38. Chapter 38

thirty-eight

Clara

C arl's standing at the door like usual, the guy’s eyes nearly popping out of his skull the second he sees me. The crazy dress probably doesn’t help, but at this point, I don’t give a damn. My mind’s already on Elijah, and I need to get inside , fast.

I hope Pam hasn’t had a goddamn heart attack yet.

“M-Miss Caldwell,” Carl stutters, his eyes desperately trying to stay focused on my face, but his gaze keeps sliding to my cleavage, barely restrained by my tight dress.

I don’t have a single fuck to spare right now.

I flick my gaze to his face.

“Carl.” I walk past him, “Any strangers hanging around? People who don’t belong?”

“N-no, ma’am. All quiet here,” he replies, a little too fast.

“Good. Keep it that way. And next time, eyes up here.” I snap my fingers near my eyes, and he jerks his head up like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I keep walking, already eyeing the private lift up ahead.

But just as I pass the common elevator, it dings, and out steps Mrs. Cheng and her family.

Great. Just what I need right now.

Mr. Cheng’s eyes go wide like he’s seen a ghost. And their teenage son? Forget it. The kid’s practically slack-jawed, staring at me like I’m a walking scandal. Which, let’s be honest, I probably am right now.

I give an awkward smile, trying to play off the fact that I look like I’ve been through hell and back in a damn cocktail dress.

“Morning, Mrs. Cheng. Mr. Cheng.” I mutter, nodding toward the kid.

“Good… morning,” she replies, her voice trailing off as her eyes flicker with concern. Her hand shoots out, grabbing her teenage son’s arm first, giving him a gentle tug. When that doesn’t do the trick, and he keeps staring, her patience snaps. She slaps him on the back of the head— hard . The kid yelps, finally snapping out of it.

She turns to her husband next, but he’s still standing there like a deer in headlights. She lets out an exasperated huff, whacking him lightly on the shoulder.

“Come on,” she mutters, pulling them both away.

I catch her eye just as she’s hauling her family off, and she gives me a quick, apologetic nod.

I force a tight-lipped smile. “Have a good day,” I throw out before making a beeline for my own lift. The doors slide open, and I step inside, hitting the button for the penthouse.

Fuck, who makes these lifts so slow?

I’m practically vibrating with impatience, my foot tapping against the cold floor as the elevator crawls upward.

I lean against the mirrored wall, my chest tight, mind spinning.

Stop. Breathe.

But breathing doesn’t help when your kid’s been with a nanny way longer than planned, with no word from you. Guilt claws at me, sharp and relentless. I told Pam it would be one night, one night, and now? Hell, I don’t even know how long it’s been. Feels like weeks.

The lift chimes, snapping me out of my spiral. The doors open to the familiar sight of my apartment—wooden floors gleaming under the late morning sun. Toys scattered across the living room, just like always. I step out, the soft thud of my feet hitting the floor the only sound in the place.

Too quiet. Way too fucking quiet.

My heart races, the knot in my stomach tightening.

“Elijah?” I call out, but there’s no answer.

“Pam?” My eyes scan the room—action figures and Lego blocks, the usual chaos that comes with having a 4-year-old, but something feels… fucking off.

The sound of Pikachu’s squeaky voice filters through the apartment as I inch forward.

“Pika, pika, Pikachu!”

My heartbeat thuds in my ears, and I step silently, my bare feet making no sound on the cold wooden floor. I can hear the high-pitched battle cries coming from the TV in the living room. Too loud for this time of day, but it’s not that. Something’s off. I can’t shake the feeling.

My eyes scan the place. I don’t see anything out of place, but my gut’s telling me otherwise.

The gun.

I slip over to the side table near the hallway, crouching down as I lift the base of a decorative vase. Tucked just beneath it is the short Glock, hidden away; not exactly standard home décor.

Mafia life 101—never leave yourself defenseless.

Elijah doesn’t know about it, but kids are curious. I push the thought aside for now, clicking off the safety as I step closer to the TV room.

My breath hitches as I reach the doorframe, gun at the ready.

Sweat slides down the back of my neck, but I ignore it, grip tightening on the handle. The Pikachu battle continues to fill the silence, but there’s no one here.

“Elijah?” I whisper, “Baby?”

Nothing.

My heart’s slamming against my ribs now, my pulse racing so fast it’s dizzying. I step forward, pushing the door wider. The TV flashes with Pikachu’s determined little face, electric sparks flying across the screen. But the room is empty. Cushions strewn, more toys tossed around. But no Pam, no Elijah.

Fuck.

I hear a sound. Small, muffled. It’s coming from my bedroom.

I whip around, holding my breath. My steps are fast now but still silent as I move to the door, gun steady in my hands. I push the door open, slow at first, then swing it wide.

My finger’s on the trigger, aimed—and there’s Pam, sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to soothe Elijah, who’s bundled up in blankets, his small body curled up against her.

Pam’s eyes nearly pop out of her head, her mouth falling open.

“Miss Caldwell!” Her voice is too loud, and she freezes, hands still mid-pat on Elijah’s back.

Elijah stirs but doesn’t wake. His small hand clutches Pikachu’s tail, his face peaceful but tired, like he’s been crying for hours.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, dropping the gun to my side.

“Pam…” My voice is husky, the tension leaking out of me, but my nerves are still on edge. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Pam looks at the gun in my hand, then back to my face, eyes wide. “You… uh… you’re back.”

I sigh, running a hand over my face. “Yeah, I’m back. And we need to pack.” I nod toward Elijah, who looks completely worn out. His face is pale, tear tracks still staining his cheeks. Guilt hits me hard.

I’m so sorry, baby. I should’ve been here.

Pam slips out of the bed as carefully as she can, pulling the blanket up over Elijah’s small form. She doesn’t say a word, but the look she gives me says everything—she’s worried, and she knows something’s wrong.

I set the gun on the dresser as Pam walks out to gather Elijah’s things.

I move fast, yanking off the ruined dress and pulling on jeans and a shirt, grabbing a few more clothes, bras, and underwear from the dresser. I head to the closet, my mind racing as I open the hidden drawer at the bottom. Cash. Passports—mine and Elijah’s. I grab my backup phone from the safe.

My mind’s spinning as I shove everything into a bag.

Something’s not adding up.

Everything Leonid said is running through my head, twisting in ways that don’t make sense. But one thing’s clear—those eyes.

Why the hell are Leonid Kuznetsov’s eyes brown?

I freeze for a second, the thought swirling through my head like a storm I can’t control.

What the hell is going on?