Page 15 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

She hitches a thumb over her shoulder. “Great. Then can we ask you to move your car? It’s blocking the driveway.”

That’s my cue. Time to go.

With one last look at the woman and child, I silently wish them luck and leave the hospital.

As I drive away from the emergency room entrance, I look over and notice the woman’s purse in the passenger seat. Hanging out of the side of her bag is a lanyard full of keys. One of them is marked clearly with a little gold house charm.

I riffle through the woman’s wallet and find her address on her driver’s license. By sheer dumb luck, her house isn’t far from where I am now.

All I need is a place to hide out for a little while until Gennady can gather some firepower, some backup, and some intel.

There’s as good as anywhere else.

5

Arya

Weird dream, I think groggily, wiping my eyes.

Flakes of mascara coat the back of my hand. I groan. I can’t keep falling asleep in my makeup. It was quirky and carefree in my early twenties, but at this point, it’s just sad.

I should have a solid skincare regime by now. Soon, I’ll need an anti-wrinkle cream in my lineup. Especially with being a single mom. Nothing ages you like motherhood, I hear.

Motherhood.

The word sticks in my head. Something about it is very, very wrong.

When I open my eyes and look up at the fluorescent light fixture above me, my brain practically screams the word at me.

Motherhood…

It’s circling in my thoughts like an airplane trying to land in a storm. What could it possibly mean…? My head feels thick. Foggy.

Then I hear a cry.

I sit up so fast I wince. There’s an ice pack wedged down the front of my pants and an IV in my arm, but I can still feel pain radiating through me from between my legs.

Because I gave birth.

Motherhood—holy shit.

It all comes rushing back to me.

I had a baby.

On the side of the road.

I lean over the side of the hospital bed and look into the bassinet. The child inside is like a doll. Chubby cheeks and a tiny button of a nose. He wiggles back and forth, trapped by the swaddle. His lips pucker like he’s sucking on something.

This is real.

Heis real.

He ismine.

In a dreamy, this-can’t-be-happening daze, I pick up my son and hold him to my breast. This is the second time I’ve nursed since he’s been born—the first time being on the ride to the hospital.

Which is when I suddenly remember the man who drove us here.

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