Page 13

The whole ride down the highway, he fidgeted like a man waiting on a firing squad. First, it was his leg bouncing, then his fingers tapping on his knee, then him sighing so loud it made my teeth ache.

“Will you stop?” I muttered, glaring at the words on the page before me. I’d long since lost my focus because of his fidgeting. “You’re worse than a child on a sugar rush.”

“I’m fine.” He tugged at his collar. “Just hate sitting too long with no entertainment because some asshole threw away my phone.” He leaned between the front seats. “Hey, Arty, my man. How much longer?”

“We’ll be there in roughly forty minutes, sir.”

Yuriy groaned and collapsed back against the leather seat. “Fucking hell.”

“Are you that incapable of sitting still for a two-hour drive?” I asked.

“This is your fault. Least you can do is let me use your phone.”

“So you can watch more distasteful porn?”

“Distasteful? I pay nineteen ninety-nine per month to get that quality content.” He stretched over and placed a hand in the middle of my paper. “Come on, Zhukovsky, or I’m gonna have to tell your daughter you’ve been mean to me. Aren’t we supposed to be making an effort to get along?”

“If I give you my phone, will you sit in the other corner and leave me the hell alone?”

“Yes.” He shuffled back, removing his hand. “Sheesh, so grumpy.”

Hiding how smug I felt, I dug for my phone and handed it to him. “Knock yourself out.”

Yuriy snatched the phone out of my hand and froze. His brows shot up. “What the actual fuck is this? A brick? Jesus Christ, Zhukovsky, who even makes these anymore?” He turned it over like it was some ancient relic pulled from a museum. “Does it even text?”

“It’s a phone. It makes calls. And it’s got Tetris. If that’s not good enough for you, give it back.”

For a second, the disbelief on his face almost made me laugh. Almost.

“Like I have a choice,” he muttered under his breath but thumbed the buttons anyway. The faint, tinny music floated out, and he slumped into his corner of the seat, sulking like a kid but at least occupied.

Finally.

This side of Orlov was different from what I knew about him. He was in his thirties but acted like a hyperactive eighteen-year-old kid. At least the game kept him occupied.

The silence in the car, broken only by the click of buttons and the tinny doot-doot-doot of falling blocks, settled over me like a gift. I inhaled deeply, letting my lungs fill. His scent drifted across the narrow space between us, clean, sharp, like expensive soap and smoke twined together. For a man who’d been crammed on a two-hour flight, he still smelled good. Too good.

The phone didn’t keep him occupied for long. He made Arty go through a drive-thru so that he could get a Big Mac, nuggets, fries, and a milkshake. I hated stopping when all I wanted was to see my daughter, but the drive was revealing a lot about Orlov.

If I opposed him, he pushed back hard. It was easier to let him have his way. He was like an oversized toddler.

By the time we pulled onto a quiet suburban street, my nerves were frayed raw. The houses looked almost identical—two-story clapboards, porches strung with Christmas lights. We finally rolled up the driveway of a house with a giant wreath on the door, with a crooked, dangling red bow.

My chest tightened. This was where my daughter lived. After five years, I got to see my Yelena again.

I scanned the place, and my gut clenched. No cameras, no motion sensors, no form of security. Nothing but cheer and warmth, wide open for anyone to walk in. Too vulnerable. I didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one damn bit.

“Not even a fucking camera in sight,” Yuiry muttered, and his loud observation was comforting that I wasn’t the only one thinking it.

Our kids were reckless. Had they learned nothing from living with us? Safety was a fragile illusion that could easily be shattered. They might no longer be connected to the mob, but home invasion was on the rise across the country.

The door opened.

Yelena.

She stepped out onto the porch, bundled in a cream sweater that stretched over the swell of her belly. Eight months along and glowing from it. Her cheeks were pink, and her hair streamed down her shoulders. She looked more mature now, her face softer, rounder, her body carrying the extra weight of motherhood, but she was still, undeniably, my Yelena.

“Papa,” she whispered. I didn’t hear it, but I saw her lips move.