Page 134

“This isn’t business. This is personal.” A soft, sick laugh slid through the speaker. “So here is what happens. Orlov comes to me. Alone. No Zhukovsky. No soldiers. No backup. You come to me, and I let him go.”

Yelena shook her head wildly, tears spilling over. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no⁠—”

“I need proof that he’s alive,” Yuriy said while in my head, a voice screamed no. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—send him alone to face the Italians.

There was a muffled shuffle. “Yelena?” Zasha’s voice, strained and breathless, trembled through the line. “Yel, I’m okay. I’m okay, I promise—don’t⁠—”

A sharp grunt sounded, like he’d been hit.

Yelena cried out. “Zasha! Zasha! Please don’t hurt him.”

“Enough,” Bruno snapped. “You heard him. He’s alive. Whether he stays that way is up to you, Orlov.”

“You touch him again,” Yuriy said quietly, “and I swear, by the time I’m done with you, you’ll beg me to kill you.”

The Italian only laughed. “Bring your threats. See if they help you when you’re on your knees. I’ll text the address. You have thirty minutes. If I see anyone but you, I’ll start packaging the pieces of him to send to his wife.”

My heart clenched so hard my chest actually hurt.

The line went dead.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of Yelena’s ragged breathing, Yuriy’s fingers tightening into fists, my pulse pounding in my ears. Yuriy turned to me, and I shook my head.

“No.”

“Stas—”

“No, you’re not going. Not alone. It’s too risky. Either I go with you, or you don’t go at all.”

“You heard what he said. He’ll hurt Zasha if I’m not alone.”

Yelena folded over with a sharp cry, hands diving to her belly. I caught her before she could crumple to the floor.

“Yelena!”

“It hurts—Papa—oh god—the baby⁠—”

Yuriy yanked the coffee table back with one harsh shove, clearing space. “What’s wrong?”

Her whole body tensed, and she let out another scream that raised the hairs on the back of my arms. She looked like she was in agony. As if she were in⁠—

“Labor,” she gasped, her eyes wet. “I think I’m going into labor. Papa⁠—”

Her words broke off in a shuddering sob. Fuck. Her contractions were close together.

“Breathe, printsessa.” I forced my voice to be calm. She needed that. Not panic. “Look at me. Right here. In my eyes.”

She did, just barely, tears clinging to her lashes. “Zasha⁠—”

“We’ll get him back,” I promised, even though fear was gnawing straight through my ribs. “Right now, you and my granddaughter come first, understand? Zasha would want you both to be safe. We’re going to the hospital.”

“I can’t—” She clutched my shirt, knuckles white. “I can’t do this without him⁠—”

“Yes, you can.” Yuriy kneeled beside us and smoothed her hair, his voice soft but unyielding. “Your father is going to be right there with you, and Zasha and I will join you later. But we need you and the baby to be safe first. That’ll make everything easier.”

Her breathing hitched, then steadied a fraction.

I looked up at him, and for a second, the room tilted. Because I knew what he was about to say before he opened his mouth. “I have to go,” Yuriy said. “I have to bring him back, Stanislav.”