Page 5 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

I watch his hand on the wheel. His right hand mostly, the left only when he needs it. He has a small scar along the side of his index finger, old and faded, but it still shows up against his tanned skin. His sleeve has ridden up slightly at the wrist, and I can see the beginnings of a tattoo, the suggestion of black ink against his skin. What it is I can’t make out. I find myself wondering how far up it goes and immediately decide that is not a thought I’m having right now. I look away.

“How long have you been planning this?” I ask, somewhere around the second hour.

“Long enough.”

“Did you know it would be me? Specifically?”

“No. I knew my father would move against the Volkovs again; he can’t help himself; he’s blinded by rage. I didn’t know about any of this until Bogdan told me.”

“Bogdan. He’s one of your brothers, right?”

“Yes. Vasily’s the oldest, then Bogdan, then me and Yaroslav, then Selene.”

“So you’ve got a safe house sitting ready because you generally anticipate needing one at some point.”

“Yes, I think you’ll find your brothers have the same; it’s the nature of the business.”

I look out of the window. The city is long gone, smaller roads now, with shrubs and the occasional lit window of someone having a normal evening. I wonder if Selene has told Simon yet, and what his response was. He’s going to be furious, that’s for sure. Whether he’ll keep it from the others, I’ve no idea.

“I’m not joking when I say, my brothers—”

“Are going to kill me?”

“If you’re lucky.”

“I know.”

“You don’t seem particularly concerned.”

He glances at me for the first time in an hour. “Your brothers are reasonable men; ultimately, they’ll come around.”

I actually laugh at that. “You’ve clearly never met Matvei.”

His lips curl up slightly, causing the dimple in his cheek to deepen. What is it with Bratva men, seriously? I look away and resolve to spend the rest of the journey ignoring him and watching the world go by.

We pull up eventually to a house on a quiet residential street, the kind of street where neighbors put their trash out on time and know each other’s dogs by name. It has window boxes. Actual window boxes, with flowers in them, which is not what I was envisioning for the next stage of my kidnapping. I had been building something considerably bleaker in my head for the past two hours, you know, the usual kidnap location of a derelict building, chains, no windows, stale air.

He gets out, comes around, opens my door, and offers me his hand. I get out without his help; he doesn’t comment. He opens the front door and puts his hand to my back to guide me in, like we’re a couple and he’s introducing me to my new home, probably for the benefit of any nosy neighbors. I step ahead of him, so he has to drop it and go through the door first.

The first thing I do, before I register the sofa or the carpet or the lamp that is already on, is look for the exits. The front door is behind me; he is currently standing there. Window to the left of the entrance, sash, old latch, manageable. Further window in the kitchen at the back, which I can see from here through an open doorway. There is a back door, presumably somewhere beyond that. I take all of this in, in about four seconds, and then I look at the room properly and allow myself to register that it is, in fact, clean and normal, homely even. Definitely not a cell.

“Well, this is not what I pictured,” I say.

“What did you picture?”

“The usual. Being kidnapped repeatedly by your family clearly earns some sort of loyalty points, hmm?”

I turn to face him; my attempt at dark humor doesn’t earn a smile, technically, but I do see the corner of his mouth give a little twitch. He pulls out a chair at the kitchen table with one hand and gives me a look that means sit. I sit because I have decided for now to pick my battles, and because my legs are tired from two hours of being tense in a car seat. He opens the fridge, roots around in it briefly, and pulls out two drinks. He pushes one across the table to me, keeps one for himself, then disappears and comes back with a granola bar, which he puts down in front of me without ceremony.

“No thanks, I’m not hungry.” I push it away, only for him to push it straight back in front of me.

“You haven’t eaten since this morning.”

I stare at him. “How would you know when I last ate?” He says nothing as he pulls out the chair across the table from me, sits down, folds his hands, and looks at me. I find I don’t quite know what to do with myself under his gaze, so I busy myself opening the granola bar, then setting it down again, giving it the occasional poke.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. I watch his hand come back out and place a document on the table between us, which he smooths out. It’s immediately apparent from the thickness of the paper that it’s important. The way he looks at me when he puts it down, steady and already braced for my reaction, tells me I am not going to like what I read.

“What the hell is this?” I meet his eyes; he’s staring at me. I know exactly what it is; the question is, what the hell is this doing placed on a table in front of me, in a house I don’t know that I have been driven to against my will, miles from my family with a man I’ve never met? I’m sure I can think of a few more, but that’s what I’m starting with; I’m sure he can read the subtext.