Chapter 3

The call came at midnight. Convoy. Loading dock. Now. You're in car three. The Volkov shipment was arriving at the port. Matteo wanted his doctor on hand in case things went bloody. I almost refused. Then I remembered Leo, locked in some Valenti safehouse, and I pulled on black jeans and went. Four black SUVs idled in the underground garage. Rocco opened the third door. My stomach dropped. Matteo in the front passenger seat. Katya in the back, draped in white fur, scrolling her phone. I slid in beside her. Her perfume made me nauseous. Or maybe that was the baby. "Why is she here?" Katya asked. "If someone gets shot, she keeps them alive," Matteo said without turning around. "That's her job." Her job. Not his wife. Not his anything. The convoy rolled out into the tunnel beneath Lower Wacker Drive. Too quiet. No traffic. No other cars. "Matteo," I said. "Something's wrong—" The lead SUV exploded. Fire. Metal screaming. Glass raining. "RPG!" Rocco's voice cracked over the radio. "EVERYONE OUT—" Car two went up in a ball of orange. Through the windshield I saw him. A man on the maintenance catwalk. Launcher on his shoulder. Pointed right at us. "MATTEO!" Time slowed. He turned. Saw the launcher. Saw Katya frozen, screaming. He lunged into the back seat. For one stupid, beautiful second, I thought he was reaching for me. He grabbed Katya. Pulled her against his chest. Shoved her door open. Then his boot slammed into my ribs. He kicked me out the other side. I hit the concrete hard. Rolled. Felt my hip crack against the curb. The rocket hit the car dead center. The world went white. Then black. Then red. I couldn't hear. Couldn't breathe. Smoke in my throat. Blood in my eyes. And a sharp, twisting cramp low in my belly. No. No, no, no. I curled around my stomach on the burning asphalt. Through the smoke, I saw him. Matteo, carrying Katya away from the flames. One arm under her knees. Her face pressed into his neck. He set her down against a pillar like she was made of glass. Checked her pupils. Stroked her hair. I was fifteen feet away. Bleeding. He didn't look back. Not once. "DOC!" Rocco skidded to his knees beside me. "Jesus Christ—talk to me—" "The baby," I choked. "Rocco—the baby—" His face went gray. "The what?" "Please. Don't tell him. Just—get me to my clinic." Across the tunnel, a Volkov SUV screeched to a stop. Matteo lifted Katya inside. Then he climbed in after her and they drove away. "He's leaving," I whispered. "Protocol," Rocco said, but his voice broke. "Principal first—" "He kicked me out of the car, Rocco." I laughed. It came out as a sob. "He kicked his pregnant wife out of a car to save his girlfriend." Rocco's hands shook as he pressed his jacket against my head. "I've got you. I swear to God, Ava, I've got you." I woke in my own clinic at dawn. IV in my arm. Two cracked ribs. Twelve stitches in my scalp. I didn't care about any of it. I dragged the portable ultrasound to the bed with shaking hands. Squeezed cold gel on my stomach. Pressed the probe down. Static. Static. Then—there. A flicker. Fast and fierce. Still fighting. I pressed my fist to my mouth and sobbed. "You're stronger than me," I whispered to the screen. "You're already stronger than me." I printed the image. Held it against my heart. Fell asleep holding it. When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark. And someone was sitting in the chair beside my bed. Matteo. His shirt was stained with soot. His knuckles were bloody. In his hand, he held my ultrasound photo. "Ava," he said quietly. "Whose baby is this?"