Page 102 of Masked Seduction
I turn my head toward the monitor, pulse throbbing. The screen blooms gray and grainy, searching for the tiniest flicker of life.
I hold my breath.
The room is dim except for the bluish glow of the ultrasound monitor. Cool gel coats my belly, the wand sweeping side-to-side before Dr. Rhee finally murmurs a quiet, “There we go.”
A grainy shape flickers onto the screen—tiny, curled, unmistakably alive. The doctor taps a key, and the room fills with a thwump, thwump, thwump sound, rapid and fierce. My breath catches. Tears haze my vision until the gummy-bear silhouette blurs into silver fog.
Beside me, Abram’s fingers tighten around mine. For once, the man who stares down mobsters without blinking is trembling—just a little—but I feel it. He leans closer, as if the slightest distance is suddenly unbearable.
“That,” Dr. Rhee says, smiling, “is a textbook heartbeat. You’re about six weeks, five days along, give or take. Everything looks perfect so far.”
I swallow hard, relief flooding through me so deeply it almost hurts. “Perfect,” I echo, the word tasting like expensive chocolate on my tongue.
The doctor scrolls through a few more views, explaining what we’re looking at, then switches to a color overlay so we can watchblood course through microscopic chambers. The embryo’s heart glows red-blue, pumping hard.
When the scan is done, Dr. Rhee wipes away the gel and hands me a towel. “No fluid issues, no sub-chorionic bleed. The bruising on your abdomen remained superficial, nothing went near the uterus. Magnesium for the concussion headaches, plenty of hydration and light activity only—which I suspect your bodyguard here will enforce.” She nods at Abram with a wink.
“I intend to,” he replies.
The doctor leaves the room and I start to get up. Before I can, Abram presses a gentle kiss to the slight swell of my belly, then another to my lips.
“That’s our child,” he whispers, awe threading through every syllable.
“Our unstoppable, heartbeat-like-a-drum child,” I respond, laughing through happy tears.
He laughs as well—a genuine, unguarded sound—but I catch the shadow behind his eyes. Guilt. Always the guilt. I reach for him, thumb tracing the faint scar Nico’s mirror shard left on his forearm. “I’m okay, Abram. We’re okay.”
He swallows hard. “Based on the strength of that heartbeat, I’d say you’re right.”
A nurse returns with a thumb drive, a 4×6 photo, and a small strip of glossy prints. Abram slips the smaller photos into his wallet beside a faded shot of his mother. It’s as if he’s filing us under ‘family,’ ‘permanent.’ My heart somersaults.
Outside, sunlight glints off puddles, turning cracked pavement into scattered mirrors. Abram guides me to the curb, his handhovering protectively at the small of my back. The Maybach glides up and the valet steps out. He opens the passenger door like I’m royalty, and maybe today I am.
I text Claire a photo of the sonogram.
Baby Vasiliev debut!
Her reply pings back in seconds.Aww!Several heart emojis. Cookies ordered.
Abram settles behind the wheel but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches over and covers my hand—still clutching the ultrasound printout and thumb drive. Two heartbeats pulse beneath his touch: the swift flutter of new life, and the slower, iron vow thrumming in my veins.
“I told Nico once,” he says softly, eyes fixed straight ahead, “that I would burn this city down if you bled. I think he believed me.”
“He should’ve,” I answer, turning the photo so the sunlight illuminates the tiny, stubborn spark of our future. “But let’s hope Vegas behaves. I kind of like our view.” He smiles and shifts into drive.
The city may never know how close it came to fire, but I do. As Abram’s fingers lace with mine, I also know that whatever else the universe throws our way, we’re already stronger than anything it can bring.
EPILOGUE I
ABRAM
Isabella’s face fills the monitor—olive-gold skin, glossy black hair pinned into a severe twist, a single strand of pearls that looks disarmingly domestic for a woman who commands half of Las Vegas’s underworld.
The rain outside her mansion slants across the camera in gray streaks, but her eyes are sharp, amused.
“Your Albanian problem,” she says in Italian, lips quirking, “has officially becomeourAlbanian problem. They set up another stash house off Charleston Boulevard last night.”
I lean back in my office chair, steepling my fingers. “We’ve warned them twice. Third time, we draw blood.”
