Marital Privilege. Ann Voss Peterson

      The van lurched backward. They burst into the daylight. Laura lifted her head to peek through the window. A man strode through their front yard toward the driveway, an assault rifle in the ready position.

      She ducked.

      Gunfire popped, hitting steel, hitting glass. Cracks splintered the passenger window and spider-webbed the windshield. “Hold on,” Alec shouted.

      She hunkered lower. Grateful the lap belt was still in place, she gripped the bottom of the seat with one hand and braced against the dash with the other.

      Reaching the bottom of the driveway, Alec slammed the car into drive. The van lurched. Rubber screeched against pavement, grabbing for purchase.

      More gunfire from outside. The back window shattered.

      The van thrust forward. Sitting as low as possible, Alec gripped the wheel, knuckles white, squinting through the cracked windshield. He spun around the bend at the mouth of the cul-de-sac. The van tilted, as if lifting off two wheels.

      It settled on the straightaway. The engine roared, the sound overwhelming the thrum of Laura’s pulse in her ears, the panic racing along her nerves.

      Alec took two more turns before settling on the main road.

      She sat upright in her seat and twisted to check out the blown-out back window. The road was vacant behind, no bullets flying, no car following. The wind whistled through the broken car windows and whipped her hair against her cheeks. Clutching dash and door, she closed her eyes.

      This couldn’t be happening. More than anything, she wanted to go to sleep, wake up and find she was safe in her bed. That Sally was still alive. That she had never pulled the trigger and taken a man’s life. That it was all a vivid hormone-induced nightmare.

      Opening her eyes, she focused on her husband. His shirt was ripped and bloodstained. And he hadn’t injured his arm in the fight in the kitchen. She was sure of it. She touched his sleeve. “Are you okay?”

      “I’m fine.”

      No, he wasn’t fine. And despite what she’d said to reassure him earlier, neither was she. “What happened? How did you get hurt? Tell me what’s going on.”

      Flattening his lips into a tight line, he took two more turns at top speed. He adjusted the wheel and settled on another country highway, pushing the pedal to the floor. “Now’s not the best time.”

      She checked out the back window again. “No one’s following. Now’s the perfect time. Who were those men?”

      A muscle flexed along his jaw.

      “Do you know them?”

      “Yes.” His eyes narrowed and seemed to darken, turning gray to slate.

      He knew, but he wasn’t going to tell her. How could he not tell her? “They almost killed me. They were going to take our baby. I deserve to know who they are.”

      Eyes riveted to the road ahead, he blew out a long breath, as if acknowledging defeat. Another mile passed before he opened his mouth to speak. “You’ve heard of the Russian Mafiya.”

      Of course she had. She didn’t have to have a father in law enforcement to be familiar with Russian organized crime. Their greed. Their brutality. Their blatant disregard for law and decency. And the men who had broken into their house and dragged her from her bed had spoken with Russian accents. But that still didn’t explain anything. “Why would the Russian mob be after us?”

      He hesitated again, this time his expression was one of pain. And guilt. “My name isn’t Alec Martin.”

      “Excuse me?” Whatever she’d expected him to say, this wasn’t close. Heat stole over her followed by cold. “What is your name?”

      “Nikolai Stanislov.”

      “Russian.” Her mind stuttered, struggling to process the information, struggling to make sense of it. “You’re involved with the Russian mob?”

      “Nika Stanislov was involved with the Russian mob.”

      Nika. His real name. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t handle this. “That’s why you use a false name? Because you’re a mobster?”

      “I’m not a mobster.” He bit off the words, his voice sharp.

      She opened her eyes and studied the lines of his face, the bitter set to his jaw. He had the same short brown hair, the same gray eyes, the same rugged features, yet she didn’t recognize this man. She’d been married to him for more than a year, dated him for two before that, and she didn’t know him. “Who are you?”

      “Alec Martin is a name assigned to me by the federal witness-security program.”

      “You’re a crime witness?”

      “Yes.”

      It didn’t take much to put the pieces together. “You witnessed something having to do with Russian organized crime.”

      “My father is what they call a ‘big man.’”

      “Your father was a mafia don?”

      “Is.”

      “He’s alive? You told me he died when you were young.”

      A bitter smile curved his lips. “Only in my fantasies.”

      She pressed her fingers against her lower lip. This couldn’t be happening. The Alec she’d married was tender and honest. This Alec—the one who had another name, the one who knew mobsters, the one with fantasies of his father’s death—she didn’t want to know. “What crime did you witness?”

      “You name it.”

      “Things your father did?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you testified against him?”

      He nodded slowly, his eyes still on the ribbon of asphalt stretching in front of them. “About thirteen years ago. He was convicted of manslaughter.”

      Manslaughter. Merely another name for murder.

      “The men at the house were about my father getting revenge.”

      “If you testified against him thirteen years ago, why is he just coming after you now?”

      “He was just released from prison.”

      “Why not put a contract out on you while he was in prison?”

      “He likes to handle personal problems personally. Says it’s a matter of honor. As if the son-of-a-bitch knows anything about honor. Those men weren’t there to kill me. They were there to take me back to New York. Back to face my father.”

      “One of them was talking about taking our son.” She slid her hands down over her belly. “What does your father want with our baby?”

      “It doesn’t matter what he wants. He’s not going to get near our baby. I’ll make sure of it.”

      She wanted to believe him, wanted it with her whole heart. But after what she’d been through today, she couldn’t fool herself into thinking she and their son would be safe just because Alec said so. She couldn’t fool herself into believing anything Alec—no, Nika—said. “Why didn’t you tell me? When things became serious between us, when we started talking about marriage, about having kids…” Rage worked its way into her throat, pinching her voice, cutting off her words.

      “I thought it was over. When I met you, nothing had happened for ten years. I thought I could finally have my own life, my own family.”

      “Did it ever occur to you that I should have a say in my future? Did it ever occur to you that I might have ideas about the type of man I wanted to marry? The type of man I wanted to father my kids?” A flurry of kicks vibrated inside her, her son’s movement fueled by the adrenaline racing through her veins. She folded her hands over