It was just a dream. Or was it?

Dmitry took a deep drag on his last cigarette and zoomed in, watching the woman he loved engaged in intercourse with two men well beyond their prime. His jaw clenched at the sight of her being used unabashedly, streaks of her mascara-clad eyes ruining her heavily made-up face. He took pictures of the money exchange that ensued just as his brother had requested and adjusted his black-framed glasses, a nauseating feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. It only made what he had to do that much harder.

The light breeze stirred the curtains as he entered the dimly lit room, the smell of sex and tobacco assaulting his nose. The television was on, but she had drifted off on the sofa, blissfully unaware of his intrusion. He moved behind her and rested the muzzle of his Makarov against her neck, instantly waking her.

"Shh," he said, his voice deep, resonant. "Easy, now."

"Please don't hurt my baby," Megan said, turning her gaze to the cot.

He kept the gun pointed at her, knowing full well how feisty she could get under other circumstances. "I know all about your discourteous behavior, Megan. Boris is going to be seriously pissed," he said. "He's mad enough with you leaving and taking his son with you as it is."

"Get the fuck out of here, Dmitry," she spat, recognizing his heavy accent. "In four years, he's never once asked me if I wanted to leave Connecticut. He just assumed I would follow, like a pet dog. I had a life before I met him, friends that cared for me, you know?"

He took the packet of cigarettes from the coffee table and offered her one. She declined. "Dancing in strip clubs and picking up random guys is hardly lady-like behavior," he said, blowing the smoke her way.

"That's how I met both of you, remember?"

She’d always had a smart mouth on her. It was one of the things he liked most. His thoughts raced back to the packed strip bar in the shadiest part of Connecticut, where his adoptive brother proposed to her.

"You should have gone further than Tula Oblast if you wanted to stand a chance," he said, moving in front of her. "Why did you run? Was he so bad in bed you prefer fat, ugly men instead?"

"Why don't you mind your own fucking business?" she snapped. "What are you going to do now that you’ve found me? What orders did the great Boris Byrkovuc give you?"

The infant's loud cry cut through their conversation. He took a step back, letting her stand. "He just wants his family back, Megan."

"I didn't want to have the baby," she confessed, looking straight into his viridian eyes. "Not with him. He didn't care when I told him I wanted to wait a few more years. He said he wanted a son and was hell-bent on having one."

Dmitry’s towering presence loomed over her, menacing, even without the threat of the gun he was grasping. He took another long drag on his cigarette and put it out in the overflowing ashtray. "Bullshit," he said.

Without the thick veil of makeup, her heart-shaped face appeared knotted and anxious, making her look older than her twenty-nine years. Her raven hair was still wet, her sparkling eyes alert. A pang of guilt ran through him as he watched her put the pacifier in the baby's mouth.

"Have you decided yet?" she asked.

With her back turned to him, he let his eyes rest on her Rubenesque figure, concealed only by the white nightgown she was wearing. "About what?"

"Whether or not you’re going to take us back to him. I suppose that's what he wants you to do."

"Are you willing to follow me back?" Dmitry inquired, his voice smooth as silk.

"Not if I can help it," she replied, and before she finished talking, he had already jabbed the needle in the side of her neck. A second later, he gathered her limp body in his arms, the baby's eyes staring up at him.