Page 102 of Nine Months to Bear

“Casualties?”

A heavy pause. “Two of ours. All of Iakov’s men escaped.”

Beside me, Olivia’s breathing accelerates. I glance over to find her gripping the door handle, knuckles white against black leather. Her amber eyes are wide and fixed on the road ahead as I weave through traffic at reckless speeds.

A strange ache pierces my chest. She’s afraid—of the situation, of me, of the world she’s glimpsing behind my carefully constructed facade. I should be pleased. Fear makes her malleable, easier to control when the time comes to take her company.

But I’m not pleased.

Not one fucking bit.

“You handle the feds,” I instruct Taras as I whip onto a side street to avoid the main thoroughfare. “Send Mikayla after any of Iakov’s men we can get our hands on. I’m taking Olivia and Babushka back to the compound.”

“You sure that’s wise?” he asks. “You have a lot on your plate. Maybe it would be easier if you let her go and?—”

“Do as you’re fucking ordered, man.”

I end the call, throwing the phone onto the dashboard, where it immediately buzzes again with another incoming call—Mikayla this time. I ignore it.

“Stefan.” Olivia clears her throat. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

The streets of Boston blur past my windows, familiar routes suddenly strange in the haze of emergency. Red light from a passing ambulance bathes her face.

Even now, with her world wobbling on its axis, Dr. Olivia Aster demands order, explanation, control.

“Someone’s making a move against my business interests,” I say finally. “Coordinated attacks. It’s not safe for you to be alone right now.”

“Because I might be carrying your child?”

“Because you’re mine.” I unclench and re-clench the steering wheel. “Or rather, that is what whoever is doing this thinks. So I need to protect you. Because that’s what they’ll expect.”

Another pause, this one tinged with hurt she’ll never admit out loud. “And your grandmother?” she asks softly.

“Also potentially at risk.” I swerve around a car driving too slowly. “We’ll collect her, then go somewhere secure until this is contained.”

She nods. “Okay,” she whispers.

Nothing more.

We screech to a halt outside Babushka’s modest brownstone less than five minutes later.

“Stay in the car,” I instruct, already reaching for my Glock.

“Like hell I will.” She’s out of her seat before I can stop her. “If I’m a target, I’m going to be amovingtarget.”

“You—”

The argument dies on my lips as my grandmother appears in her doorway. She’s wearing her good coat and practical shoes, pocketbook in hand.

Of course she’s ready. Nothing surprises Elena Safonova—not even her grandson arriving in a panic with a beautiful woman in tow.

“I expected you five minutes ago when I first heard the police scanner going crazy,” she says dryly.

I kiss her papery cheek. “Are you packed?”

My grandmother laughs in my face. “I’ve survived Stalin, your grandfather, and six decades of American fast food. You think I’m scared of some federal agents?” Her eyes gleam when she reaches for Olivia’s hand. “You look pale,malyshka. Come inside. I’ll make tea while Stefan tells me which crisis is disrupting my afternoon soaps this time.”

“We don’t have time for?—”