Page 122 of Nine Months to Love

“I need to think about how to approach this. And I’d like to talk to you again. In person this time.”

“Where?”

“I’ll find a safe place. Somewhere Stefan’s people won’t be watching.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll respect that. But I hope you won’t.”

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy, confident steps that can only belong to one person. “I have to go,” I blurt into the phone.

“Think about what I said, Olivia. Please.”

“I will.”

I hang up before she can say anything else. Right as I’m tucking the phone underneath my thigh, the door opens. Stefan’s head sticks in.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Just needed to grab my laptop before you fall asleep.” He crosses the room and takes it off the nightstand, then stoops down to kiss me on the forehead. “Get some rest, Olivia. You deserve it.”

I try my best to smile normally, though it feels like every muscle in my face has forgotten how to do that. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

He steps out of the room and pulls the door shut. When he’s gone, I lie back and stare at the ceiling, wondering how everything got so complicated so fast.

And hoping that I haven’t just made the biggest mistake of my life.

37

STEFAN

“This is it?” Taras asks from the passenger seat.

“This is it.”

We’ve been watching the apartment building for twenty minutes. It’s eerily still. No signs of guards or surveillance beyond the standard building cameras. For a man supposedly working with my mother and the feds, Iakov’s security is laughably thin.

“Could be a trap,” Taras says.

“Could be,” I agree.

“You still want to go in?”

I study the building’s entrance. Through the glass doors, nothing moves except a potted plant bobbing in the breeze from the A/C vent. “Yeah. I do.”

Taras grunts but doesn’t argue. He knows better by now.

We get out of the car and cross the street. The doorman looks up as we approach. I give him the unit number and he waves us through without even bothering to check his list. Amateur hour.

The elevator is unremarkable. Polished chrome, one light fritzing out so it drenches us in darkness every other second. Crackling classical music plays from hidden speakers. Taras shifts his weight and adjusts his jacket. The gun underneath shows for just a second before he pats the fabric back down.

“Easy,” I say.

“Easy? Me? That’s my middle name, baby.”

“You look like you’re about to shoot someone.”

“Maybe I am. Could be you if you keep making jokes.”

The elevator dings. Fourteenth floor. We step out into a hallway that smells like fresh paint and expensive carpet. Iakov’s unit is at the end. 1419.