Page 110 of Emerald Vices

I match Shura’s scowl with one of my own. “If I thought she was in any real danger, I’d pull her out of there in a heartbeat. You know that, right?”

Shura nods slowly. “Still, there are factors that are out of your control. And that includes Viktor.”

He looks exhausted. Gaunt and hollow. I start to wonder why I didn’t notice sooner, but then Grigory hiccups in his sleep.

Oh, right.

I’ve been wrestling with sleepless nights of my own. Just in a totally different context. I bounce onto my feet, a lightbulb flashing suddenly over my head. “We have to start thinking outside the box if we’re going to take down these bastards quickly. The sooner this is over, the sooner Katya’s free from Viktor’s clutches, the sooner Misha gets some closure, the sooner Nat and I can concentrate on our family.”

Shura’s eyebrows arch hopefully. “What do you have in mind?”

“A certain somebody who was on that jet with Slavik on his swan song out of here. The only one who never made it back.”

The hope withers on Shura’s face. “You’re not serious?”

“Why the fuck not? We know she’s still alive.”

“Doesn’t mean she knows shit.”

“And what if she does?”

Shura rises to his feet to meet me, still frowning. My enthusiasm isn’t catching, apparently. “Brother, if she knows anything of importance, she’ll be closely watched. What if Slavik is expecting you to go to her?”

I snort. “Have you met my father? He thinks she’s beneath him, which means he’ll underestimate her.”

Shura straightens up. “Okay, so we get her Stateside and talk to her. What if she knows nothing?”

I shrug. “Then it’s back to the drawing board.”

Though I pray it doesn’t come to that.

46

NATALIA

I sit bolt upright. “Sarra?” I gasp. “Grigory?”

But the room is empty. The bed is cold. Even Remi is gone.

I shove the blankets to the end of the bed and grab my robe. I tiptoe through the silent house, expecting danger at every turn.

My thoughts feel wild and uncontrollable. What if they aren’t here? What if someone took them?

I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear a cry.

“Sarra!” I sprint down the stairs, following the sound out to the patio.

Then I freeze in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of me.

Andrey is kneeling next to the baby bathtub, suds up to his elbows, no shirt on, and our daughter nestled along his forearm. Misha is cross-legged next to them, petting Remi. Mila and Aunt Annie are on the swing, cooing at a freshly-swaddled Grigory. The air smells like lavender soap and powder.

The dog is the first one to notice me. Remi perks up and then pads over, tongue lolling happily.

“Natalia!” Andrey says when he sees me. “What are you doing out of bed? You were supposed to text if you needed anything.”

He straightens up, and I’m thinking about getting back into bed right now. But not in the way he means. He may be a father, but there’s no dad bod in sight for my man.

I walk over to him and reach for my freshly washed daughter. “I’m postpartum, not an invalid.”

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