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“Oh, I don’t think so. I think I’ve got the measure of the situation just right. That baby in your belly is his. And Bee is just the con he’s using to get the Zanetti mafia on his side.” He glances up at my face, which is a struggle to keep neutral. “Have I got the gist of it?”
“I’m not involved in any of this,” I lie. “Not one bit.”
He laughs sadly. “Oh, yes, you are, sweet Wren. You were involved by association the moment Jared walked into O’Malley’s that night seven years ago and asked to speak to Cathal.”
My God.
So it is true.
I thought I believed the story already—but hearing Cian confirm it removes that one iota of doubt that’s been percolating unconsciously in the back of my head. “Please, Cian. Please don’t do this. I’m… I’m pregnant?—”
“I meant it when I said I wasn’t going to hurt you, Wren.” He shakes his head again. “I won’t.”
“Then why take me at all?”
“Because there’s no reasoning with Dmitri Egorov.” For the first time, his voice prickles with a lash of anger. “The only way to get him to listen is to force him to listen. Of course, that will be harder now, what with Beatrice being shot. That… that was definitely not part of the plan.” He runs an anguished hand through his hair as though he genuinely regrets it, and again, I wonder what the hell is going on. “Which is why I had to take you with me.”
“I-I don’t mean as much to him as you think I do.” I wish I could say I was lying boldly, but the truth is that I have no idea what the truth is anymore.
I don’t know who loves me.
I don’t know who wants me dead.
And I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next five minutes, much less the next days or weeks or years. Everything is a mess and a mystery, and I’m powerless to dictate the course of my own life.
Cian sighs. He sounds tired beyond belief. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
70
DMITRI
There has been only one other time I’ve seen her so helpless.
It was years ago, while Elena was still alive. Bee showed up at my front door bundled up in a massive winter coat despite the fact that it was the height of summer. The coat was white, I remember. As white as her wedding gown is now.
“Can I stay with you for a few days, Dmitri?” she asked. “Please.”
I knew then that it was serious, that something had gone very wrong. Beatrice Zanetti never begged anyone for anything. And she sure as hell never left the house without a full face of makeup.
But here she was, on my doorstep in her coat, sweat mixing with the tear tracks running down her bare face.
It was when she stepped inside and shrugged off the coat that I saw what had happened.
It took everything in me to keep my hands to myself and not touch the fresh iron marks seared into her skin. Just like they’re doing now, my fingers hovered in the air between us, as if, if I only tried hard enough, I’d be able to erase the damage.
“He did this?” I growled.
She shook with sobs that never quite broke through before collapsing onto the floor, her body wracked with pain as she tried to blubber words through her hysteria. I shushed her, picked her up, and carried her to one of the guest bedrooms. I stayed with her until she fell asleep. I vowed that night to protect her.
And yet here I am, holding her limp body in my hands, searching desperately for a pulse. It’s the same fucking scenario playing out all over again.
The same failure.
The same pain.
I’m vaguely aware of someone calling for a retreat. The chaos dissipates all at once, the exact same way it started. One moment, there is mayhem in every direction—the next, we’re alone.
“Pavel,” I croak, “we need a fucking ambulance. Now!” I turn back to her where she’s shivering on the floor. “Bee… Bee, come on… Don’t you fucking dare…”
