Page 51 of Pregnant By the Russian Pakhan

Pressing home his advantage, Mikhail jabbed a finger roughly into the throat of the second man and kneed the third in the groin. All three men fell away, nursing their injuries in the dirt and groaning with pain. The fourth man was still nowhere to be seen after Mira had shot pepper spray into his eyes.

Mikhail crossed his arms over his chest as he glared at his archenemy, who was still holding Mira tightly with one hand. “Unhand her now,” he ordered.

Dostoevsky gave him a hard smack on the nose, drawing blood, and Mikhail had to concede that the man was truly his daughter’s father. He packed one hell of a punch given that he’d used his non-dominant hand to throw that swing, since the other was still gripped tightly around Mira’s wrist.

Mikhail spat the blood from his mouth into the dirt and faced Dostoevsky with a mocking grin. “Are we finally going to settle our scores man to man or are you gonna hide behind your daughter’s skirts?”

Dostoevsky looked around quickly and seeing that all his men had been disabled, he shoved Mira away from him and sent her sprawling. It was a calculated move to distract Mikhail, he knew. But no way was he going to let her hit the ground, not even if she wasn’t pregnant.

Mikhail grabbed her just before she hit the ground and gathered her against himself. Dostoevsky was already running, heading in the direction of his jeep. Mikhail released Mira and gave chase, managing to catch the older man just as he reached his jeep.

Mikhail spun him around and gave him a shake. “Your daughter’s pregnant you bastard and you dared to shove her?” he let fly with his fist, releasing a solid punch that connected with Dostoevsky’s jaw and snapped his head back.

Mikhail was so furious he began to punch the man again and again and again until blood spurted from his nose. Mikhail let fly with his fist with one last solid punch that landed on his chin and threw him off balance.

As Dostoevsky went sprawling, Mikhail allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He threw his wife a jaunty grin. “Well, come on. Let’s get me properly introduced to my father-in-law.”

A smile quivered on her lips and he half thought she was about to beg for mercy for her father. But instead, she flung herself into his arms with a small sob and said with feeling, “Thank you for not dying, Mikhail.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, but in that moment he got the distinct feeling that his life was very important to Mira Nikolai.

Chapter 31 - Mira

Mira was too angry to speak as she glared at her father’s prone form.

He’d fallen unconscious after he hit the pavement, and Mikhail had tied him up and bundled him into their vehicle. When they arrived at the villa, there were excited mutterings among Mikhail’s men, high fives and shouts of laughter when they saw who their boss had brought home as his captor.

It was a feat of mighty proportions that Mikhail had managed to grab Dostoevsky all on his own and bring him home. Mira’s father had been a mafia boss longer than Mikhail had been alive, which made him a dangerous enemy. But it was a measure of how capable Mikhail was that he’d managed to capture her mother’s killer and had now bound him up at her feet.

Mira watched Vlad toss some water in her father’s face, forcing him back to wakefulness.

Dostoevsky glared at Vlad but said nothing.

Mikhail came and squatted in front of him, bringing himself to eye level with him. “You weasel. This meeting has been a long time coming.”

Dostoevsky looked down his nose at Mikhail. “I’ll say. Untie my hands and feet and we’ll have a proper conversation. I need my hands to be able to teach you the manners your stupid father never taught you.”

“Father!” Mira gasped.

Mikhail grabbed him by the collar. “Mention my father one more time, you bastard, and I’ll hand you all of your teeth in your palm.”

Strained silence reigned as both men glared at each other. Then Mira came and touched Mikhail’s arm, silently asking him to release her father.

He let Dostoevsky go at once, flinging the older man off as though he couldn’t bear to touch him. He rose to his feet and shoved a hand through his hair as he stalked away to pour himself a drink.

“I could use a shot too, son,” Dostoevsky called in a mocking tone. “I mean, if I’m gonna be your unwilling guest, you might as well make it worth my while.”

His cavalier attitude was starting to grate on Mira’s nerves. She turned away, fighting tears as she listened to her father release taunt after taunt, all targeted at Mikhail. And all the while her emotions were in a mess as she listened to this man who had killed her mother and wasn’t the least bit repentant.

Suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer and she yelled, “Stop!”

Everyone froze, including Vlad. All three men looked at her in surprise, as though they’d forgotten she was in the room. And maybe they had. They were all macho men. In their world—or at least in her father’s world—women would never interrupt conversations as she had.

She turned and glared at her father. “Just stop! Stop this charade, and answer this question for me, Oleg Dostoevsky.”

When she pronounced his full name, she saw shocked surprise leap into his eyes. But he stayed quiet, watching her carefully.

Mira dropped to her haunches before him. Since he was seated on the floor with his knees drawn up and his back against the wall, her position brought her eye level with him.

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