Page 51 of Nine Months to Love
“Dark hair, same height, similar build. She’s keeping her head down, wearing oversized sunglasses, but the walk is distinctive.”
Natalia always moved like she was on a runway, even when she was just getting the mail. Some things don’t change.
“Send me the address.”
My phone pings with the information. I pull it up on my laptop, studying the modest two-story colonial. It’s nothing special—white siding, black shutters, the kind of house that blends into every suburban street in America.
“What do we know about the property?”
“Registered to the Vladislav family. Owned by one Vera Vladislav until her death. The house was left to her two daughters.”
I study the address.Vladislav. The name means nothing to me. Not Bratva, not affiliated with any of our operations. But it is Russian. That, in and of itself, is suspicious.
But the whole thing sounds vague. My men know I’m riding them hard for answers, and I don’t want to waste my time chasing ghosts.
I pass the paper back to him. “Keep an eye on the house and do a more in-depth search on the owner’s daughters. I want more certainty before we risk blowing our plan.”
Denis hasn’t even turned toward the door when my intercom starts buzzing—one of my two assistant lines. I press down on the green button. “Yes?”
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Safonov, but I have an Elena Safonova here to see you.”
“Send her in.”
As I wait, I stare at the house on my screen. Cypress Street. Such an innocuous location for my mother to resurface. If it’s even her. Which it probably isn’t.
But the doubt gnaws at me. What if itisher? What if she’s been hiding in plain sight this whole time, in some random suburban house with people I’ve never heard of?
A knock at my door interrupts my spiral.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and my grandmother walks in, her cane tapping against the hardwood. She’s wearing her good coat—navy wool with silver buttons—and her expression promises a lecture.
“Did you get all dolled up for me or do you have a hot date after this?” I ask.
She throws me a dirty look, ignores my desk altogether, and makes straight for the lounge to the left of the room. “It took me an hour to get ready. The least you can do is pour me a drink.”
“Whiskey or wine?”
“Scotch.” She taps her diamond watch with pointed emphasis. “And step to it.”
“Someone’s in a rush today.”
“Only because I happen to know that you’re meeting Olivia tonight.” Those sharp, misty eyes land on me. “Am I right?”
“Don’t act like you know me.”
“I changed your diapers, Stefan. I know you as well as anyone on this planet.”
“You didn’t change my diapers. We had a nanny.”
“I supervised.” She settles into the chair with a satisfied huff. “And that’s exactly why I’m here. If I waited for you to come to me, I’d be waiting until my funeral.”
“That’s morbid.”
“I’m eighty-three years old, Stefushka. Every conversation could be our last.”
The familiar guilt kicks in, right on schedule. “You’re not dying, Babushka.”
