“Elara’s a critic, not a killer,” I reply dryly. “She respects good footwear. It’s poorly constructed opinions she can’t tolerate.”
A grin spreads across Sunni’s face. “You look different today, dark queen. Spill it.”
I lean on the worktop opposite her and try to figure out where to start. Giselda sending me more gifts? The way my favorite dress fits a little differently at the waist? Or the way I cried last night when I saw a dad lift a toddler into the air from the sidewalk because terror followed me all the way home.
“Giselda sent me another gift,” I say, starting with the easy thing.
Sunni’s smile curves into something a bit meaner. “Of course, she did. What’s the aesthetic this time? Victorian ghost bride? Serial killer chic?”
“Both.”
The box is the size of a book, wrapped in expensive paper and black ribbon without a card. She opens it with two fingers like she’s defusing a bomb. Inside is a music box shaped like a tiny coffin. If you wind the brass key, a nursery rhyme tinks wrong. We watch the little ballerina turn twice before Sunni shutters and shuts the lid, shoving the box back.
“She’s jealous,” she states flatly.
“Of your taste in accessories?” I joke, trying to deflect.
“Of us,” Sunni corrects. “Of Lucetta, too. Of the way we survived without her and now have something she’s not a part of. You and me grew up at each other’s elbows, but Giselda always liked the way your shadow matched hers. Now, Lucetta’s bond with us is iron, and she can’t stand it.”
“Lucetta has always been ours. She’s always been more than just my bodyguard. She’s family.”
“Well, yeah. Since you were ten and she glared the sun into submission for you for daring burn your darling nose.” Sunni lets out a sigh and reaches into her tote to retrieve an envelope. “I got a note.”
My stomach tightens. “What does it say?”
“It’s just a scrap of paper that says ‘Miss me’ on it. Oh, and the S’s are dramatically drawn into little scythes because Giselda always has to be extra. And there’s a smear of what I’m choosing to believe is cherry filling. Maybe a threat, maybe dessert. Who knows?”
“Why didn’t you tell me she was sending you stuff?”
“Because I knew you’d blame yourself, and because I didn’t want Konstantin to find out and put me on lockdown.”
“She keeps getting bolder.”
“She wants to own us again like we’re paper dolls she cut out in the ninth grade.”
“Giselda doesn’t get to own me.” My hand instinctively presses over my flat stomach. “The only one who gets to do that is hunting the streets for her.”
Sunniva is staring at my hand as if might give up the secret. “Okay, spill. That hand-to-stomach move only comes with one secret, and it’s not the ‘my husband is a walking felony in a suit’ kind.”
“Don’t panic.”
She shrugs. “I only panic fashionably.”
“I’m late.”
Her face goes through three emotions so fast that I almost miss the fear between the joy and theoh, you beautiful idiot.
“How late?” she whispers.
“Late enough to stop counting days.” A laugh chases my confession. “Late enough that I Googled how many different reasons a woman can faint and then told myself I was just dehydrated.”
It finally hits her what I’m saying, and she launches from the worktop like a human glitter cannon and tackles me in a hug that smells like vanilla lotion and barely contained joy. “Oh my god. You’re gonna have a tiny little Bratva prince or princess. Do you think they’ll come out mean-mugging everyone and gnawing on the femur bone of their enemy?”
“Sunni,” I say exasperated.
“Right. Right. Serious moment. Let’s circle back to the baby being a badass later.”
I laugh despite myself, clinging to her warmth and absurdity like a lifeline.
