The inside of the jet is sleek and clean, and everything looks almost new.
Dark leather with a monogrammedRstitched into each seat, food and drink bars, fresh flowers, andsoomuch legroom. I could do a full-on Pilates workout in the aisle and still have plenty of room.
I’m seated, buckled up beside Emilio. “Who’s Hannah?”
He doesn’t flinch or say a word.
Just stares straight ahead, working his jaw.
“Who is she?” I stress.
Silence.
I repeat the question ten times.
Each time, I’m met with more silence.
I finally stop wasting my breath.
My phone is in my purse in the Range Rover, so I’m in for a boring flight since my company sucks.
Thankfully, the flight is short.
I’m yawning every three seconds by the time we land. Emilio hands the ponytailed man, who I learned was the pilot, a stack of hundreds. The pilot hands him a car key and tells us good night. I follow Emilio into a small parking lot.
He stops at a black sedan, pops the trunk, and tosses me a black baseball cap. “Put this on.”
I shove it over my hair as he does the same.
We get into the car, and as Emilio drives, I realize we’re in Chicago from the street signs. By this time, I don’t even have the energy to ask him why we’re here.
He drives to the back of a neighborhood until we’re at a street with only one two-story brick home.
Emilio cuts the engine and turns to me. “I don’t trust you, but right now, I don’t have a choice. What you’re about to see never happened. You’ll never repeat it to anyone.” He grips my shoulders, giving them a shake. “Do you understand me, Liliya?”
“I …” I inhale a controlled breath. “I understand.”
We get out of the car, and I follow him to the front door. My heart rattles with each step we take.
Emilio collects a set of keys from his pocket and hurriedly unlocks the front door. As soon as we walk in, I hear screaming.
“I’m here!” Emilio yells, racing into the living room.
A pregnant woman is doubled over on the couch, clutching her belly.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, dropping beside her. “What happened?”
“I’m either dying or …” She stops to inhale deep breaths, and I can tell she’s having a contraction. “Or I’m in labor.”
“How far along are you?”
“Full term,” she says, clenching her teeth in pain. Tears fall down her cheeks, hitting the already-dried mascara on her face.
I glance at Emilio. “We need to get her to the hospital.”
“Did you try to call the midwife?” Emilio asks the woman.
“Yes,” she says. “Her phone is going straight to voicemail.”
