Page 6 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

Jessie’s jaw tightens in a way that suggests she has opinions about my father she’s keeping to herself for my sake. She needn’t bother, because I have the exact same opinions of my deadbeat, absent sperm donor. “So what’s the plan?”

“Same as always. I’ll pick up more shifts and hope I can pay them off before they send it to collections.” I gather the papers into a neat stack and slide them back into their folder. “Maya said she might have some extra VIP shifts available this week.”

“Sabrina.” Jessie’s voice carries the kind of gentle firmness that means she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “You’re already working six nights a week. When do you sleep? When do you eat actual meals instead of whatever the kitchen staff leaves out?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re running yourself into the ground trying to pay off debt that isn’t even legally yours.”

“It was my mother’s debt, which makes it mine now.” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I’m tired of having this conversation. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

She sets down the shirt she was folding and comes to sit beside me on the floor. “Your mom wouldn’t want you to sacrifice your entire life to pay off medical bills that the insurance company should have covered in the first place.”

I stiffen. “My mom isn’t here to tell me what she wants.”

The words are heavy with the kind of grief that never quite fades even after three years. Jessie doesn’t try to argue with that logic because she knows it’s not really about logic. It’s about guilt and love and the desperate need to do something, anything, that honors the woman who raised me alone after my father decided we weren’t worth the inconvenience.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, standing up and stretching muscles that have been cramped from sitting on the floor too long. “Early shift tomorrow.”

She watches me with something akin to sadness but doesn’t try to argue with me again. I appreciate that, because it’s hard enough to stay the course I’ve set without people encouraging me to stop, even my BFF.

The next eveningat Haus Modesto, I’m two hours into what promises to be a relatively quiet Wednesday night when I notice him again. He’s sitting at a different table this time, closer to the bar and with a clear sightline to every entrance and exit in the place. The positioning feels deliberate, like he’s a chess player who’s thinking several moves ahead.

Tonight, he’s alone.

There’s no entourage of dangerous-looking men in expensive suits or business associates sharing drinks and conversation. It’s just him, nursing what looks like the same glass of scotch he ordered an hour ago and watching me with that same unsettling intensity that made my skin feel electric last night.

I deliver champagne to table six and try to ignore the way my pulse quickens every time I move through his line of sight. The rational part of my brain keeps insisting he’s just another wealthy customer who is returning to the club, but rational thinking has never been my strong suit when it comes to men who look like they could bench press a motorcycle and probably have.

Maya catches me during a lull between orders. “You know that guy at table twelve has been asking about you.”

My stomach does something complicated. “Asking what?”

“Whether you work here regularly, what your schedule is like… The usual creepy rich guy stuff.” She shrugs like this is nothing unusual, which in our line of work, it isn’t. “I told him to talk to you directly if he wants to know something.”

“Thanks.” I grab a tray of empty glasses and head toward the bar, acutely aware I’m now walking directly past his table.

He doesn’t say anything as I pass. I tense, but he doesn’t reach out to stop me or make some comment designed to get my attention. He just watches me with those winter-storm eyes and something that might be amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

By the time my break comes around, my nerves are stretched so tightly I feel like I might snap if someone looks at me wrong. I need air and space and five minutes where I’m not hyperaware of every move I make.

The back alley behind Haus Modesto isn’t much to look at, but it’s quiet and relatively clean, and most importantly, it’s away from the noise of the club. I lean against the brick wall and close my eyes, letting the cool night air wash over my overheated skin.

The first thing I notice is how quiet it is back here with no thumping bass, no conversation, and no clinking of glasses or laughter from the bar. Just the distant hum of traffic and the occasional car passing on the street beyond the alley.

The second thing I notice is that I’m not alone.

I don’t hear footsteps or see movement in my peripheral vision. It’s more instinctual than that, the primitive part of my brain that evolved to keep our ancestors alive in a world full of predators suddenly screams something is wrong.

I open my eyes and start to turn around, but I’m already too late.

A hand clamps over my mouth from behind, cutting off the scream that was building in my throat. Another arm wraps around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides and lifting me off my feet with an ease that suggests my attacker is both larger and stronger than me.

I try to bite the hand covering my mouth, but thick gloves prevent my teeth from finding purchase. I try to kick backward, but my heels are designed for looks, not self-defense, and my legs are pinned at an angle that makes it impossible to generate any real force.

Panic floods my system like ice water, sharp and cold and completely overwhelming. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Things like this don’t happen to people like me in places like this.

Even as my mind rebels against the reality of the situation, my body is already shutting down. The hand over my mouth isn’t just preventing me from screaming. It’s also making it hard to breathe. The arm around my waist is cutting off circulation to my legs, and the awkward angle at which I’m being held is putting strain on muscles that weren’t designed for this kind of stress.

---