Chapter 43

Forty-Three

R uby

The property is flooding with men, many of whom I recall seeing roam Kirill's property back in Russia. They do the same thing here, walking the perimeter, seeing everything, missing nothing.

I'm working on accepting that this is to be my life, and being at the very least content with it, even if I can't quite find happiness yet. It's hard to find comfort in your life when you're constantly surrounded by people who are being paid to ensure that life continues.

I honestly don't know how famous people do this day in and day out. How they choose this.

I would never choose this.

But Kirill had never been my choice. I'd been his, and that had been it.

Pavel moves into the space where I'm tending to the roses, I can't wait to begin blooming. I've already replaced the chips around their beds, careful to wear proper gloves during this task as the thorns they shed can be deadly to the hands. I've cut back the wayward stems, and now it's about waiting for the blooms. The beautiful blooms that will remind me painfully, beautifully, of Mama.

"You enjoy gardening?" Pavel observes.

"I used to do it with my mother." I take the glass of lemon water he hands me. "It reminds me of her now. I like it very much."

"My mother died, like yours, of cancer. She was obsessed with the night sky. She would sit out beneath the stars for hours, her head tipped back. She would wake me often in the night to watch the stars fall, the aurora's dance. I was never quite as entranced by the sky as I was by her." It's the most words he's said to me at once. I listen raptly. "Now, I find myself under the same sky more often than I would like. It is nice to have something left behind that we can stand with and feel close to them again."

Quietly, I agree, "It is."

We stand for a long moment, staring at the rose bushes that have yet to bloom. A moment of silence for those we loved dearly, and lost early.

When I glance back at the house, I see the other two men who have joined my personal detail standing on the back porch, watching me. Always watching me. They are intense in a way that I know Pavel and Maxim try not to be.

"Do you think I'll always need them, Mac?"

He no longer grumps at my name for him. Usually, now, his lips twitch. "No."

I sigh. "They're nice enough men, but they don't fit here. Things feel tense."

"They are not our men."

I look to Pavel, my brows furrowing. "Who's men are they?"

"They belong to the Cosa Nostra."

"The—what is that?"

Pavel looks at me. There is a hint of a smile playing at his amusement. "That's the Sicilian Mafia, Ruby."

My mouth falls as my eyes bug wide. I whisper-hiss, "But you're—Bratva!"

He dips his chin. "I am."

"They're a rival gang!"

"We're not a gang. We're far too organized to be called something like a gang." Pavel looks put out. "We're an organization. A family. And the Volkov Bratva has an alliance with the Cosa Nostra."

"But Kirill isn't really Bratva. He oversees the Volk Vault Banks."

Pavel's eyes drill into mine. "Kirill is the face of Oligarch money, but make no mistake, Ruby, Bratva blood runs in his veins just as it runs in Ilya's. Kirill is the political link between the criminals who act to represent the people, and the underworld they all deal in. Ilya might be the Pakhan , but Kirill's power is just as much, if not more deadly. His connections allow for manipulations unlike the kind most underground organizations will permit. He is not an enemy one wishes to make, and he holds, and hides, a fair amount of money for individuals high within the ranks of the Russian, American, Canadian, and European governments."

I feel shaken. The man I am married to, the father of the child I nurture within my body, is far more terrifying than I initially assumed. And I always assumed he was a very dangerous man.

Glancing at the two men from the Cosa Nostra, I murmur, "So, Kirill does a lot more with his days than simply overseeing the construction of the Volk Vault Bank?"

Pavel nods. "Undoubtedly."

I stare back at the rose bushes. "Is he in danger?"

"Kirill was trained very early to know how to protect himself. But that is why he has Dimitri."

"Dimitri is his bodyguard?"

"Dimitri is his right hand."

I nod, taking a long sip of my lemon water. "Thank you, Mac."

He peers sideways at me. "For what?"

"For being honest with me."

"Always, Ruby."

The OBGYN's office is done in a comforting, not over-the-top shade of rose pink. It's clear this is an office for people with money, which is what Kirill has, and clearly wishes to spend, on me. Still, sitting with four massive bodyguards in the waiting room, isn't exactly conducive to a stress-free environment.

I should have conceded when Kirill said he'd have the doctor make a house call to confirm the pregnancy and begin my prenatal care. But I'd refused, putting my foot down, because I wanted the genuine experience.

I'm thinking now that the genuine experience is overrated, as the woman across from me stares with bugged eyes. Her husband looks just as alarmed by the sight that I am with my four big, tatted, clearly dangerous, guards.

I shift, uneasy in my chair, relieved when the nurse calls, "Leah," and the woman and her husband flee.

"I should have let Kirill pay for the house call."

"Nonsense." Maxim bumps my side with his. "We'll get that ice cream you like after this. Make a day of it."

Maxim always makes me smile. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"Kirill is on his way," Pavel informs aloud after glancing at his phone.

"He is?"

"He's not far."

A nurse appears. She looks a little uncertain as she calls, "Ruby…"

I stand, my eyes flashing to Pavel, who also rises. "He will join you as soon as he is here." His hand moves to the small of my back, and he urges me toward the nurse.

Her eyes flick between me and Pavel, having caught our conversation. "Are you the father?"

"He is on his way."

"Oh—" She looks even more uncomfortable. "Um?—"

"I will wait outside the door."

"We don't usually allow that."

Pavel doesn't even smile at her as he says, "You will make an exception."

The door closes, cutting me off from Pavel as I stand in the empty room, the promise that, "The doctor will be right with you," echoing in the windowless space.

I take a seat in one of the two waiting chairs, thinking that, if I already had a child, they would surely be trying to sway me to allow them to spin on the doctor's stool. Gazing around the room, I read posters for women's health, and the health of a woman while pregnant. I read the stages of expected weight gain, and the changes I should expect my body to undergo. It's all a bit stressful, and I find my gaze straying from the posters to the second door, at the back of the office. An emergency exit, I assume. We are in the back of the clinic, so, surely, the door leads to the outside in the case of a fire. Smart, I think, and then the thought is cut short as a stout man somewhere in his fifties with a full head of gray hair enters the room. He moves quick and sure, flashing me a smile that feels a little too wide.

My gaze shifts to the extra-large cup of take-out coffee in his hand, and I deduce that as the reason for his wired, slightly unhinged, grin.

"I'm Doctor Gibbons," I think he might be sweating. "You must be Ruby Volkov?"

"I am. It's nice to meet you. You come highly recommended."

That brittle smile stretches wider. "Yes, yes. Should we begin?"

I nod, a little surprised when he immediately gestures me up onto the table. I thought we'd be talking first, but apparently, it's right to business.

"How far along are you, Ruby?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe six, eight weeks."

He nods, still clutching his coffee. "Lay back for me now, please."

I swear, he's shaking. Definitely too much coffee.

Still, I do as he asks, murmuring, "I eat a lot of apples," when he asks if I'm getting my fruit and veggies in.

"I'm going to check your nodes, and then we'll do an ultrasound to see just how far along you are, okay, Ruby?"

My nodes? "I'm not sick."

"But it says in your chart you've been suffering from vomiting." He flashes me another grin. I can't help but think it's slightly maniacal.

I'm about to ask for Pavel to come in with me when I feel his hands on my neck, searching my nodes. He's set the cup of coffee on the table next to the bed, where I assume he would usually leave his doctorly tools. Although his touch is clammy and a little shaky, it is gentle. I lay back and, when he tells me to take in a deep breath and relax, I try to do as he says, letting my eyes drift closed.

That's when I feel it, a prick of pain before a flood of something hot spreads under my skin. I let out a small yelp, but am silenced quickly by a damp cloth over my mouth. It smells faintly sweet.

As I struggle, already heavy from the drug, I see the coffee cup tipped, empty on its side. A syringe sits next to it now—empty.

Oh, God, no . Please…

I'm too heavy to struggle now. Dr. Gibbons leans down as my vision begins to distort. "I am so sorry. They threatened my family. I have—I have grandbabies." He's sweating now—crying. But he shoves something long and cold down my leggings, on the outside of my thigh. "I hope this helps." He sobs, sucks in a sharp breath. "My grandbabies. God forgive me. I'm so sorry."

The door at the back of the office opens. I struggle against the black that threatens the edges of my vision as a man appears. He looks mean, I think, as he lifts a blade and slices it across Dr. Gibbon's neck.

Fear spikes, and I let out a scream that sounds like nothing more than the squeak of a mouse.

Dr. Gibbons drops, dead to the floor, and the blackness threatening my vision sweeps in to claim all of me .