I sip my wine, set it aside, and stand up, shedding my blazer to toss it over the back of a nearby chair. Without taking my eyes off her, I sit in the chair next to her and lean against the table, lifting her utensils.
As I slice a piece of pork, I say, “It’s for the good of the Bratva for you to tell me.”
She bristles.
I close my eyes.Maybe that was the wrong word.
When I open my eyes, I finish cutting the pork into smaller pieces and push the plate toward Liya. She stares at the fork I extend to her.
“Where’s the phone, Liya?”
She listlessly reaches into her pocket and sets the phone on the table. When she reaches for the fork, the phone rings.
I sweep it off the table before she can reach it. The flip phone is ancient by today’s standards, but much easier to dispose of if needed. A perfect burner phone for a guy on the run.
Well, a guy whowason the run.
The name on the phone doesn’t shock me.
“Zoya,” I say out loud. “I wonder if she knows.”
Liya chews on her lower lip. I set the phone out of reach.
“Is there something I need to know,rodnaya?” I ask. “Is there something you’re hiding from me?”
Again.
My tongue twitches, itching for the words to fly out of my mouth. Biting them back takes effort. But I can see how badly this whole thing has hurt my wife. She’s in pain. She’s unsure of what to do next. It’s part of the job to think on her toes—but she’s not quite used to it.
She needs patience.
The phone stops ringing. Liya glares at it for a long time, a flurry of emotions washing over her face.
And then she looks at me. “There was a voice mail on the phone that I deleted.”
I raise my eyebrows. “And?”
“And it was from Zoya.”
“What did she say?”
She licks her lips, closing her eyes for a second while bowing her head. She rubs her upper arm as she gathers herself, only speaking when she’s finally opened her eyes.
“She’s pregnant.”
Everything comes to a screeching halt. I’m minutes away from losing my shit when I realize I’m squeezing the fork I had attempted to hand to Liya. It drops with a dull clang as I stand up to return to my side of the table.
I don’t sit. I don’t eat. I don’t even drink.
I just sweep my hand over the back of my neck repeatedly.
“Pregnant,” I whisper. “With Jonas’s child.”
I wipe my mouth as I lean against the back of my chair. My glare falls on my wife—who I know doesn’t necessarily deserve my ire, but I have nowhere else to direct it.
This is a problem.
An even bigger problem than Jonas being dead sooner than planned.