Page 5 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

If she’s Irina Volkov, she’s also the most dangerous woman I’ve ever met, and touching her tonight was the equivalent of playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded chamber.

Without hesitation, I say, “Then we proceed as planned.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Then we have a problem.”

Maksim’s laugh is harsh. “We? No, my friend. You have a problem. The rest of us will be smart enough to walk away.”

He’s right, of course. He’s almost always right, which is why I’ve kept him close all these years despite his occasional tendency toward brutal honesty.

“Pull the old surveillance footage from the club,” I say with a glare. “Everything they have going back six months. I want to study her patterns, her interactions… everything.”

“Nikandr.” There’s warning in his voice again. “Whatever you’re thinking, remember we have a job to do. Morozov has been quiet too long, which means he’s planning something. We can’t afford distractions.”

“I understand the stakes.”

He doesn’t hide his skepticism. “Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re about to risk everything we’vebuilt on a woman who may or may not be the key to our revenge.”

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, letting his words settle over me, accepting his assessment is accurate. Everything I’ve worked for over the past decade, every sacrifice I’ve made, and every line I’ve crossed in pursuit of justice for my brother’s murder hinges on making smart decisions.

Yet when I remember the way she looked at me tonight, the genuine confusion in her eyes when I claimed her as mine, I don’t know how to forget about her if she isn’t Irina. “Set up the surveillance. We’ll figure out everything else as we go.”

Maksim drains his vodka and stands. “Famous last words.”

After he leaves, I pour myself a drink and walk to the window overlooking the city. Somewhere out there, she’s probably getting ready for bed, washing off her makeup and slipping into whatever she wears to sleep. The thought makes my jaw clench with an emotion that feels suspiciously like longing.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the preliminary information Maksim’s contacts at the club provided earlier. She’s living as Sabrina Clyde, twenty-six years old, and employed at Haus Modesto for three years. She lives in a modest apartment across town with a roommate named Jessica Witman. She has no criminal record, no suspicious financial activity, and no red flags that would indicate she’s anything other than what she appears to be.

But appearances can be deceiving, especially in my world. The smartest predators are often the ones who look the most innocent.

I finish my drink and head home to an empty penthouse that suddenly feels more isolated than usual. Tomorrow, I’ll start watching the surveillance footage. I’ll look for inconsistencies in her story, tells that might give away her true identity, or any sign that she recognizes me as more than just another wealthy customer.

I honestly don’t know if I hope that she’s Irina or pray she’s not.

3

Sabrina

Later in the evening, while trying not to think about the mystery man at the club who rescued me earlier, I’m sitting cross-legged on our threadbare carpet, surrounded by a sea of paperwork that represents everything wrong with the American healthcare system, studying the latest bill from Mercy General. The envelope is thin, which gives me false hope until I tear it open and see the amount printed in unforgiving black ink.

Twelve thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven dollars.

The insurance company has decided, three years after my mother’s death, that certain treatments weren’t “medically necessary” and they’re retroactively denying coverage. The letter uses phrases like “upon further review” and “administrative adjustment” to mask what amounts to corporate theft, but the bottom line is clear—they want their money back, and they want it from me.

“Another love letter from the medical-industrial complex?” asks Jessie from across the room, where she’s folding laundry. She’s handling this better than I am.

“They’re saying Mom’s pain medication wasn’t necessary for her treatment plan.” I scan the dense paragraphs of medical jargon and legal terminology. “Apparently, dying of stomach cancer doesn’t qualify as sufficient justification for morphine.”

She stops folding and looks at me with the expression she reserves for moments when she’s trying very hard not to say something that will make me cry. “What does your lawyer say?”

“I can’t afford a lawyer, and they know it.” I set down the letter and lean back against the couch. “The whole system is designed to wear people down until they give up and pay whatever they’re told to pay.”

“Have you tried calling your father again?”

I snort softly. My father, David Clyde, owns three car dealerships across central California and lives in a house that could fit our entire apartment complex in its backyard. He also hasn’t spoken to me since my mother’s funeral, where he showed up for exactly long enough to make an appearance before disappearing back to his new family and his new life.

“He’s not going to help,” I say, because that’s easier than explaining I called him twice this week and his secretary told me he was “unavailable” both times. “He made his position clear when Mom got sick.”

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