“We don’t know anything yet,” Yasmin insists half-heartedly. “Zeke said they took him. Took, not killed. That’s different.”
I laugh like a deranged woman. “Aleksei doesn’t take prisoners, Yas. That’s the whole f*****g point of being a mob boss.”
I press my palm flat against my stomach and try not to cry. This child will never know their father’s voice. Never hear him sing that Russian lullaby: Spi, mladenets moy prekrasny.
Then a car pulls into the driveway and my heart stops.
I’ve learned to dread the sound of tires on gravel. I’m conditioned now, like one of Pavlov’s dogs, except instead of drooling, I spiral into terror. As I listen, two car doors slam.
“Did Zeke go out?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so.” Yasmin sounds as confused as I feel. “He’s been in the bedroom since he came ho
