December 15.
By then, Kolya will be dead, or as good as dead. The Bratva will be restructured without his presence or input.
I sigh, running my hand through my hair. So much to consider, so much to plan for.
But it must be done. I refuse to allow my child to enter a world where he or she is not safe, a world where their mother has a multimillion-dollar bounty on her head.
I turn my attention to the ultrasound on the desk, the grainy black-and-white photo that contains our entire future. I pick it up and study it. It still moves me, no matter how many times I look at it.
A knock sounds at the door. I open a drawer and slide the photo inside. No one in the house knows yet.
“Entra,” I say.
The door opens and Oscar comes in, his expression carefully neutral in the way it is when he’s about to announce a guest.
“Sir, Alexei Petrov is here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
Alexei Petrov carries himself like minor nobility, which he is, in a sense.
He is in his mid-fifties, with silver threading through his dark hair. Tall and lean, he wears a perfectly tailored navy suit, his Italian leather shoes, spotless.
He’s not just any man. He’s Thea’s cousin.
Masha Fetisova’s sister married into the Petrov family—old Russian aristocracy when that mattered—and produced one child, Alexei. The relation is distant, but he is one of the few people, perhaps the only person, with a legitimate blood connection to Thea.
We’ve never met in person, but I know his reputation. Alexei never took part in Bratva affairs, instead choosing to make his fortune in private security, running a firm that operates in twelve countries, providing protection services to multinational corporations and high-net-worth individuals.
Despite his graceful appearance, the man is a trained killer.
And he could be the key to keeping Thea safe.
“Gabriel,” he says, extending his hand toward me as he approaches. His accent is cultured—Moscow by way of Oxford. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Alexei.” I shake his hand, noticing the calluses, the long scar on his wrist. “Likewise.” I gesture toward the chair across from the desk, and he takes it.
“First of all, thank you for seeing me. No doubt you’re a busy man these days—especially with my cousin in your life.”
“I am. I assume this meeting is about her?”
“Indeed it is. I’ll get right to the point.” He glances away. “I thought she was dead.”
“Many did. But the truth was hidden for her own good.”
“I understand. Still, finding out that you’re not the sole remaining member of your family does something to you.”
I get up and step over to the bar. I pour a drink for myself, then gesture, offering one to him. He nods.
“That means you’re no longer the heir,” I say, coming over with the glass of vodka and handing it to him. “How does that make you feel?”
He raises his drink. “Prost—” He stops himself. “Now, where are my manners? An Italian toast for an Italian host.Saluti.”
“Saluti.”
“Honestly, I’m relieved. What could I do about it? March into the city, go to war with the Bratva? Where on earth would I fit that into my schedule?”
He chuckles.
