Page 50

My baby wakes as strange hands lift him, his face scrunching up in that way that means he's about to cry. The sound he makes—confused, frightened, looking for his mother—drives me past reason, past sanity, past anything resembling rational thought.

I launch myself at the man holding my son, claws extended, teeth bared like some feral thing. I rake my nails down his cheek, drawing blood, and he curses in that harsh language as he tries to hold Nikolai away from my desperate reach.

"Give him back!" I shriek, pounding my fists against his chest, his arms, anywhere I can reach. "He's mine! Give him back!"

The third man moves then, and the butt of his rifle catches me in the stomach. The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh, and I double over, gasping, but I don't stop fighting. Can't stop. Won't stop while they have my baby.

I grab for the gun, for anything, my vision tunneling until all I can see is Nikolai's face growing smaller as they carry him toward their vehicle. He's crying now, that heart-wrenching wail that calls to every maternal instinct I possess.

"Mamochka!"

Another blow sends me to my knees, gravel biting through my jeans to tear at my skin. Blood fills my mouth, warm and metallic, but I keep crawling toward them, keep reaching for my son even as my body betrays me.

"Nikolai!" His name comes out broken, desperate. "Nikolai, Mama's here! Mama's?—"

A boot connects with my ribs, and something cracks. The world tilts sideways, colors bleeding together like a watercolor left in the rain. But even as I fall, even as my vision starts to go dark around the edges, I can hear him crying, "Mamochka!"

They're at their vehicle now, one of them climbing into the driver's seat while the other two handle my son like he's cargo instead of a tiny human being who needs his mother. The engine roars to life, drowning out everything else.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure if the words make it past my lips. "Please don't take him. Please."

But they're already moving, tires spinning on loose gravel as they accelerate toward the road. I try to push myself up, try to run after them, but my body won't obey. My arms shake and give out, sending me face-first into the dirt.

The last thing I see clearly is the SUV's taillights disappearing around the bend, taking my entire world with them.

After that, time becomes fluid, meaningless. I might scream—probably do scream—but the sounds feel like they're comingfrom someone else. My throat is raw, my voice gone, but the keening continues, rising from some place so deep inside me that I didn't know it existed.

Hands touch me eventually. Gentler hands than the ones that took my baby, but I fight them anyway because nothing in this world is safe anymore. Nothing is sacred. They took my son. They took my son, and I couldn't stop them.

Voices swim in and out of focus. Russian voices, familiar accents this time. Vetrov security, probably, drawn by the commotion. Too late, as always. Too fucking late.

Someone's asking me questions, demanding answers I don't have. Who were they? What did they want? How did they know? It's Rolan. He wants answers I don't have.

I want to laugh at the absurdity of it. How did they know? How does anyone know anything in this world of shadows and secrets and blood money? Maybe they were rival family members. Maybe they were mercenaries hired by enemies I don't even know I have. Maybe they were just opportunistic monsters who saw a woman with a baby and decided to take what they wanted.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters because they have him, and I failed.

I failed my son. I failed the one person in this world who depended on me completely, who trusted me to keep him safe. I was supposed to protect him, and instead, I led him straight into danger with my desperate gamble for freedom.

The medic—because apparently, someone called a medic—keeps trying to clean the blood from my face, but I pull away. I don't want to be fixed. I don't want to be patched up and made presentable. I want to hurt. I want to bleed. I want the outside to match the devastation inside.

But they persist, professional in their efficiency, treating me like a broken doll that needs repairing. Gauze and antiseptic. Icefor the swelling. Something sharp being pulled from my cheek—glass, maybe, from when I fell.

Through it all, one thought keeps circling through my damaged mind like a prayer or a curse. I will find him. No matter what it takes, no matter who I have to become, no matter what lines I have to cross—I will find my son.

The old Anya might have been helpless, might have curled up in a corner and waited for someone else to save her. But that woman died the moment those strangers put their hands on my boy. What's left is something harder, something with sharp edges and no remaining innocence.

They want to play games with people's lives? They want to treat children like pawns?

Fine.

But they picked the wrong mother to fuck with.

26

ROLAN

I'm reviewing security footage in my office when the screaming starts.