Page 174 of Nine Months to Love
“Why?”
“Because I told them to.”
I laugh. “You told the FBI to back off, and they listened?”
“I have my ways.”
“Bullshit.”
He smiles again. “Believe what you want. The fact remains, you’re off their radar. For now. Which brings me to why I’m here.” He strolls to the window and looks out at the grounds. “You know, Stefan, sometimes I think, in another life, we might have been friends.” He turns back to me. “Unfortunately, this life is all we’ve got. And you’re responsible for my father’s death. I can’t just forget that.”
“Are you here to try to kill me, Iakov?”
He shakes his head and pulls out his phone. “I’m here to give you a choice. But I’m just the messenger.”
He dials a number and puts it on speaker. The phone rings once. Twice.
Then a voice answers. Cool. Familiar. Deadly.
“Hello, Stefan.”
My blood runs cold.
“It’s been a long time,” the voice continues. “Why don’t you say hello to your mother?”
49
STEFAN
The sound of her voice lights a fuse in me.
I see red. Pure, blinding red. Every muscle in my body locks. My jaw clamps down so hard I taste blood. The glass in my hand cracks—just a hairline fracture, but enough that scotch starts leaking between my fingers.
All I can hear is her. That voice. Thatfuckingvoice. She used to talk to my father like that—like he was a disobedient dog who pissed on the rug.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out.Control. That’s the name of the game. If I lose it, she wins. Simple as that.
Iakov is watching me, though his face is carefully blank and I can’t tell what the hell he’s thinking. Taras has gone completely still by the door.
I set the broken glass down carefully. “Natalia.”
She clicks her tongue. “Is that any way to greet your mother?”
“You’re not my mother. You’re a parasite who happened to give birth to me.”
She laughs. It’s light, musical, airy. You’d think she was at a cocktail party, trading jokes with the hostess, everyone giggling happily like it’s all hunky-fucking-dory in the world. “Still so angry,” she tuts. “Even after all these years.”
“What do you want?”
“Straight to business. Just like your father. He never had time for pleasantries, either.”
My hands curl into fists. “Don’t talk about him.”
“Why not? He was my husband. I have every right to talk about him.”
“You have no rights. Not to him, not to his memory. Not to anything.”
“How dramatic.” She pauses. I can practically hear her examining her nails. “But I suppose that’s to be expected. You always were an emotional child.”
