Page 156 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

I nod. “Among others.”

Before she can try to figure out what I mean, I grab her hand and pull her from the car.

“Demyan,” I call. He appears next to me and pushes the bulletproof vest into my hands.

I start to strap it on Olivia, who surprisingly lets me do it without a fuss. “What is this?” she asks, blinking in confusion.

“I would have thought it was obvious,” I drawl.

“Okay, but why do I even need it?” she asks, panic edging into her tone.

“If this gets ugly—”

Her face twists. “Oh, I see. You want to protect your child,” she finishes. “I’m just a vessel for the cargo.”

I stop what I’m doing for a moment and look at her.

I could argue back. I could tell her how she’s so much more to me than a vessel, a means to an end. That the child she’s carrying isn’t just beautiful in its own right; it’s beautiful because there are parts ofherin our baby, parts of both of us, and we made that baby together, and my world is so bloodstained and ugly that these rare snatches of beauty are worth sacrificing everything for.

But I don’t bother.

She wouldn’t believe a word coming out of my mouth.

“Stay behind me at all times,” I say instead.

Then I grab her hand and march her into the hotel for the final curtain call.

36

OLIVIA

Aleks is walking next to me, his hand wrapped around mine. I expected him to charge into the meeting with Hargrove with guns blazing, the full strength of his men at his back.

But we left them all behind. Now, we’re navigating through the hotel alone.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Why are we here?”

He ignores me outright.

I stare at my feet marching one in front of the other, no longer struggling or resisting. I let myself be pulled along, finding strange comfort in the warmth of his hand.

I’m not certain of anything anymore. But Aleks… Aleks has never been anythingbutcertain.

Maybe I should feel guilty for taking comfort in the touch of a monster, and part of me does. Mostly, though, I’m overwhelmed by all the competing emotions surging through me. Sadness and fear and betrayal and denial.

Above all, there’s a sense of finality. That whatever happens next will be the end of it all. Win or lose, live or die—this ends today.

But as for what “this” is or who should be the one to end it…

As for what is right and what is wrong and who is lying and who is telling the truth…

As for those things, I have no earthly idea.

Jennifer appears from nowhere. She’s dressed like some femme fatale from a spy movie in a thin, form-fitting black turtleneck and thick-heeled boots that look like they could do some real damage. Her hair is tied back, one Viking braid tucked behind her ear.

“They’re in the North Tower,” she reports.

“How many?” Aleks asks.

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