Boris and Anna's first baby is due any day, but the thought of raising a child in the war-torn city of Dor fills Anna with dread. Because Boris is so focused on keeping his struggling business afloat, he brushes her fears aside. When White Horse gangsters attack his illegal employee, Boris's attempt to protect him puts his own family in danger. Will doing the right thing cost him more than he's willing to pay? Will Boris and Anna live to see their second anniversary?
Excerpt from For Better and Worse:
As I stepped into the back garden, the rising wind chilled my nose and blew feathers of snow against my eyelashes. Except for the crackle of a distant machine gun, the city seemed to be sleeping off last night's parties.
I stepped off the cement path and kicked at the half-frozen soil.
My coat didn't zip over my belly anymore, so I held it closed with one hand. In the other, I carried Boris's pistol, making sure the barrel pointed straight down.
Could the baby sense what I was thinking? Could he taste the salty edge of my fear?
The muscles in my stomach quivered, then clenched. I took slow deep breaths, waiting for the tension to pass. According to the results of my Google search for "Signs of Early Labor," those strange, not-exactly-pain cramps might mean the baby was coming soon. Or they might mean nothing. After all, the baby—did I really want to call him Alexander?—wasn't due until the sixth. I pushed on the top of my belly, and he pushed back with both tiny feet.
I'd asked Boris to get rid of his pistol more than once. Guns were expensive, but maybe he could sell it back to Maxim. He'd stared at me, those dark eyebrows knitting together. "I got it to protect us."
Boris didn't realize it gave him confidence he shouldn't feel, a false promise that he could stop the violence outside from pushing into our home. Why did he still think he had any control over what was happening in our city?
Boris and Arjun could have both been killed last night. If things had gone just a little differently—I closed the doors of my mind firmly on that thought and locked them.
Burying the gun seemed the best plan. I stopped in front of the flower bed, where dried stalks of marigold plants stuck out of the snow. My boots were already pinching my swollen feet; I should have borrowed Uncle Peter's to clump around in instead.
I didn't know much about guns, but I was pretty certain that being buried in a flower bed wouldn't be good for one. Squatting down, I eased my taut belly into place between my knees and uprooted one of the withered marigolds. The soil was laced with ice crystals, but not frozen solid. Using the barrel end of the gun, I scraped the hole bigger, making sure my fingers didn't get anywhere near the trigger.
Boris would be hurt that I didn't trust him. Angry. But I didn't know another way to explain the desperation I felt inside.
Dear God, let him see it's time to go, I prayed silently. Make it so clear a blind person couldn't miss it.
I pressed the gun into the ground. With grimy fingers, I scooped a handful of bullets out of my sweater pocket and dropped them in the hole, too.
E.B. Roshan
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