Page 79 of Scarred Bratva King

I feel eyes on me. So often now, I feel like I’m being watched. I mark it up to my increasing paranoia. Ever since the shootout, it’s been hard to relax.

This should be my safe space. Maxim assured me I’d no longer be at risk once I left him, made it seem like there was no other option. But I can’t help remembering the scene of my crime, shooting Marco dead just a few yards from where I stand.

Not that I got in any trouble for it. The bodies disappeared, the bullet holes were gone within an hour. Like it never happened. The only clue is one slight faint pink stain on the floor, a last lingering shadow of death.

I slide the books into place, adjusting them until the spines line up perfectly. My hands linger there for a moment, brushing over the titles, my thoughts drifting back to him.

Maxim.

I try to focus on the task at hand, to keep moving, but the silence of the store feels deafening, the memories creeping in through the cracks.

Maxim would’ve stood here with me, insisting the shelves be arranged a certain way. “Order matters,” he’d say with that clipped, no-nonsense tone of his, as if life itself depended on whether mystery novels sat next to romance.

I’d laugh, calling him ridiculous, and he’d smirk that rare, crooked smirk—the one that made me feel like I was special, like I washis.

But that’s over now. Isn’t it? He’s made his choice and that’s that. Used me to get Marco.

Marco’s dead because of what he did,I think to myself.Aren’t you happy?

I push the thought aside, moving to another shelf. My stomach feels tight, the kind of knot that refuses to loosen no matter how much you try to ignore it.

I run a hand over my belly, the curve not noticeable, but the knowledge of what it means weighs heavily. There’s no escaping it.

I’ve tried to picture his reaction. A million different scenarios playing out in my head, and none of them good.

How could someone like that ever be a good father? How could I trust him not to treat our child like an heir, a pawn in his brutal game?

Elena hasn’t pestered me but I know what she thinks.

I shake my head, the stack of books in my hands wobbling slightly.

She’d tell me I shouldn’t keep the truth from him. Whether or not I trust him, whether or not I believe he’s capable of love, he deserves the truth.

And maybe this is his chance to prove me wrong. To show me there’s more to him than the cold, calculating man I saw that night in the alley.

My phone sits on the counter, taunting me. I pick it up, my thumb hovering over his name in my call log.

It’s absurd that I haven’t deleted it, but some part of me knew this moment would come. The screen stares back at me, and for a second, I swear my hand shakes.

What if this is a mistake?

What if he reacts the way I fear he will—detached, logical, as if this child is nothing more than a problem to solve? Or worse, what if he doesn’t care at all?

But I can’t keep living in this limbo. If I don’t tell him, if I don’t at least try, I’ll always wonder. And if I’ve learned anything in the past few months, it’s that wondering is worse than knowing. Even if knowing hurts.

I press the call button, the line ringing in my ear. My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my chest, each second stretching unbearably long until his voice finally cuts through.

"Veronica," he says, his tone sharp, laced with something I can’t quite place. Relief? Anger?

“Maxim,” I reply. “We need to talk.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, I think he might hang up. But then he answers, his voice low. “When and where?”

I glance around the bookstore. “Here.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he says, and the line goes dead.

I set the phone down, staring at it as if it might come to life again. The silence in the store feels heavier now, pressing down on me, but there’s no turning back. I’ve made my decision.

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