Page 49 of Forced & Knocked-Up Bratva Bride

Without wasting a second longer, he turned and left, his men following up behind him.

Alessia broke down in tears, hands trembling as she dropped the gun. I rushed over to help her, pulling her to myself, my touch gentle but firm. My arms wrapped around her, offering warmth and comfort to her broken heart. “I’m here. It’s okay. You’re okay,” I whispered, smoothing her slightly tousled hair backward.

She withdrew by a fraction, lifting her chin to look at me. I hated those tears, and without even realizing it, I reached out and helped wipe them with my thumbs.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered, extending a hand to try to nurse the injury on my face.

“I’ve had worse. I’ll live,” came my reply, my eyes boring into hers. “Why?” I asked her. “Why did you choose me?”

“Because you first chose me,” she replied, a faint grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

I felt my heart melt, and a flutter rose in my chest.

“I meant everything I said to my father, Nik,” she began, refusing to break eye contact. “Every word.” Her thumb brushed against my cheek, her skin soft and smooth. “I wasn’t sure at first. But now I am, and I can even feel it in my bones.” She paused, as if letting the words sink in for a moment before dropping the bombshell. “I love you, Nikita Tarasov.”

I pulled her closer, pressing her body against mine in a warm, passionate embrace. That was exactly the emotion that I’d been too afraid to name.

Love.

And for the first time in my life, I said those three little words, being true to my feelings.

“I love you, too, Alessia.”

Okay, five little words.

Epilogue – Alessia

The estate was alive that morning, the kind of life that wrapped around the walls like sunlight streaming through sheer curtains. Laughter bounced off the grand hall, soft music floating from hidden speakers, blending with the clinking of champagne glasses and the gentle hum of conversation. Staff moved quietly in the background, ensuring everything was just right, but the real star of the show was the little toddler at the center of it all.

Little Leo, chubby and barefoot in his navy-blue overalls and a crisp white shirt, wobbled across the polished marble floor with all the determination he could muster. His arms flailed as he tried to keep his balance, but his face lit up with pure joy as he made his way toward his father, waiting at the end of the path. Nikita had his arms wide open, a rare smile softening his otherwise sharp features.

Even in that moment, he looked a bit intimidating, dressed in a dark suit that hugged his broad frame perfectly, a subtle scar tracing his jawline, a constant reminder of his last encounter with my father. But when Leo tumbled into his chest with a delighted squeal, the cruel Bratva boss seemed to disappear. What remained was a father, laughing with unfiltered joy as he lifted his son into the air and spun him around once, then twice.

Across the room, I watched, my glass of champagne untouched in my hand. My red silk dress accentuated my curves, hugging me in all the right places. Around my neck was a diamond jewel sparkling in the soft light— a gift from my husband. But my focus wasn’t on myself—it was on them: the two most important men in my life.

My breath hitched as Leo wrapped his little arms around his father’s neck and planted a slobbery kiss on his cheek. Nik chuckled, pressing his forehead against the boy’s, his voice low and tender with a sprinkle of sheer affection. My lips curled into a genuine smile as I watched them—father and son sharing a wonderful moment. Nik was saying something to the boy in their native Russian. Although I couldn’t catch the words, they resonated in my heart like a sweet melody.

The walls of the grand hall, once filled with orders, footsteps, and the weight of power, now held a different kind of memory. Balloons in soft pastels floated in the corners, and a handmade banner reading “Leo’s First” hung above the fireplace. Olga had insisted on making it herself, a small token of her love for little Leo. A small cake, adorned with blue frosting and tiny fondant decorations, sat on the table by the window, waiting to be celebrated.

Our guests—friends and acquaintances of the Tarasovs—filled the room, lingering in groups. Their soft laughter and the occasional clinking of glasses added to the ambience of the space. It wasn’t just a celebration; it was more than that. It was a mark of how far we’d come.

A year had gone by already, and it all just felt like yesterday when I got entangled in the mess that altered the course of my life. Olga had asked me to trust the process, to trust her, and that things would fall in place at the right time. It was hard to make sense of what she was saying back then, even though deep down I wanted it to be true. My fear had stood in the way of my faith. But here we were, a year later, and things couldn’t have turned out better.

My eyes met Nik’s across the sea of guests, and in their depths, I saw the man the rest of the world still feared, the cold and ruthless mafia boss. However, beneath the surface—underneath the steel—was a warmth that only I had been allowed to know and explore.

He walked across the room, cradling Leo in his arms, and when he finally paused in front of me, he gently kissed my forehead, saying nothing at all.

This was our new reality now.

In this brief, beautiful moment filled with laughter and warmth, I let myself believe that indeed things had turned out better than I had thought. It was okay to consider myself the luckiest woman alive, the most loved, cherished, and adored.

Scarlett had said,“I told you so”on the day Nik had officially made a wife out of me. Our wedding was small but classic, with limited guests, strictly by invitation. I had doubted the possibility of finding happiness in this household, and with good reason. But now, it was hard to remember the times when these same walls were nothing but the prison that held me captive.

How could something so bitter and sour turn out to be so sweet and wonderful?

Yes, I lost the Romano name, but soon after, I picked up another, an even more powerful one.

Tarasov.

---