Page 50 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Da,Don Makarova!”every single Bratva man choruses in unison. Their voices boom like thunder.

Demyan jumps into the passenger seat while I get behind the wheel of the lead car. I lead the caravan down the driveway and out through the black steel gates.

He turns to me as we hurtle toward the highway. “How did you forget to mention that she was pregnant?”

“I only found out once she was already on Hargrove’s property.”

“And you chose to leave her there?” he asks.

“I knew she would pick me in the end.”

“How?”

I shrug. “Call it intuition.”

I fly down streets and blow through stop signs. I don’t give a fuck about anything except getting to Olivia. I dare any cop in this city to try pulling me over now. I’ll do whatever it takes to get to my woman.

My woman.The thought is so natural, so instinctive that I barely register it. I’m not even sure when the switch flipped.

Was it the moment I knew she was carrying my child? Before then?

“Do you have a strategy in mind?” Demyan asks.

“Wing it.”

He grins. “My favorite kind of strategy.”

I park just outside the hospital on double lines that suggest I shouldn’t park there at all. As with everything else in this world, they can go to hell.

I leap out of the jeep, then charge into the hospital through a back entrance. Demyan follows behind me a few moments later with a contingent of Bratva men fanned out at all sides.

He jogs to catch up to me. I wipe my expression clean of tension and then step up to the help desk. A few casual questions later, I have the floor that Olivia is being held on.

I walk away and gesture for Demyan. “Get the men to the eighth floor. There’s an adjoining room next to Olivia’s. It’s currently empty. I’m going to slip in there while the men spread out. Tell them to be ready if this thing blows up.”

“You’re going to open fire in a hospital?” Demyan asks.

“I’m going to do whatever I need to do to get my wife and my child out of here alive.”

Demyan nods and falls back.

I make my way up to the eighth floor. The signs mark this as the private wing of the hospital. Donald Hargrove’s name beams on every plaque and placard.

It doesn’t take much to deduce that Olivia is in Room 814. It’s one of only two rooms with a closed door, and the only one with people buzzing in and out.

I slip into the next room over, #813, just as a tall, dour-faced doctor walks out of Olivia’s.

This unit is connected to Olivia’s with a door in between. I press my ear to it and, when I hear nothing on the other side, I push it open gently.

The bed is visible through the narrow crack. Olivia is sitting up in it, wearing a gray hospital gown and a haunted expression.

Her face is pale and her eyes are wide. She keeps looking around the room as though she’s waiting for someone to run in and save her.

As though she’s waiting formeto run in and save her.

I fight back the desire to throw the door open and mow down any person who dares to get in my way. It will be better to wait. To watch.

Someone steps into view. I recognize Olivia’s mother from that day at her house all those months ago.

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