66. Viviana

Iakov Novikov is chasing me.

It's what I tell myself again and again as I drive away from my son in Pyotr's car.

I'm being chased by a powerful man who is going to be even hungrier for revenge now than he was before Mikhail stopped his plan in its tracks. I don't know that I'll be able to protect myself from Iakov, let alone Dante, as well.

He's safer with Mikhail.As much as I wish it wasn't true, it is.

It's also the only reason I can drive away from Dante without falling apart.

Though, ten minutes away from the mansion, I do in fact fall apart.

I manage to pull the car along a curb through a haze of tears. Then I press my forehead to the steering wheel and cry and cry. I weep until there's nothing left. Until all I can do is sit back in the seat gasping for breath.

This car may have belonged to Pyotr, but the citrus and cedar smell of Mikhail is practically woven into the upholstery. Each breath is like burying my face in his neck. It's like being back in his house, back in his arms.

I need to get away from it. I throw the door open and stumble into the grass. By the time I drop to my knees, I'm already heaving.

There wasn't much in the way of food in Iakov's bunker, but my body tries desperately to empty itself anyway. I want to blame my nausea on the stress and the grief.

I pray it's because of the stress and the grief.

Deep inside, though, I know better.

When I'm finally done, I flop back on the grass and stare up at the black night. The sky is overcast and gray. The city lights paint everything a dingy orange. I lie there until the early morning dew soaks through my shirt and my body is grumbling at me to either eat something or throw up some more. Or both.

I climb back into the car and drive until I see the glow of a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. The girl behind the counter is young and she doesn't look up from her phone as I raid the shelves for supplies.

She checks me out without hesitating over anything I place on the belt. I'm sure she's seen it all. Especially at two in the morning.

Then I make my way to a motel.

Running is oddly familiar to me. Dante and I lived in the same apartment for years, but the mindset of being on the run never quite left my system. It's only in the last few weeks that I let myself consider the possibility that we would settle down somewhere. Naively, I thought Mikhail's mansion could become home.

I may not want you to die, but that doesn't mean I want you.

I block out the echo of Mikhail's words. I can't dwell on them now. Not when my survival depends on me staying sharp and being ready for anything. Curling into the fetal position and nursing a broken heart isn't an option right now.

I look around at the faded couch against the water-damaged wall, at the threadbare comforter tossed over a bed too many people have slept in.

Then, finally, I force my gaze down to the pregnancy test sitting on the rickety table.

I expected the two pink lines, but still, nothing could have prepared me for how quickly they appeared or how vibrant they are.

I'm not just pregnant. I'm really pregnant.

Forget Plan B. Forget Plans C, D, and E, also. I'm deep in the alphabet, scrambling for what in the actual fuck I'm going to do now.

I've been here in this exact position before, but this time is different. This time, Mikhail has Dante and Iakov is out for blood. The odds aren't just stacked against me; I'm being slowly crushed underneath them.

In a sign of just how desperate I am, I grab my phone out of my bag and dial a number I haven't used in years.

My father answers on the second ring. "It was only ever a matter of time before you came crawling back on your knees."

I close my eyes, fighting through a wave of nausea that might have nothing at all to do with being pregnant. "Aren't you going to ask where I've been?"

"You don't think I already know?" he snorts. "You've started a war, girl. Then again, if you're calling me, I'm guessing that means Mikhail has done the smart thing and ended it before it could begin."

Now. I'm in a war with the Greeks and the truth is… you're not worth it.

I hate that my father is right.

I hate even more that I can't afford to hang up on him.

"This isn't about Mikhail—it's about Iakov," I explain. "He's coming for me because of what you made me do."

"I didn't make you do anything. You had a choice. And if you'll remember, you didn't uphold your end of the bargain."

"My end of the bargain was to risk my life killing Trofim and then hand you my son. It was a shit deal and it was never really an option."

"Is the bastard boy with you now? Or am I right in assuming he's with his father while you're in some rat-infested motel?" I don't answer, but I don't have to. He laughs. "You stabbed me in the back and lost the boy anyway. Now, you're on the run and desperate. It's just like the last time I came and scooped you up off the pavement."

He has no idea how right he is. Down to the positive pregnancy test sitting in front of me.

"I won't survive this time."

Every cell in my body wants to lie and tell my father I'll make it on my own, but I know I won't. My choices over the last six years are catching up with me. I tried, but it just wasn't enough. I wasn't smart enough or brave enough to make it.

Dante's face flashes in my mind. I can still feel his head heavy on my shoulder, his soft breath against my neck.

I squeeze my eyes closed, willing myself not to dissolve into more tears. Not in front of my father.

"Please," I beg. The word is bitter, but appealing to my father for help is my only choice. "I'll do anything."

He hums as he considers and I can hear the amusement. He's loving this far more than he should.

Then his answer comes as swift as an executioner's ax.

"No."

I freeze. "What?"

"No," he repeats. "You have a current and a former Novikov pakhan after you. All because you turned your back on me and ran."

"Dad—"

"I was willing to help you before, even after you ran the night before your wedding. I was willing to pick up the pieces of your broken promises. But now… Now, you need to face real consequences, Viviana. You need to understand what it's like when I'm not playing the hero and cleaning up your messes."

If I wasn't so panicked, I'd laugh. My father has never been the hero. Not once.

But I can't even formulate coherent thoughts, let alone words.

"Good luck," he says into the stunned silence. "I'm sure I'll see you soon."

The line goes dead and I throw my phone against the wall. It leaves a dent, but it's just one of many in the trashed room.

"You won't see me once I'm dead!" I shriek.

I swipe my arm across the table in front of me, sending the pregnancy test and half of the supplies I bought from the drugstore flying across the room.

The anger fuels me for another ten seconds before I collapse on the floor and start gathering up the mess.

I have no idea where I'm going to live, how I'm going to get more money, or where my next meal is coming from. I can't afford to throw a fit.

I stack the non-perishables and water bottles on the table and then drop to my hands and knees to find the pregnancy test under the bed. I don't need it anymore. I already know what the result is. But I have to stare at it some more to convince myself this nightmare is real.

I'm pregnant with Mikhail Novikov's second child.

I'm on the run.

I'm all alone.

I press my hand to my stomach. Maybe not all alone.

I'm about to sink down onto the bed and let myself slip into a few blissful hours of unconsciousness… when there's a knock on the door.

I groan. I'm sure someone called about the shouting and banging, but given the grunts and groaning going on next door, I don't think my neighbors have any right to complain.

"I'm sorry about the noise," I call through the door. "I'll quiet down."

No answer. After a few seconds, there's another round of knocks.

I look through the peephole, but it's been painted over, because of course it has. Three of the four walls in my room are patched over with different shades of faded yellow, but the doors have a fresh coat of paint. Makes perfect sense.

"I'm sorry," I repeat. "All is good in here."

More knocking rattles the cheap door in the frame.

I jerk the chain out of the lock and fling the door open. "I told you I won't cause any more trouble. Go on back to?—"

The words die on my lips when I look up into the very last face I ever expected to see.

"I want to believe you, but I'm afraid you're nothing but trouble, Viviana."

Trofim Novikov smiles, his face curving into vengeance incarnate.

Then he pushes me inside my room and kicks the door closed behind him.

TO BE CONTINUED

Mikhail and Viviana's story concludes in Book 2 of the Novikov Bratva duet, IVORY OATH.