Page 9 of Hers to Control

If there is one thing that is the same in the Italian and Russian mafia, it’s the value of family loyalty. Which means that whatever Mikhail does, Mia is fucked. If Mikhail remains loyal to Gianna, helping her protect her friend, then the Russians will do all they can to use Mia to punish him, and if he gives Mia up, deciding she’s not worth the consequences of escalating this brewing conflict, she’s just as fucked.

The sound of Mikhail’s and Anya’s angry voices draws my attention back to them.

“What did you expect, Mikhail? That we’d send you an engagement present and give you a hug? You fucking betrayed me and you made father look weak. His own son giving up his place in the Bratva to run after the skirt of some Italian chick, no matter her position in the city, is like a slap to his face. You fucking know he’s a goddamned misogynistic pig. He won’t ever see her as worthy of running a syndicate, no matter that she’salready doing it. And you proved to everyone that disloyalty is an option. Unless you crawl back or he puts a bullet in your brain.”

The way Anya looks at Mikhail tells me there is more to this story, but right now, I can’t bring myself to work up any genuine interest. I want to know how Mikhail will respond, and what Gianna will have me do.

Because I wouldn’t mind at all if she sent me back to protect Mia.

Anya leans forward and my senses snap into the present, watching carefully as she reaches into a large purse to pull something out. I doubt it’s a weapon, but I’m not about to take a chance.

It turns out, it’s an envelope. “This is a little reminder that Father is not about to let the Italians stand in our way.” Anya places the envelope on the table and gets up. “Do what you will with it.”

Mikhail follows suit, rising from his position on the couch, but his sister doesn’t spare him a second glance, heading straight for the apartment door. As she opens it, she says, “Bye, Mikhail.” And then she walks out, leaving her brother staring after her, while I’m already striding over to the table to get my hands on that damn envelope.

What the fuck did the Russians do?

Ripping it open, I pull out three photos of Mia. One shows her getting groceries. It could have been taken anywhere, but the next image shows her in front of the safe house. The very safe house I drove her to. Which means they know exactly where she is.

My cheeks ache as I grind my teeth together, forcing myself to look at the last picture. This one was taken through a window of the safe house, showing her inside, wearing a pajama. Probably taken with a telephoto lens.

I lean in closer to see what she’s doing. She’s holding something in her hand, her head bent forward to look at it closely. When my brain finally makes sense of what she’s holding, my blood freezes.

It’s a fucking pregnancy test.

Mia

They know where I am. I am as sure of that as I am of being absolutely screwed.

Stuffing the clothes I have into my bag, I squish everything to make it fit. They’re the same things I took when I left my apartment. The meager leftovers of my former life.

About a month ago, I was a badass. I had my business, was working out every day, and got my overpriced coffee whenever I wanted. Sure, my father was in jail, but I’d built something for myself.

Now I’m a lot less badass and a lot more scared shit-less.

The same man I noticed in the grocery store a few days ago was walking outside the community clinic today. It could be nothing, but my gut tells me not to be naïve.

The Russians have found me.

If there is one thing I don’t like, it’s feeling like a victim. Feeling like prey. Which means part of me wants to just stay here and wait for them to make a move. Let them try to come at me. I’d show them what I can do.

Except I knew better than to do that three weeks ago when I fled Toronto, and that had been before.

Before I knew I was pregnant.

Before I had another life to protect.

Now, the thought of taking out some Russian gangster isn’t something I can entertain anymore. Not when I have a baby to protect.

My little Peanut.

Taking the backpack, I check out the room. It looks exactly the same as it did when I arrived here three weeks ago with Eric.

Eric.

Don’t go there, girl.

Before I leave, I check the windows. The cars parked on the road are familiar ones, and there is no one lurking about. Not that I can be completely sure, but it looks as safe for me to leave as it ever will.

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