Page 123 of Nine Months to Bear

“Two. Boy and a girl.” Mikayla checks her weapon. “Wife’s a kindergarten teacher.”

That inconvenient little detail shouldn’t matter. I’ve orphaned children before. I’ve widowed wives. It’s the cost of maintaining order in chaos, and sometimes, it’s just what must be done.

And yet…

“Stef?” Taras waits for orders.

“We go in quietly. Neighbors don’t hear a peep, got it?”

They nod and we exit the vehicle. Three shadows moving through suburbia’s fluorescent glow. Mikayla takes the back. Taras covers the garage. I walk straight to the front door and knock.

Footsteps ring out inside. The door opens to Devon’s face. It’s already draining of color when he sees me through the glass insert.

“M-Mr. Safonov!”

“Devon.”

“I— Uh… Would you like to c-come in?”

He steps aside. The house smells like pot roast and crayons. Family photos line the hallway. These are so wholesome compared to the evidence I was just looking at in the car.

Devon in a tux at his wedding.

Devon teaching his son to ride a bike.

Devon living the lie that he could have both worlds for the price of one.

“Living room,” I say simply.

He leads us past a wall of finger paintings. Past shoes lined up neatly by the stairs—tiny sneakers next to work boots.

Devon pushes aside mismatched Legos and a stack of coloring books to clear the couch. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

“Honesty.”

His hands shake as he sits. “I don’t understand.”

Taras drifts to the window, checking sightlines. Mikayla stands by the back door, a beautiful reaper in Prada.

“Three months ago,” I begin, settling into the armchair across from him, “you started making mistakes.”

“Everyone makes mistakes?—”

“Not my people.”

Devon’s breathing quickens. “Mr. Safonov, I’ve been loyal?—”

“Have you?” I pull out my phone and scroll to one of the surveillance photos Mikayla gave me. “Coffee shops in Charlestown. Interesting choice for a man who lives in Southie.”

The screen glows on the coffee table between us. Devon stares at his own face, caught mid-conversation with the blurred figure.

“That’s… that’s not what it looks like.”

“Then tell me what the fuck it is.”

Silence. The grandfather clock in the corner counts off some of the last seconds of this miserable bastard’s life.

“They approached me,” he finally whispers. “The feds! Said they had evidence. They told me I’d do twenty years unless?—”