Hope. Happiness.
Fragile. Tentative. Easily destroyed.
But there.
"We're going to survive this," Valerie whispers.
"Yes." I pull her closer. "We are. Because failure isn't an option anymore. Not with you. Not with the baby. Not with everything I have to lose."
She falls asleep against my chest. Exhausted from crying and fear and relief.
I stay awake. Planning. Calculating. Preparing for the war that's coming.
Because Patrick O'Rourke made one critical mistake.
He helped the bastard who murdered my family all those years ago, left me alive, and then made the mistake of sending a spy into my home now.
A spy who is now in my bed, with my baby in her belly.
I'll hunt him to the ends of the earth. Burn his entire organization to ash. Make him suffer in ways that become legend.
And when he's finally dead, when his blood has paid for Katya and Dmitri and every sleepless night Mila has endured, then I'll be free.
Free to be a father again. Free to love without paralyzing fear. Free to build the family Patrick stole.
But first, he dies.
And I'm going to enjoy every second of it.
Chapter twenty-seven
Valerie
Three months.
Three months of relative peace that feels more like suspended animation than safety.
Three months since I told Lev about the baby, since we decided to face this together, since Patrick went silent after Rico's death.
And I'm starting to show.
Not obviously. Not to strangers. But in the mirror each morning, I see the subtle curve of my lower abdomen. The way my clothes fit differently. The physical evidence of life growing inside me.
Lev sees it too. His hand finds my stomach constantly now, unconscious gesture that makes my chest tight. Like he needs to confirm the baby is still there, still safe, still real.
The protective instinct has become overwhelming.
He upgraded security to the point where I've counted seventeen guards on the property at any given time. Cameras in every room except bedrooms and bathrooms. Motion sensors. Reinforced doors. Panic rooms stocked with supplies.
The estate is a fortress.
And I'm not allowed to leave it.
"It's not safe," Lev says every time I ask. "Patrick knows you're here. Knows you're important to me. Probably knows you're pregnant by now. You're the perfect target."
"I'm going stir-crazy," I argue one afternoon. "I need fresh air that isn't the back garden. Need to see something besides these walls."
"No." His voice is flat. Final. "Not negotiable. Not while Patrick is out there."
