to do. Important work. I’m not going to wander around your giant mansion after giving up my independence.”
“I need you to stay with me so I can keep you safe, Sonya,” he says again, though not quite as commanding as before. “The place where I can do that best is at my house, under the watch of my men.”
“Your number two has been on my couch or outside my door for weeks,” I remind him.
“I know, yet somehow those damned flowers still made it to your door,” he says. “No, I want you where I know nothing and no one can get to you. I’m not trying to cage you, Sonya, I’m trying to keep you and our child safe.”
I want to argue. I should argue. I hate how imperious Matvei is being, that he thinks he can order me around like this. But I know this isn’t just about me anymore. I have to care for someone else, my job from now until forever. I also know this child’s well-being will be best protected within their father’s sphere of influence and power.
“Okay, fine.”
I can tell by the look on Matvei’s face that he expected more of a fight from me. It takes him a moment to reply. “Okay.”
He’s clearly surprised by my response, and I wonder if he’s as blown away by the news of the baby as I am. Does he even want to be a father? Or does he see this as a duty, like protecting me?
I hope these glimpses of the human being behind the monster are real and not just a figment of my imagination. Because otherwise, I’m not sure what I’m going to do, especially becauseI’m starting to realize I really like this man, even if what lies underneath still terrifies me.
17
MATVEI
The neon lights coming from the diner on the south side look cheerful against the damp night. There aren’t many people here at this hour. The air is thick with the scent of frying oil. A few teenagers sit in a corner booth, there’s an older couple at the table next to them, and a guy with a beanie pulled over his long, stringy hair occupies the other corner. He’s drumming on the table while he watches something on his laptop, his eggs and hash browns long forgotten.
And there’s the police officer, raising an arm and waves when he sees me.
“Are you ever not in a suit?” he asks. “Relax. It’s midnight, for Christ’s sake.”
“Frank,” I greet him, slipping into the booth across from him, making sure I’m facing the door where I can see everyone coming and going.
The waitress sets my coffee down abruptly on the Formica table, the dark brown liquid spilling over the sides. I wipe away thespots, neatly folding my napkin and taking a sip. It’s bitter and watery, as always. I push the coffee away and adjust my cuff.
“Where did you get those?” Frank asks, pointing to the cufflinks I’m wearing—a tiger outlined in gold and diamonds that glint subtly in the yellow fluorescent lights.
“They’re an heirloom.”
“No kidding. Something from the old country?”
“Something like that.”
Frank’s small talk is getting annoying. All humor leaves his face when he says, “That was a nasty blaze. We heard about it over the radio. Your warehouse?”
“Yes.” I swallow the anger that burned as hot and heavy as the fire. I watched my warehouse collapse in on itself while the flames appeared high enough to turn the low clouds a hazy orange. “It and everything inside of it has been destroyed.”
Frank’s eyes narrow as he tilts his head slightly. “Anyone going to find anything they shouldn’t in the cleanup?”
“No.” I meet Frank’s gaze dead-on. “Everything in there was entirely legitimate. It was full of product that was supposed to ship out to the buyer tomorrow. It was important.”
What the hell is going on?That’s the question pounding in my head since the warehouse foreman called me in a panic and told me everything was on fire. The worst part is, the product in that warehouse was truly and entirely legal—an enormous shipment that was supposed to be the cornerstone of my bid to turn more and more of our business dealings legal.
I’m so angry I can barely see straight. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. You don’t hit a fully legal shipment without expecting to make a statement. You don’t hit me at all without expecting deadly retaliation, and there are very few who would want to risk that.
“You have the tip I sent you?” I ask Frank.
The only thing one of my men remembered was seeing a dark green sedan he didn’t recognize. He managed to fire at it and get half the license plate as it was speeding off, which I’d sent to Frank.
“Here’s what I found.” Frank slaps down a piece of paper and slides it over to me. It’s the full license plate of a car that matches the description of an old, green Buick.
“That mean anything to you?” he asks.
