Page 76 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

It’s a trap.

27

Nikandr

I’ve been a wreck for the past week, and I’m not hiding it well. Every morning I wake up reaching for Sabrina’s warmth only to find cold sheets and the bitter reminder that she’s gone. The estate feels like a mausoleum without her laughter echoing through the hallways, without the sound of her humming while she organizes baby clothes in the sunroom.

Maksim found me this morning sitting in the nursery we’d started planning together, staring at paint samples scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. He didn’t say anything about the empty whiskey bottle on the windowsill or that I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He just handed me a cup of coffee and sat down beside me among the chaos of our unfinished dreams.

“The surveillance team reports she’s doing well,” he said quietly. “Jessie came home the same night. They’re taking care of each other.”

I nodded without looking at him, running my fingers over a fabric swatch in the exact shade of yellow Sabrina had chosen for the curtains. “Good. That’s good.”

“You could call her.”

I shake my head. “She asked for space. I’m giving her space.”

“You’re giving her silence. There’s a difference.”

Maybe he’s right, but I won’t force my way back into her life until I can sense she’s ready to talk things out. I won’t be another man who refuses to respect her boundaries, even if honoring them is slowly killing me. So instead, I send gifts. They’re just small things that let her know I’m thinking about her and our daughter without demanding any response or acknowledgment.

Among my favorites was a baby mobile I had commissioned from an artisan in Vermont, each wooden bird hand-carved and painted in the colors we discussed for the nursery. There was a cashmere blanket soft enough for newborn skin, in the cream shade she’d mentioned wanting. Then smaller, more generic gifts, like books about pregnancy and childbirth and tea blends formulated specifically for expectant mothers. Just anything that catches my fancy and might bring her comfort without crossing the line into manipulation.

I know she receives them because the surveillance team confirms the deliveries, but she never calls to thank me or tell me to stop. The silence cuts deeper than any angry words could.

I’m in my study pretending I’m reviewing financial reports with the attention span of a goldfish when Maksim bursts through the door without knocking, holding a burner phone in his hand and wearing an expression I know too well. It’s the look he gets when something has gone catastrophically wrong, and the carefullyconstructed walls of our world have been breached by forces beyond our control.

He doesn’t speak. He just holds up the phone so I can see the screen.

The video is short, maybe thirty seconds, but it destroys me completely. Sabrina is unconscious and slumped forward in a chair with her hands bound behind her back. There’s blood on her left temple, creating a dark stain against her pale skin that makes my vision blur with rage. She’s wearing jeans and a soft sweater that emphasizes the curve of her belly where my daughter grows.

The warehouse around her is industrial, with concrete walls and exposed pipes running along the ceiling. There are no windows visible in the frame, and no identifying markers that might give away the location. Just my pregnant girlfriend tied to a chair, unconscious and bleeding, while our enemies prepare to use her as leverage against me.

Rage ignites in my chest before fear can register. White-hot fury burns away rational thought and replaces it with the cold, calculating violence that made me dangerous long before I inherited this organization. Someone has taken what belongs to me. Someone has hurt the woman carrying my child.

Someone is going to die for this.

I don’t speak. I simply grab my gun from the desk drawer and stand up with movements that feel unnaturally calm given the storm brewing inside me. “Every available man. Full tactical gear. Now.”

Maksim is already moving toward the door, pulling out his regular phone to start making calls. “How many teams?”

“All of them. I want every soldier we have on the street in the next twenty minutes.”

“What about?—”

“I don’t care about territory disputes or ongoing operations. Drop everything. This is the only priority that matters now.”

He nods and steps into the hallway to begin coordinating, his voice carrying the urgency that comes with crisis management. I can hear him barking orders about weapons checks and vehicle assignments, but the words fade into background noise as I focus on the phone still playing that damned video on repeat.

There’s a message attached to the video. Text appeared while I was processing the image of Sabrina’s unconscious form. The words are simple, taunting, and designed to provoke exactly the reaction I’m having:She walked right into our trap, concerned about her friend’s safety. How touching. We’ll be in touch about terms.

Her friend. They used Jessie to lure her out, probably with a fake emergency call that triggered every protective instinct Sabrina possesses. She thought she was rushing to help someone she loves, and instead, she drove straight into an ambush designed specifically to exploit her compassion.

My hands shake slightly as I pocket the phone and move toward the armory, not from fear, but from the effort required to contain the violence building inside me like pressure in a sealed container. I want to tear this city apart brick by brick until I find her. I want to burn down every building where they might be holding her and salt the earth afterward.

I need information first. Location, numbers, and a tactical assessment. Rage without intelligence is just destruction, and destruction won’t bring Sabrina home safely.

Maksim finds me loading magazines in the armory, my movements mechanical and precise despite the chaos in my head. “One of the guards survived the attack.”

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