“I know, I know. No offense. I just thought you should know.”
“Well, thank you. I will figure out if it’s of any use to me.”
I’m pissed now. Because I see exactly where this thing is going. Dick’s screwing the new law student and using her to build his negative smear campaign against me for the partnership debate.
Well, screw them.
Screw them all.
I hang up without a goodbye, my teeth clenched. Only after I sit in silence for a moment do I start to unpack the information she gave me.
Human sex trafficking.
Is it possible Adrian burned down the building to destroy evidence because the feds were getting too close to an illegal operation?
Despite what I told Sarah, the idea makes me sick.
Especially because this case is tied to Ravil.
Does this mean Ravil’s a sex trafficker?
A wave of nausea blows through me, and a splitting headache comes on.
Screw it. I’m not going to even bother trying to work through it. I’m officially on bed rest.
I’m going to bed.
I grab a paperback out of the box of books Ravil brought to me—a mixture of Viking romance and the latest non-fiction bestsellers. I suspect he reviewed my Kindle purchases.
I crack open a book featuring a man with a bare chest and washboard abs on the cover. I used to think reading romance was too low-brow for me. I mean, I read them as a teenager but stopped when I went to college. But screw that. Romance is exactly the thing a pregnant woman should read. Love, sex and happily ever afters. There’s no reason to put anything negative in the mix.
Especially not the real-life negative news Sarah just laid on me.
Chapter 11
Ravil
Against my better judgement, Saturday, I drive Lucy to her father’s rehab center as a reward for her good behavior.
She settled into an uneasy routine for the rest of the week. We took daily walks and swims, shared meals. Shared long, intense sex sessions. Natasha came by to massage her every day. To my amusement, she requested perogies every day and devoured them like they were the finest delicacy. She practiced her Russian with the guys, whom I still have not allowed to speak English to her, despite the fact that she knows they can.
Dima and I closely monitored her phone calls and communications, but she didn’t seem to make any secret or overt pleas for help. Gretchen, her friend from DC—the one she came to Black Light with—called a couple times, but Lucy didn’t answer or call back.
For whatever reason, she’s being compliant. I’m not foolish enough to believe she’s accepted her fate. I know she’s biding her time.
“Thank you for this,” she says, staring straight forward through the windshield of my Jaguar I-Pace.
“You will not make me sorry.” It’s a warning.
“Are you going to come in?”
“Yes,” I say. “And you won’t leave my side for a single moment.” I can imagine her trying to slip a note in her mother’s purse or leave it somewhere in the room. Or even blatantly call for help. Bringing her here is a terrible idea. And yet, denying her something so important also felt wrong.
She chews on the inside of her lip, considering me.
“Who do they think is the father of their grandchild?” I ask.
“An anonymous sperm donor,” she says.
I allow a smirk to play on my lips. “Which isn’t that far off. It was nearly anonymous.” We hadn’t exchanged real names at Black Light.
She appears relieved by my reaction. Or non-reaction. “Yes.”
“Except you told me you’d take a morning after pill. Did you know then that you didn’t plan to?”
I can tell by the way her gaze slides away that she did.
“I’m glad,” I offer. “Families are forbidden to bratva. We live by a code that requires us to remove ourselves from all previous family, to never marry and to swear allegiance only to the brotherhood. So I didn’t think I would ever have a child.”
“And now you can?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’m not in Russia anymore. I am the leader of this cell. I am changing the rules.”
“Will our son be in danger?”
“Neither of you will be in danger. I promise you that. If there’s a challenge, it will be for my seat, and the danger will be solely mine. But there will be no challenge. I have no interest in the power struggles back in Russia, and here there are none.”
She stares down at her fingernails. The pale paint is starting to chip. I make a mental note to bring someone in to give her a mani-pedi. “I was afraid I wouldn’t have children. I broke up with Jeffrey because after eight years, he wouldn’t commit. He loved me, but for some reason, he just wasn’t sure about the marriage and family thing. And I knew I wanted it. And I was scared—” her voice chokes, and she stops speaking.
I reach over and pick up her hand, squeezing it.
“I was scared it might never happen for me. I’m thirty-five. I put law school and my career first. I thought I’d have time to have babies once I was established. But then Jeffrey never got on board. And by the time I realized he never would, it seemed like it was too late to meet someone new. So when your condom broke… well, it seemed like an opportunity I might not have again. So I took it.”
I release her hand, remembering that she took it without telling me. And that she still believes she made the right choice. She would still prefer me out of our child’s life.
We arrive at the rehab home, and I park the Jaguar. “Leave your purse in the car,” I tell her, in case she has a note prepared. I check her pockets before taking her hand and leading her in.
We sign in at the front desk where the pretty young attendant greets Lucy by name and looks at me curiously. “You can go on back. Your mother’s already there,” she tells Lucy.
The place is nice—definitely on the higher end for a rehab home but still with the medicinal smell that stings my nostrils. Lucy leads me down the hallway to a room where the door is open. She enters. “Hi, Dad,” she says overly brightly.
An older man in a wheelchair looks over, and the left side of his mouth lifts in a smile. The right side of his face remains slack and unexpressive. Controlling the wheelchair with a joystick, he spins it to face us.
“Hi Mom.” Lucy gives the elegant but depressed-looking woman in the room a hug. “How’s he doing?”
“Who is this?” her mother demands without answering, her gaze resting on me.
I step forward and shake her hand. “Hi Barbara,” I greet her by name. “I’m Ravil Baranov. I’m the father of Lucy’s child.”
Lucy and her mother both suck in shocked breaths. Her father spins the wheelchair to face me, one bushy gray brow down.
“What? How did this happen?” her mother exclaims.
Lucy clears her throat. “Ah, I think that part would be rather obvious, Mom.”
Her mother still stares in confusion, not understanding. “I thought donors in this sort of thing sign away all their rights.” She looks to Lucy’s dad for confirmation, even though the man is no longer capable of speaking.
“We met last Valentine’s Day,” I say. “The baby was conceived naturally.” I’ve learned that sticking close to the truth is always the best strategy. “We’ve only recently become reacquainted.” I hold my hand out to Lucy’s father although I’m not sure he’s capable of shaking it. His right hand is curled into a ball on his lap. “Ravil Baranov.”