Page 56 of Pregnant By the Russian Pakhan

“I would have said I wanted my daughter, but seeing as she watched you toss me in your dungeon like dirty laundry and shouted her encouragement every step of the way, I think it’s safe to say she’s not worth my efforts anymore.”

“You killed her mother,” Mikhail reminded the man in a hard voice. “What did you expect?”

“She cheated on me!” Dostoevsky yelled.

“You should have just tossed her out on her ear then. You didn’t have to kill her!” Mira cried.

Dostoevsky still had wild eyes and the look in his eyes worried Mikhail. He seemed like a man whose mind had come somewhat unhinged. Was it possible that he had started to lose his mind?

Mikhail threw a worried glance at Mira, wishing she would shush. He didn’t want to remind Dostoevsky overly much of her, even though it would be hard to get the man to forget her when she was sitting right in front of him. But still...

Spying a robe on the foot of the bed, Mikhail snagged it and tugged it on. As he rose to his feet, he slowly came around the bed, his palms held upright and out until he was planted in front of Mira, effectively blocking her and their baby from the direct path of the gun.

“Calm down, Dostoevsky,” Mikhail began.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dostoevsky barked. “And move aside. You’re blocking me from seeing Mira,” he ordered.

Mikhail remained rooted to the spot he stood, inwardly praying that Mira wouldn’t try to make a run for it just yet so he could continue to be a form of human shield for her.

“What are you trying to achieve?” Mikhail demanded.

“My own daughter celebrated my being captured by my worst enemy and here she is, fucking like a rutting pig in his arms,” Dostoevsky snapped.

Mikhail’s hands clenched into fists at the insults directed at Mira. She was so beautiful, ethereal, elegant and ladylike. She didn’t deserve to be spoken about in that manner. He wanted to slam his fist badly into Dostoevsky’s nose to break what was left of it; but he was afraid the vile man would use that opportunity to hurt Mira or Sarah.

Vlad materialized just then in the open doorway behind Dostoevsky, his gaze narrowed and focused on Dostoevsky. He had moved so soundlessly that even Mikhail had been pleasantly surprised to see him.

He had to keep Dostoevsky talking if they were to have any chance to escape this, Mikhail thought.

“Do you—” he began, stepping forward slightly.

Dostoevsky pulled the trigger sending the bullet towards Mikhail’s foot. He missed by a hair’s breadth, but the loud report of the pistol was jarring enough that it made Sarah and Mira scream.

Vlad took advantage of the commotion and pounced. He hit Dostoevsky’s gun hand from behind and the gun clattered to the floor. Sarah darted away, farther into the room and away from Dostoevsky’s clutches.

Vlad rushed towards Dostoevsky in a flying tackle that sent both men crashing to the ground. Mira leapt from the bed, struggling with the covers even as Vlad and Dostoevsky began to wrestle. Mikhail got out of their way as the two grappling men swung at each other and rolled on the floor.

By some happen chance, Dostoevsky landed near his pistol again as they fought on the floor. He reached for it and started to point his pistol at Vlad. At the same time, more of Mikhail’s men poured into the room. Before he could take aim, someone fired point blank, shooting him right in the middle of his chest.

Dostoevsky’s eyes rolled back in his head and then he collapsed onto the floor as dead weight even as his blood began to seep out in crimson rivulets.

Mikhail flicked a concerned glance at Mira, hastily dashing towards her to catch her up in his arms as she swayed a little. Sure, Dostoevsky was vermin but he was still her father and she had just watched him get killed right in front of her, which was the last thing he’d wanted.

He gently cupped her cheek in his hand, “Mira?”

She raised dull eyes to his face. “Is it over then?”

He nodded. “Yes, sweetie. It’s over. He’s dead.”

She gave him a wan smile, then promptly vomited all over his robe.

Chapter 34 - Mira

Her father’s burial was a silent solemn affair and every eye was remarkably dry at the grave site. If it were up to her, she would have tossed his body anywhere but... horrible as he was, he was still her father.

She had worn a flowing white dress that concealed the gently swelling bulge of her belly and, if Mikhail was to be believed, “clashed exotically with her fiery red tresses.”

The man said the weirdest things, she thought with a low chuckle that inadvertently carried across the small group gathered around the casket.

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