Chapter 3

At 1 AM, the green light from the heart machine threw scary, moving shadows against the clinic wall, looking like a glowing monster watching my every move.

I stared at Dmitri sleeping next to me. His expensive phone was sitting on the small table. The screen was dark, but I knew the picture on it was from our mafia wedding—me wearing a huge white dress, and him kissing my hand looking like a loyal king. The difference between that beautiful picture and the ugly truth felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

I slowly lifted his arm off my waist. My freezing fingers brushed against the phone in his pocket. I knew that little black box held all the dirty secrets I needed. But my heart was beating so fast it hurt. My hand hovered one inch above the pocket, frozen in fear.

The green light kept flashing in the dark room. I stared at it, thick tears hanging onto my eyelashes.

Dmitri's deep, slow breathing blew against my neck. I could smell the strong whiskey on his breath. He had swallowed a huge glass of liquor before getting in bed, saying the stress of Family business was keeping him awake.

My fingers were still hovering in the air. After I lost my second pregnancy, he had kissed my neck and promised, "We are done trying." His breath had smelled like that exact same whiskey.

The emotional scars from that night were still bleeding, and now I was trapped in the same nightmare again.

I used to think he drank because he was sad about my pain. Now I knew he was just stressed because Liana's illegal lab results were delayed.

Suddenly, the sharp smell of clinic chemicals gave me strength. I closed my eyes tight, reached down, and pulled the phone out of his pocket.

The metal phone was still warm from his body heat. I gripped it so hard my palm ached.

I clicked the button. The screen lit up, showing that same wedding picture. He was kissing my fingers with so much fake love. It made me sick. The deadliest traps were always covered in sweet sugar.

I wondered if his password was still my birthday.

Just last week, during a huge Family dinner, he complained his security code was too long, so I changed it to my own birthday to make it easy for him.

But when I quickly typed in "1105," the screen flashed red: "Incorrect Password."

My breath hitched.

I remembered Liana's birthday. Last month, I found a fancy party invitation hidden inside Dmitri's office desk. The date printed in gold was June 12th.

My thumb moved on its own, typing the numbers "0612." The phone beeped softly, and the screen opened up.

The first chat pinned at the very top of his messages was not mine. It belonged to Katarina.

The newest message, sent just two hours ago, made my blood run cold: [Liana's fever spiked again tonight. The private doctor says we desperately need the newest extract.]

Dmitri had replied: [It is handled. The male sample matched clean. The girl is on ice at the lab—we can pull her for round two if Liana relapses.]

Katarina had answered a minute later: [Does Camille know it was two?]

His reply: [Bruno kept the second one off her charts. She only ever heard one heartbeat.]

The girl. Round two. Two heartbeats.

I had been carrying twins.

I squeezed my hands into tight fists. My fingernails dug hard into my palms.

My whole body was burning with pure, violent rage. Not only had they killed my son, but my baby girl was still alive, sealed in a lab tank—reserved for Liana like a set of replacement organs on standby!

My thumb felt stiff as I scrolled up. I saw my own ignored messages from last week. I had burned my arm in the kitchen and texted him: [I got burned pretty bad. It hurts a lot.]

His reply was cold and short: [Tell the house staff to fix it. I am busy.]

But on that exact same day, Katarina had texted him: [Liana is crying because she wants that special peach tart you buy her.]

Dmitri had replied instantly: [I am leaving the meeting right now. Be there in 20 minutes.]

I kept scrolling through the nightmare. When I was stuck in the hospital throwing up from severe morning sickness, he told me he was out of the country fixing a problem with the Commission.

But when Katarina texted that Liana was scared of needles, he replied at 4 AM: [I just ordered the private jet. I will hold her hand through the whole thing.]

I clicked on his bank app. There were dozens of massive money transfers. The notes said things like "Liana's private school," "New diamond rings for Katarina," and "Liana's birthday party yacht." He was spending millions on my sister.

But just last month, when I asked for a simple emerald necklace, he frowned and told me, "That is a waste of money. We need to save our cash for the Family."

I almost dropped the phone when a new message suddenly popped up on the screen.

Katarina sent a bright picture. The background was the underground lab. Liana was wearing a little hospital gown, smiling and holding up a peace sign with pink cheeks.

Katarina typed: [The doctor said her blood looks amazing today! Thanks to the "donations" we took from my dear sister last time, Liana will be totally cured in a few months!]

I stared at the word "donations." My throat squeezed shut like invisible hands were choking me.

I remembered the terrible day I lost the babies. When the bright surgery lights finally turned off, Bruno had said, "The lost tissue must be taken away for special testing."

Dmitri had held my crying face and promised, "We have to trust the doctor, my love."

Reading Katarina's text again, I felt sick to my stomach. There was no special testing.

My baby boy had been harvested, piece by piece, to keep Liana breathing.

The phone slipped out of my fingers and hit the table with a loud clack. I covered my mouth with both hands, trying not to throw up all over the floor.

I remembered the nasty, dark soup Dmitri forced me to drink every single day while I was pregnant. He promised it would make the baby strong. I remembered Bruno looking nervous every time he checked my stomach. Now I finally knew the truth. My babies were perfectly healthy. Dmitri and Katarina had been secretly stealing their life force the whole time.

Dmitri grunted in his sleep and rolled over. His heavy arm fell across my waist, trapping me against the bed.

I lifted it off my body one careful inch at a time, then slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. My hand was still shaking.

On the small table next to the bed, my own phone lit up.

One new message. Bruno.

[Madam Camille, the Don has approved the next round. Sedation at 6 a.m. Please do not eat or drink after midnight. Your second harvest is scheduled for the morning.]

The floor tilted under me.

Second harvest.

They were not waiting for me to heal. They were not waiting for anything. In less than five hours, a nurse was going to walk in with a needle, and by breakfast Katarina would have another piece of my daughter on ice.

Behind me, Dmitri stirred in his sleep. His heavy arm swept across the mattress where I had been lying, searching for me. He murmured something into the pillow—Katarina's name, half-formed, sleepy and warm.

I pressed my back against the cold wall and covered my mouth with both hands so I would not make a sound.

Five hours. That was all I had.