Page 146 of Nine Months to Love
I look at myself in the mirror again. The dress really is perfect. Romantic without being over the top. Elegant without beingstuffy. And most importantly, comfortable enough that I can actually move and breathe.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful! I will have it wrapped for you. And perhaps you would like to see some veils? Or shoes?”
“Shoes, definitely. I can’t get married barefoot.”
“Though knowing Stefan, he’d probably be fine with it,” Camille adds. “As long as you show up.”
We spend the next hour trying on shoes and looking at accessories. I settle on a pair of simple ivory heels and a delicate veil that barely reaches my shoulders. Nothing too elaborate that will steal focus from the dress.
When we’re finally done, Signora Bellini presents me with the bill. I hand over Stefan’s black credit card without even looking at the total.
“You didn’t even check the price,” Camille whispers.
“Stefan told me not to. I’m learning. Slowly, but learning.”
The boutique owner runs the card, packages everything in beautiful boxes tied with silk ribbon, and wishes me a lifetime of happiness. Then Camille and I step out onto the cobblestone street, arms full of purchases.
The sun is starting to set behind the rooftops. Florence is even more beautiful in the evening light. Tourists wander past, taking photos and laughing. Halfway down the block, a street musician plays the violin.
“I could get used to this,” Camille sighs, breathing in the warm air. “You should convince Stefan to move here. Open an Italianbranch of the clinic. I’ll come work for you and we can eat pasta every day.”
“That sounds perfect except for the part where Stefan would never leave Boston.”
“True. He’s too attached to his crime empire.”
I’m about to respond when I notice the cars. Three black SUVs pulling up to the curb in quick succession. My security detail is supposed to be discreet, but this feels different. More urgent.
The doors open and Stefan steps out, followed by Taras. Both of them look tense. Stefan’s jaw is tight, his eyes scanning the street like he’s searching for threats.
My stomach drops. “What’s going on?” I ask as he strides toward me.
“There’s a situation at home,” he says. His face is pale. “An attack on the house. They were trying to break Mikayla out of the basement.”
My breath catches. “Did they get her?”
Guilt crashes through me. I’m the one who told Natalia about Mikayla. I’m the one who gave her that information. If Mikayla escaped, if she’s out there causing more damage, it’s my fault.
“No,” Stefan says. “But we have to go back to the States immediately.”
There’s something else, something he’s not saying. His eyes are too dark, his shoulders too rigid. This isn’t just about Mikayla.
“What’s going on, Stefan?” I ask carefully. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he reaches out and takes my hand, his grip almost painfully tight. “It’s Babushka,” he rasps. “She was shot. She’s in the hospital now. It’s critical.”
I feel sick. “What?” I whisper.
“They shot her,” he repeats. “During the attack. She was in the kitchen and they—” He stops and shakes his head as he swallows the rest of his words. “We need to go. Now.”
I can’t breathe. Elena. Sweet, sharp, wonderful Elena who welcomed me into her home and her life without hesitation. Who made me stroganoff and told me stories about Stefan as a boy. Who looked at me like I was already family.
“Is she going to be okay?” I manage.
Stefan’s face is a hardened mask, but I can see the cracks forming. “I don’t know.”
Taras steps forward. “The jet is ready. We can be in the air in thirty minutes.”
