Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Elian shot me a smile.
“Would you like to stay for dinner, Serano?” I asked.
“Sure,” he agreed, walking in like it wasn’t his idea, stopping to pet Kevin and Richard before turning on the TV and cranking up the volume.
Serano, I learned over the past year, was someone who always stayed abreast of the news. So it wasn’t surprising when the newscaster’s voice filled the room.
What was surprising, though, was to hear a name I hadn’t heard in months.
“Former senator, Michael Westmoore…” she started, making Elian and I move in to stand beside Serano.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“They found his body,” Serano said.
“The senator’s body?” I asked, stiffening.
“Yep. Found ‘em strung up by his feet and gutted.”
“Oh, God,” I said, hand slapping over my mouth as bile threatened.
“Christ, Serano,” Elian said, reaching to rub his hand up and down my spine.
“I thought… didn’t Rico say he, you know, went into the Witness Protection Program?”
“He turned State’s evidence,” Elian agreed.
“Rolling on the Bratva has consequences,” Serano said. “Sometimes it just takes time.”
“You okay?” Elian asked, following me to the kitchen where I dropped down on one of the stools.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“You’re not responsible,” Elian insisted, knowing that was where my head was going.
If I’d never exposed the senator, he would have gone on working for the Bratva, never making enemies of them, not having to roll over on them, then uproot his life, only to live a few months in WITSEC, before being brutally murdered.
“I feel responsible.”
“His choices were his own,” Elian insisted. “He didn’t have to get involved with the Bratva. He didn’t have to roll over on them when he was caught. He could have taken his prison sentence. He chose not to do that. He knew the risks. Actions have consequences.”
“I know,” I agreed, exhaling hard as I reached for one of the lozenges Islah brought me that we kept in a bowl on the counter. “I just… I worked with him, y’know? I didn’t exactly like the man, but he shouldn’t have been murdered. Is his family okay?”
“They’re fine,” Serano said, joining us.
His wife and daughter probably weren’t even mourning, given their tense relationship. But his sons were likely grieving their loss.
I wondered how everyone I’d worked on his campaign with were handling the news. If they were as upset about it as I felt.
“Small miracles, I guess,” I said.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Elian reminded me. “The Russians know you’re mine now. They won’t touch you.”
“Still doing the wedding thing?” Serano asked.
“Seeing as we have a baby on the way, yeah, we’re still pretty committed to making him or her legitimate,” Elian said, rolling his eyes.
Serano’s gaze slid to my stomach. And if I wasn’t completely mistaken, it seemed like there was interest in his gaze.
“Meet any nice girls lately?” I asked.
The way his head whipped up, eyes wide, told me all I needed to know.
“What? No,” he said, rushing back to the living room.
“Maybe we won’t be the only ones with wedding bells in our future,” I said.
“Can’t wait to see what kind of woman snagged him,” Elian said.
“I hope she knows how to cook,” I agreed.
Elian - 7 years
“Hey, hey, hey,” I said, scooping up our three-year-old right before he burst into the primary bedroom. “Mommy is taking a nap,” I told him as I walked us back toward the family room. Which was as far away from the bedroom as I could take the kids to give Elizabeth a chance to sleep off her migraine. “She has a boo-boo head,” I added, tapping his with my knuckles after setting him down next to his older brother who was zooming a small stuffed animal in and out at his baby sister’s face as she flailed at it and let out little bubbly laughs.
Elizabeth’s migraines ebbed and flowed. She always suffered the worst in her first trimester and then the months following delivery. We assumed it was some issue with all the hormonal changes that were trying to regulate themselves.
This postpartum, in particular, was really rough.
This was the third migraine just this week.
And while our eldest son understood the need to leave his mother alone and try to be quiet, our middle was still obsessed with being with his mom every second of the day.
“Knock knock,” Islah’s voice called as she stepped into the condo.
“Eye! Eye!” our three-year-old called, running toward his aunt with his arms up high.
“Hey, you,” she said, scooping him up and settling him on her hip. “I was dropping by to see if my niblings want to come and get ice cream,” she said, making our older son’s eyes light up.
“The boys are happy to come,” I said, nodding. “But they’re a handful enough.”
“Nope. We’re taking all three, so get me a diaper bag ready.”
“We?” I asked, watching as she walked back toward the door, opening it and stepping back to let a man walk in.