Page 28 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

“You tell them it’s none of their business, or you tell them he’s not in the picture. Maybe you make up a story about a brief relationship that didn’t work out.” She glances at me sideways. “The truth is, it doesn’t matter what other people think. What matters is that you and this baby are healthy and safe.”

Safe. The word echoes in my mind as we drive through the familiar streets of our neighborhood. I am safe now, in a way I wasn’t during those four days at the safehouse. My child will be safe, growing up far away from the violence and danger of Nikandr’s world, but safety comes with a price. It means my child will never know their father. It means I’ll never see him again or have the chance to tell him that our one night together created something beautiful and precious.

It means carrying this secret for the rest of my life.

That evening, I sit on my bed with my laptop, researching pregnancy nutrition, prenatal care, and all the myriad things Ishould be doing to ensure a healthy pregnancy. The information is overwhelming, but I push on.

Underneath the practical concerns is a deeper truth that I’m only beginning to understand. I’m going to be a mother. In approximately seven months, I’m going to be responsible for a tiny human being who will depend on me for everything.

The thought should terrify me more than it does. Instead, I feel a strange sense of peace settling over me. This child is mine in a way that nothing else has ever been. This child is proof that something good came from those four impossible days, even if I can never tell anyone how or why.

I place my hand on my still-flat stomach and try to imagine the life growing inside me. It’s far too small to feel yet, but real nonetheless—real and mine and completely dependent on the choices I make from this moment forward.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper to my unborn child. “I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to love you enough for both parents.”

The promise feels sacred in the quiet of my bedroom. This child will never doubt that they are wanted and loved. Even if they never know their father, they’ll know they came from something real that mattered if only for a short time.

10

Nikandr

I’m in the middle of a business call with our Prague contact when Maksim walks into my office without knocking. He stands in the doorway with tension that suggests whatever he’s carrying is going to complicate my day significantly.

The conversation on the phone involves final arrangements for Irina’s capture. Our team has her under surveillance and will move within the week. It should be the culmination of ten years of searching, but I’m distracted by Maksim’s presence, along with the lingering, intermittent memories of Sabrina that constantly haunt me, blindsiding me during the most mundane and the most dangerous moments, with no apparent trigger. Forgetting her is proving to be impossible.

He says nothing at first, just standing there holding a manila folder like it contains something explosive, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.

I wrap up the call quickly. “We’ll continue this later.”

After ending the call, I look up at him expectantly. He crosses the room with deliberate steps and tosses the folder onto my desk without ceremony. “Close whatever you’re working on,” he says, nodding toward my computer screen. There’s almost a note of… pity in his voice.

His gravity makes me comply without question. I minimize the financial reports I’ve been reviewing and turn my full attention to whatever crisis requires his immediate intervention.

“I didn’t know whether to tell you about this,” he says finally, leaning against the edge of my desk. “It seemed like some kind of weird, twist of fate that she’d pick a business you own through legitimate means for this, but I don’t think she’s manipulating you. I doubt she knew you own the clinic.”

I open the folder, and my world tilts sideways. The first thing I see is a grainy surveillance photograph taken outside the urgent care clinic on Fifth Street. The timestamp shows it was taken three weeks ago. The image quality is typical security camera footage, functional but not particularly clear, yet I recognize the subject immediately.

Sabrina.

She’s captured mid-stride as she steps out through the glass doors, one hand cradling her stomach in a gesture that’s both unconscious and protective. The other hand holds what appears to be paperwork, and another woman walks beside her, arm around her waist as though offering support. Sabrina is wearing an oversized hoodie that makes her look smaller than I remember, and her face is pale and exhausted in a way that speaks to more than just lack of sleep.

Attached to the surveillance photo is a printout that makes the air leave my lungs in a rush. It’s her medical file, complete with test results, appointment notes, and a diagnosis that hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Pregnant. She was twelve weeks gestation at the time of visit.

I read the information once, my brain struggling to process what I’m seeing. Then I read it again, more slowly, as the news starts to sink in. She’s pregnant with my child, and she never told me.

I feel faint for a moment as I stare at the numbers on the page. Twelve weeks at the time of the visit, which was three weeks ago. That makes her fifteen weeks now. Fifteen weeks of carrying my child and saying nothing. Fifteen weeks of morning sickness and doctor appointments and prenatal vitamins, all handled alone. That can’t be because it was thirteen weeks, two days, and roughly six hours since she left me… Since I sent her away, I remind myself.

I look closer at the information and soon realize the NP calculated it from the date of her last period, not conception. There’s no question the baby is mine then. “How did you get this?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.

Maksim straightens and crosses his arms. “From a routine audit of all visitors to all your legitimate businesses. We do this every few weeks to make sure there are no known associates of our enemies scoping out our legit operations.”

I set down the papers carefully, fighting to keep my hands steady. “The medical file, I mean?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Easy enough since you own most of the urgent care facilities in the area. This clinic is one of them.” He pauses, studying my reaction carefully. “When her nameflagged in our security review, it was simple to access her records through the backdoor our IT people programmed into all your businesses. All your medical properties use the same database system, and we have access to them all.”

Of course. I’d forgotten about the clinic on Fifth Street, which is one of dozens of legitimate businesses I own throughout California. Those investments provide both income and cover for our other activities. She had no way of knowing she was walking into a facility I controlled when she chose it for her pregnancy test.

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