Page 3 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

I have to move faster than I planned to. There is no time for the methodical pace I prefer; there is only the calculation of how far Yaroslav is from Clement Street against how far I am, and the answer to that is: I’m on that fucker. I push it. I run two contacts simultaneously on the drive over, one hand on the wheel, one on the phone, keeping my voice level because Bogdan has a man on me that I haven’t fully shaken yet, and I cannot afford to look like I’m in a hurry.

Half a block before the Clement Street turn, I spot the van parked on the corner of the road, its hazard lights flashing, a man in a hi-vis vest waving off any drivers trying to turn in. Gas leak. Road closed. It’s so amateur to anyone who knows exactly what they’re looking at, and I do. Yaroslav’s men have sealed the street from both ends before the grab even started. Classic Alek Mykros protocol. Control the environment first, make sure nobody wanders into the middle of it.

I drive two streets further on and park up, cutting through the alleys that run behind the shops. I slide in the back of the bakery that’s next door to the book shop. The owner won’t care; he owes me a favor for a fire two years ago that never made it into any report. By the time I reach the front window, I can see her security detail is already on the floor. Four of them are down, but there’s no blood, which means a dart, not a blade. My father’s men don’t tend to make a mess in the daylight. There’s about fifteen minutes before the sedative wears off, and four seriously pissed security men try to work out what the hell just happened right under their noses. I don’t have long. Neither does Yaroslav.

I spot her, and no amount of hours watching her on a screen has prepared me for seeing her up close in the flesh. She’s a fucking vision to behold, tall with long dark auburn hair and equally dark eyes; she is utterly captivating, and there is no fucking world in which Yaroslav is going to take her.

She is standing with three books under her arm, facing my brother, and she looks distinctly unimpressed. Her chin is up, her eyes are blazing, and she has clearly just told my twin exactly where to go and is waiting to see if he has anything useful to say in response. He doesn’t, because what the fuck do you say?

I break cover and put myself between them. “Walk away,” I say to Yaroslav.

“Yakov—”

“Walk. Away.”

Yaroslav’s entire posture goes rigid. The smug certainty on his face a few moments ago fractures, replaced by a look of pure shock before his poker face slams back down. His eyes narrow, scanning to see if I brought anyone with me. He knows full well that I am meant to be blind to this entire snatch, working a different sector on the eastern docks. He has absolutely no idea that Bogdan crashed into my bedroom, hammered, slurring the old man’s plans, or that I spent the last twenty-four hours burning through every back-alley favor to trace his movements to this exact bookstore.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You don’t belong in this district.” He hisses at me.

“I belong wherever I choose to stand, brother.”

Yaroslav takes a half-step backward, his brow furrowing as he tries to solve the immediate riddle of my presence. “How did you find me, Yakov? The old man gave this directive to me directly. No one else was briefed.”

“Bogdan is a sloppy drunk who runs his mouth when he’s bitter,” I shrug.

He stares at me. The air between us feels pressurized, crackling with the silent understanding of what we were raised to be. He is evaluating whether I am here to compete for the prize, or if I have broken rank for the Volkov girl.

“If you know why I’m here, then you know you need to turn around and walk away,” Yaroslav states, his hand shifting subtly inside his coat pocket, the fabric tightening around the silencer of his weapon. “The old man wants her in a cell before the end of the day. He wants her family brought to their knees. If you interfere with a direct assignment, Yakov, you know the penalty. A broken timeline looks a lot like treason to him.”

“I don’t give a shit how it looks to him,” I say, taking a step forward, deliberately crowding his space until we are barely a foot apart, our chests almost touching. “The girl stays untouched. If you lay a single finger on her, I will dismantle your entire detail piece by piece. Starting with you.”

The silence stretches out between us, agonizingly thin. Yaroslav looks at me, then glides his eyes past my shoulder to check Raya. She hasn’t run. True to her blood, she is standing her ground right behind me, her hands undoubtedly curled into tight fists, ready to fight if the sidewalk turns into a slaughterhouse.

Then, Yaroslav lets out a short, dry chuckle that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You always were the stubborn one, Yakov,” he says, his hand slowly relaxing inside his pocket, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t leave. He shifts his stance, his body angling slightly, enough to block the sightline between his own men at the corner of the block and Raya. It is a move so subtle nobody else would notice it, but to me, it is a loud, ringing declaration. “The old man said that if anyone interfered, I was supposed to remind them of the cellar rule.”

The cellar rule. Never leave a witness who can trace your steps. He’s repeating our father’s harsh dogmas verbatim, giving any potential listening devices exactly what they need to hear to keep his own cover safe.

“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” I reply.

“Good.” Yaroslav looks at me. I see his eyes flicker to Raya, and something passes over his face. I stare back at Yaroslav, and the conversation we have in the next thirty seconds is silent, because we have been communicating this way since we were four years old. He tells me I am making a mistake. I ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s playing at. He tells me our father will hear about this. I tell him that our father can go fuck himself. He draws his gun and fires a warning shot into the ground beside me. He shrugs, and his eyes tell me, “Well, what do you expect me to do?” I turn my back on him because I know my brother; I have always known my brother, and I know that this is as far as it goes.

I take Raya by the arm and start moving her toward the bakery and out the back toward my car.

“What are you doing? Let go of me.” She looks at me horrified, still clutching onto her books like her life depends on it.

“In a moment.”

“Now would be better.”

“I’m sure it would, malysh. Are you hurt?”

“Don’t you malysh me!” She looks livid, and it’s sexy as fuck, but I need to get her out of here, not gawp at her like a lovestruck teenager. “No, I’m not hurt. What the hell is happening right now?” I nod as we approach the car, and I open the door. She understands the situation enough to climb in without making any further scene. Good girl.

We’ve barely pulled away from the sidewalk when she starts. “You do know my brothers are going to kill you for this? Like actually kill you? I mean, what is it with you lot that you think it’s acceptable to kidnap innocent women and kids when the fancy takes you, hmm?” She folds her arms and glares at me, actually waiting for me to answer her. The temptation to reach out and touch her is so strong, but I don’t want to scare the shit out of her, thinking she’s stuck with a crazy man. “I’m not kidnapping you,” I tell her, which is kind of true; it’s more of a rescue mission, but I can see how it looks that way.

“What a fascinating perspective,” she snorts, “from the man who strong-armed me into his car and is currently driving us, God knows where. I really must revisit my dictionary.”

“I’ll explain everything once we get there, okay?” This is too long and too weird a conversation for the car journey. She looks the sort that will jump, and that’s the last fucking thing I need; imagine having to hand back a gravely injured Raya to her family and explain I was trying to stop a war, not start one.