Page 64 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

Valdés strikes first, connecting his fist with Mikhail’s jaw. The impact carries across the deck, making me wince. Mikhail staggers back a step but quickly recovers, retaliating with a swift uppercut that snaps back Valdés’ head.

The fight is brutal and relentless. They grapple and strike, each blow echoing in the night air. I keep a hand pressed against my mouth to stifle my gasps and cries.

Mikhail lands a solid punch to Valdés’ midsection, driving the air from his lungs. Valdés doubles over, wheezing, but as Mikhail moves in, Valdés surges upward, headbutting him in the face. Blood streams from Mikhail’s nose, staining his white shirt crimson. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, never looking away from his opponent.

Mikhail’s face is a mask of determination, eyes blazing with cold fury I’ve never seen before. He fights like a man possessed, every move calculated and deadly, but Valdés is no amateur. He matches Mikhail blow for blow, his lips curled in a snarl of hatred.

I watch in horror as Valdés gains the upper hand, pinning Mikhail against the railing. The metal groans under their combined weight. Mikhail’s face contorts with pain as Valdés’ arm presses against his throat.

“You should have stayed out of Miami,” shouts Valdés, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves. “This city is mine.”

Mikhail struggles, his face turning red from lack of oxygen. I can’t just sit here and watch him die. Acting instinctively, I stand up, my voice ringing out across the deck. “José?”

Valdés’ head snaps toward me, his eyes widening in surprise. It’s only a split second of distraction, but it’s enough. Mikhail seizes the opportunity. With a surge of strength, he breaks free from Valdés’ hold. His fist connects with Valdés’ jaw in a sickening crunch. Valdés stumbles backward, his feet tangling in a coil of rope.

Time seems to slow as Valdés loses his balance. He teeters on the edge of the railing, arms windmilling wildly. For a moment, our gazes lock. I see the realization dawn in his expression, followed quickly by fear.

Then he’s gone, plummeting over the side of the yacht with a strangled cry. The splash of his body hitting the water is lost in the chaos of the ongoing fight. The rope tangled around his angle jerks and twitches as he struggles. When it goes taut but stops moving a few moments later, I’m sure it signals he’s dead.

I rush to Mikhail’s side, my legs shaky. He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and I can feel his heart beating an irregular rhythm.

“Are you okay?” I ask, running my hands over his body to check for injuries.

He nods, never looking away from the spot where Valdés disappeared. “It’s over,” he says, his voice hoarse.

We stand there, clinging to each other as the sounds of fighting die down around us. Mikhail’s men have subdued the remaining attackers. The deck is littered with bodies and debris, which is an unwelcome difference from the elegant wedding setup from just hours ago.

As though realizing how close we came to losing each other, he pulls me closer, arms protectively encircling me. I bury my face in his chest, inhaling his current scent—gunpowder, sweat, and that cologne I love so much. His heartbeat thrums against my ear, a steady rhythm that helps calm my frayed nerves.

“I was so scared,” I whisper, my voice muffled by his shirt. “When I saw Valdés pinning you against the railing, I thought... I thought I was going to lose you.”

He tightens his arms around me. “Never,” he says fiercely. “I’ll always fight to come back to you and our child. Always.”

I lift my head to look at him, not doubting him. Despite the cuts and bruises marring his face, he’s never looked more beautiful to me than in this moment. “I love you,” I say, the words feeling inadequate to express the depth of my emotions.

Mikhail presses his forehead against mine. “I love you too,moya lyubov. More than anything.”

We share a kiss that’s gentle yet passionate, conveying all the words left unsaid, and I’m careful not to bump his broken nose. For a moment, the world fades away. There’s no yacht and no dead bodies. Just us, wrapped in each other’s arms, alive and together.

The moment is broken by the sound of boots on the deck. We pull apart to see Sergei approaching, his usually impeccable suit torn and bloodstained.

“Boss,” he says, nodding respectfully to Mikhail. “The situation is under control. All of Valdés’ men have been neutralized or captured. What are your orders?”

Mikhail turns to Sergei, his face hardening into the expression of a leader. “No survivors,” he says dispassionately. “Dispose of the bodies once we’re in international waters. Make sure there’s no trace left.”

Sergei nods sharply. “Understood, boss. We’ll take care of it.”

“We’ll retire to our stateroom in a minute,” he says to me. Calmly, he crosses to the side of the yacht, where the rope still hangs tautly. Methodically, with no expression, he reels it in. It seems to stick at one point, resisting his efforts, and I move forward to help him. Together, we drag in the last few feet of rope, bringing up Valdés’ body along with it.

“He’s dead,” I say with satisfaction.

“Yes.” Still, he kneels and checks for a pulse before his shoulders completely relax. “It’s truly over now.” He stands and wipes his hand on his pants before wrapping his arm around my waist, guiding me away from the carnage on the deck. Neither of us looks back at Valdés’ dead body. Sergei or someone else will handle it when disposing of the others.

“Come,lyubov moya. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

We make our way to our stateroom, leaving behind the chaotic aftermath of the battle. The contrast between the luxurious interior and the violence we’ve just witnessed is jarring. The plush carpet muffles our footsteps—so different from the blood-slicked deck we’ve just left.

“Are you hurt?” he asks as we walk toward our stateroom.

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