11. Chapter 11

11

Clara

S NRKKK-PFFFTTT

What the—?

My eyes snap open, mortified by the foghorn that just erupted from my face.

Good job, Clara. Real femme fatale material right here.

Nothing says “deadly assassin” like snoring loudly enough to wake yourself up.

Wait.

I blink at the ceiling, mind fuzzy. This isn’t my ceiling. Too many fancy-ass crown moldings. Too much… everything.

The events of last night crash back like a hangover.

Kidnapped. Check.

Enemy’s house. Check.

Probably drooled on thousand-thread-count pillowcases. Double check.

Something’s not right, though. The room’s too quiet, missing that soft little whistle-snore that usually—

My heart stutters.

“Elijah?”

Silence answers. Not even a rustle of sheets.

I bolt upright, head spinning. The massive bed stretches beside me, empty except for a squished Pikachu plushie. No tiny limbs sprawled everywhere. No kid-sized blanket cocoon.

No son.

My heart slams against my ribs. I throw the covers off, bare feet hitting cold wood. “Elijah!”

The walk-in closet’s empty. Just rows of his designer clothes.

Why can’t he hang his clothes in his room like a normal person?

The bathroom door’s wide open, no tiny figure brushing his teeth or playing with the fancy soap dispenser.

Under the bed. Nothing.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My eyes drift to the bedroom door. No way. No fucking way Elijah would just…

But he’s 4. And curious. And has zero sense of stranger danger because I’ve sheltered him too much and—

I press my palm against my chest, trying to cage the panic.

Okay. Think.

The door’s probably locked, anyway. These are professional criminals. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to—

My bare feet whisper across the polished hardwood. One step. Two. Like approaching a bomb that might go off.

My fingers hover over the handle. Just check. It’ll be locked, and I’ll feel like an idiot, and Elijah’s probably just hiding in the closet again because he thinks he’s a ninja and—

The handle turns.

Just… turns.

Like this isn’t a kidnapping. Like we’re guests at some fucked up B&B run by the Russian mob.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I breathe, staring at the open doorway like it’s personally offended me.

These absolute morons didn’t even lock us in.

I step into the hallway, the smooth wood giving way to plush carpet.

“Elijah?” My whisper echoes off the high ceiling. Three other doors mock me from across the hall, all firmly shut.

I try each handle. Locked. Of-fucking-course.

“Baby?” My voice gets a little louder, a little more desperate. “This isn’t funny, buddy.”

The elevator at the end of the hall hums softly. Down is the only option unless my 4-year-old suddenly learned to pick locks or sprout wings.

My finger hovers over the button. I’m half-naked, trapped in a mobster’s house, and my son is missing. This is fine. Everything is fine.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding that makes me jump. Empty. Thank God.

I step in, wrapping my arms around myself. The oversized white T-shirt I snagged from the closet keeps sliding off one shoulder. My reflection in the mirrored walls shows exactly what I am—a hot mess in borrowed clothes, barefoot and pissed off.

Mother of the Year.

The numbers tick down: 3… 2… 1…

A child’s giggle floats up from somewhere below.

His giggle.

I’m out of the elevator before the doors fully open, bare feet silent on the marble floor.

More laughter. Adult voices. The clinking of plates.

I break into a run, T-shirt barely covering my ass, no bra, no dignity, no—

I skid to a stop in the doorway.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

My son—my innocent 4-year-old—is perched on a marble counter like he owns it. Dmitry towers behind him, guiding his tiny hands over a spatula.

“Gentle, mladshiy . Like this—” Dmitry’s gruff voice goes soft as they flip a perfectly round pancake together.

“Look! I did it!” Elijah bounces, Pikachu clutched under one arm.

“Mommy!” Elijah spots me, face lighting up like Christmas. “The bad guys are nice now! Uncle Dmitry showed me how to make circles! Way better than your squares!”

This kid. Way to throw me under the bus.

Wait, what? Uncle. Dmitry.

“Buddy…” I force my lips into something resembling a smile, every instinct screaming as I edge into the kitchen.

What kind of twilight zone bullshit is this?

“Well, well.” Maksim’s eyes drift down my bare legs. “Look who finally joined our little breakfast party.”

My fingers itch for a weapon. Any weapon.

Movement draws my eye to the far corner. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching on a familiar broad-shouldered silhouette. Leonid. Looking like some dark god in a perfectly tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to expose corded forearms.

Fuck me.

No. No fucking way. Not going there.

His eyes drag from my bare feet, up my exposed legs, lingering on where his stolen T-shirt barely covers my ass. When they finally meet mine, they’re dark. Dangerous.

Like I’ve personally offended him by not wearing pants.

Good.

“Uncle Dmitry says I can help cook every morning!” Elijah announces, completely oblivious to the tension crackling through the air. “Can we stay forever?”

My heart stops.

“Uh…” My brain short-circuits.

Stay forever? In the house of the man I’m supposed to kill?

Sure, why not? We can have pancakes every morning with the Russian mob. Maybe learn how to garrote someone over orange juice.

“Sure… I guess.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I pinch the bridge of my nose, glancing ceiling-ward.

Hey, God, if you’re up there — what the actual fuck?

I watch Elijah beam at Dmitry, all gap-toothed innocence.

Okay. Play it cool, Clara. Just casually make your way to the—

“Want to see my pancake flip, Mommy?”

“Coming, buddy.” I inch toward the counter. Nothing suspicious here. Just a mother showing interest in her son’s culinary adventures. Who happens to be drifting closer to that lovely knife block with the really sharp— A wall of heat appears behind me.

Christ, how does someone so big move so quietly?

“Sit.” Leonid’s breath brushes my ear. His hand spans my lower back, fingertips burning through the thin cotton.

God, he’s so… fucking big .

Was he always this big ? This… everywhere.

My body betrays me, leaning into his touch for a fraction of a second before my brain catches up. What the hell, hormones? That’s the enemy. The very hot, very touchable—

No. Enemy. Focus.

“I don’t take orders from—”

His fingers flex against my spine, guiding me toward a chair. Not pushing. Not forcing. Just… suggesting. Firmly.

Joker watches the whole thing, mouth twitching. Asshole.

I sit. Not because Leonid told me to. Because I want to. Because it’s a tactical advantage to… to…

Fuck, he smells good.

Fuck, stop it.

“Pancakes!” Elijah chirps, completely demolishing my murderous momentum. “Mommy, look! Dmitry made mine look like a star!”

Dmitry. The Siberian Slaughterer. Making my kid star-shaped pancakes.

I drop my forehead to the marble counter with a thunk .

“Coffee?” Leonid’s voice rumbles above me, way too amused.

“Poison?” I mumble into the marble.

“Maybe later.”

I lift my head to glare at him, but he’s already moving away, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His very kissable mouth—

No. No, no, no.

I bang my head on the counter again.

“Mommy’s weird in the morning,” Elijah stage-whispers to Dmitry.

Thanks, kid. Keep spilling all my secrets to the mob.

“More chocolate sauce!” he demands, and Dmitry—may God strike me dead—actually complies.

So, this is my life now. Sitting at a mobster’s breakfast table, half-dressed, watching trained killers spoil my son rotten while plotting ways to murder their boss.

Who, by the way, just set a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. Black, two sugars.

Exactly how I like it.

Bastard.