Page 173 of Nine Months to Love
She doesn’t believe me about Natalia. I can see it in her eyes when I talk about my mother. The doubt. The hesitation. Like maybe I’m the one who’s wrong.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Natalia is a master manipulator. She’s spent decades perfecting the art of making people see what she wants them to see. Of course she’d work her magic on Olivia.
But I truly thought Olivia would be different. I thought she’d trust me. Believe me.
Instead, she looks at me like I’m the villain in this story.
Fuck, maybe I am.
I reach for the bottle and pour yet another drink. It won’t solve any of my problems, but maybe it’ll give me the resolve to do what must be done about at least one of them. Because Mikayla is still in the basement.
I got what I needed from her. Whether I can trust it is a different question, but the one at hand right now is,What the fuck do I do with her?
The smart move is obvious: Kill her and bury her somewhere no one will ever find her.
But the thought of doing that churns my stomach in a way it never has before.
She’s not innocent, not by a long shot. But her reasons weren’t greed or ambition. They were grief and rage and the desperate need to make someone pay for her sister’s death.
I understand that all too well.
Another knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I look up, assuming it’s Arkady, back to tell me something he forgot. But it’s not Arkady; it’s Taras.
And behind him, looking perfectly composed in an expensive suit, is Iakov Zakharov.
“What the fuck?” I’m on my feet instantly.
Taras holds up his hands. “He walked right up to the gate. Said he wanted to talk.”
“So you just let him in?”
“He’s unarmed. We checked.”
I look at Iakov, who smiles. “Hello, Stefan.”
“Get out of my house.”
“I will. In a minute.” He walks past Taras and into the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Very gothic. Very you.”
“I said get out.”
“I heard you. But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say first.”
I glance at Taras, who shrugs. I turn back to Iakov. “You have thirty seconds.”
“That’s all I need.” He brushes an invisible piece of lint off his sleeve. “The FBI came to see me again. Did you know that?” He glances at the folder on my desk and smirks. “I guess you do. They asked a lot of questions about you. Your businesses, your connections. They really wanted to nail you for something.”
“And?”
“And they couldn’t. You’ve covered your tracks well. I have to admit, I’m impressed.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“The point is, you’re clean. At least as far as they can prove. So they’re backing off.”
I don’t believe him. “Just like that?”
He nods. “Just like that.”
