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“Fifth floor. There’s an elevator at the end of the hall.”
I thank her and continue down the hallway. When I reach the end of the hallway, I hurry toward the stairwell instead of the elevator.
It takes me less than a minute to climb the ten flights. Ivan is waiting by the desk in the center of the floor.
“Room 516,” he tells me before I can say a word.
I nod at him appreciatively before continuing down the hall to the right room.
Lyla is lying in bed and staring out the window, her right hand splayed over the hill that’s her stomach.
“Good view?”
She glances over, relief washing over her face as she registers my presence. “You’re here.”
“Of course I’m here.” I walk over to the bed, leaning down to brush a kiss across her forehead. “Where else would I be?”
Lyla inhales, her hand circling around my wrist as she soaks in my proximity the same way I’m savoring hers. “You should have stayed home today.”
I chuckle, rubbing my thumb over the subtle drum of her pulse point. “That’s not what you said this morning.”
“I know.” Lyla sighs, then winces, rubbing her bump. “What time is it?”
“Almost three.”
“Leo needs to—”
“His security detail will pick him up, like normal. Don’t worry about it.”
“He’ll want to come here.”
“I know.” If anyone could give me a run for my money when it comes to levels of excitement about Lyla’s pregnancy, it’s Leo. Kid walks around, telling every person he sees that he’s going to be a big brother. “We’ll see if he’s able to convince them.”
“Nick.” Lyla’s voice gains the same hard edge that always appears when Leo’s future and the Bratva comes up.
She doesn’t want to see what is obvious to everyone else—Leo is a born leader. He has the intensity and the focus and the intelligence to be a successfulPakhan.
But it will be his choice whether he pursues that path, like I promised her.
The door opens, and a white-coat-wearing doctor enters, flipping through forms. He starts speaking Russian, a lackluster spiel of bored drivel about patience and pain management.
I cut him off with a flat tone and instruct him to speak English, already contemplating requesting a different doctor and weighing whether it will be worth annoying Lyla. She hates it when I emphasize the treatment most Bratva wives expect to have handed to them.
Lyla glances between me and the doctor, not understanding a word.
I’m the one who speaks the most Russian to Lyla. And the majority of what I say around her are swears or dirty talk, neither of which are useful right now.
The doctor glances between the form—which I’m betting has Lyla’s last name listed—and the bed, all color rapidly draining from his face. Mumbles something incoherent and then turns and flees the room.
Lyla’s accusing eyes land on me. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him to speak English.”
I might have also called him a moron and threatened his life. But she’ll have to learn Russian to call me out on that.
Her eyes narrow anyway, guessing I’m excluding. But then another contraction hits, and she’s entirely distracted.
* * *
