It felt like all of her pregnancy symptoms hit her at once. She was sweating, nauseated, breathless. Her back ached from being smuggled out a window, and her bleeding feet tainted the expensive leather of her kidnapper's car.
None of it mattered. The only part that had to remain unharmed at all costs was her abdomen. Somehow, she had to get to safety.
She looked behind the car in search of her guards, but saw no signs of them. With her voice trembling, she managed to ask, "Did you... did you kill them?"
The younger Italian looked at her through the rearview mirror. He ran a hand through his shaggy black hair, displaying a heavily ringed hand. This man– whoever he was, had money.
"I don't know, but I doubt whoever got to them first killed them. It is too troublesome to hide a body in the City."
She hated how experienced he sounded.
"I don't who who those idiot kids were, nor do I care. I saw an opening, and I took it. Maksim got careless today. He usually has four men watching you."
How did he know that? For how long had he been watching her?
"Is it money you want?" she whispered.
"No," he smiled, showing pearly white teeth that countered his darkness. "Something more valuable."
Her hands automatically found her stomach, because that was the only thing more valuable than money to her and Maksim.
His grin boomed into a chuckle, and he tapped the clear divider with the tip of his gun. "Be quiet now."
Her lips refused to produce any more questions, because she was afraid the Italian would put a bullet in it.
She discreetly pulled on the handle once more. The door didn't budge. She was stuck with Maksim's worst enemies.
The car passed crowds of people ignorant of her distress. It turned street after street until she could no longer recognize her surroundings. Two hours passed. Since they were far from the city, there were less people– less witnesses.
They rolled into a neighborhood with plenty of houses. She could only hope that a nosy neighbor looked outside and read the distress in her expression.
"Don't get your hopes up," the man– who she was beginning to connect was the leader, said. "I own all the houses in this block. They're empty."
Did he read her mind? Had he cracked enough skulls and splattered enough brains that he became king of telepathy?
The door opened, and two sets of hands reached out for her. She went willingly and welcomed the cool, moist grass against her bare feet.
She was led into the dark house and locked in a guest room. There was already food sitting on the nightstand. Upon lifting the lid, she found a bowl of soup sitting beside a bottle of water.
She closed the lid gently, and then collapsed on the bed in a heap of silent sobs.
She lost a second friend that day, and if she didn't play her cards right, she would lose her boys, too.
When did this poison start coursing through Tiffany's mind? She mentioned high school, but Raelynn didn't remember sensing any odd vibes back then. Was Tiffany that great of an actress?
She stared at her bare feet, wondering if Tiffany had truly been her friend throughout the pregnancy. Understanding one's mind was the hardest science in the world. There were subconscious motives that hid under shadows one doesn't even know they have.
Maybe Tiffany welcomed Raelynn to her home because she wanted to witness her despair. Maybe she associated being a single mother with failure. Maybe she wanted self-assurance that she was doing better in life than the girl she had aspired to be.
Maybe.
The only thing that was certain was that Raelynn was getting the hell out of there.
She spent some time ripping strips of cloth from a bed sheet. She needed to cover the cuts in her skin. There were no shoes in the room, so she had to improvise.
When she heard the doorknob jiggle, she shoved everything under a pillow. The door opened, and the younger kidnapper walked in. His button-down, navy blue dress shirt had some buttons undone, revealing clear, tanned flesh.
"I need to you strip."
"Wh– what? No... please."
"Spare me the waterworks. Just take your fucking clothes off," he grunted.
When he took a step into the room, she jumped to her feet and leaned against the nearest wall. Her eyes flickered from his face to the phone he was holding. She suspected that he planned on recording what he was about to do.
"Please– no!"
He stopped half-way into the room. "I don't have time for this. Take them off, or they'll be removed for you."
Before she could do any more pleading, he slammed the door shut.
The room began to spin as the stress of the day fought with gravity. Fearing that she would fall, she laid on the bed just as she fell unconscious.
When she woke up, she was disoriented, thirsty, and naked.
– • –
"No."
Glass shattered as Maksim threw his cup at the nearest wall. One of his men ducked to avoid the projectile, but Viktor stood with his arms crossed over his chest.
"If we send any more men, we will raise flags. We don't want the feds on our asses, Mak. We just did that huge drug trade and don't need more heat."
"You don't get it," Maksim seethed. "That woman is my empire!"
He looked a little crazy. A dislocated finger and bloodly knuckles would do that to a man.
"но ты хочешь, чтобы я беспокоился о the feds?" (But you want me to worry about the feds?)
He sounded crazy, too. His constant flipping from Russian to English was hard to keep up with. He couldn't help himself. He was being split in half– human and monster, father and killer, predator and prey, Russian and American.
"There's more to think about here. I know she's important to you, but the mafia–"
Maksim raised a hand to wipe his lips, unknowingly smearing his chin with blood. "To hell with the mafia families. I've walked from this before and I'll do it again. If I don't get my child and woman, I swear to your bitch of a mother that I'll bring you all down."
His words were traitorous. They could cost him his life, but he didn't care. Not even a bullet to the head would stop him from finding Raelynn.
Viktor didn't reply. He only stared. There was no usual smirk or laughter in his expression. He was troubled, because in all his years of life, he had never seen Maksim so unraveled.
"Don't question me again and get it fucking done."
Maksim picked up the bottle of acid he planned on pouring down the throat of whoever plotted this and reached for his gun.
The doors to his office barged open as one of his IT guys walked in. "A message. Encrypted. Can't track it down," he rushed.
Maksim snatched the laptop from his hands and tore through the images. There were three. Raelynn– all of Raelynn's smooth, rounded, clear skin, was revealed.
She was naked, asleep, and vulnerable.
His chest burned, and he realized it was because he had screamed.
What had they done to her?
He looked at her thighs, looking for blood, but they were angled in a way that they covered her sex.
His devastation was wrapped in fury. To know that the mother of his child had been violated under his protection made him want to set free the burn in his chest and turn the world to ashes.
There was a message at the end of the document– a number, and a name.
The Italians had her.
He ripped through his desk in search of his cellphone and made the call.
"Kuznetsov."
"No. Today, I'm Satan, you son of a bitch. Return her now, or–"
"You fucking Russians bark too much," Dante interjected. "Your woman is fine, and so are the babies. The pictures are proof that she is unharmed. I had a female take them."
"What?"
"I said they're fine, and that a female took the photos so you have no reason to smear me as a rapist."
"Babies?"
It felt like a bucket of ice had been poured on him. Viktor, who stood beside him, looked equally confused.
"Did you forget how to count? One, two. The twins. I'm not excited to hear that you dogs are reproducing two at a time, but I have no plans to kill babies. They are fine. I had a doctor examine Raelynn as she slept."
But there weren't two fetuses. There was one. Maksim should know, because he fell asleep cupping Raelynn's belly every night. He had talked to it; mapped its roundness.
Could it be? Did Raelynn fool him twice?
Something flickered on the laptop, and he was soon staring at a sonogram of two little bundles.
His hand hurt as his dislocated finger protested against the fist he formed.
Twins. He had two baby boys on the way, not one, and his enemy found out before him.
"What do you want, Dante?"
"What?" Dante replied, making him realize he spoke in Russian.
Reality was blurring into a nightmare, and in that nightmare, he was the monster.
"What do you want?" he repeated in English.
"Ah," Dante laughed. "Now we're talking."