Page 8 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

Her voice carries bitter resignation mixed with growing anger. “Staying? You mean this is where you’ll be keeping me prisoner.”

I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, studying her reaction to the surroundings. “I prefer to think of it as protective custody.”

She whirls around to face me, and there’s fire in her expression that reminds me of why I was drawn to her in the first place. “Protective custody? You kidnapped me from behind the club and drugged me unconscious.”

She’s not wrong, and we both know it. There’s no point in pretending this was anything other than what it was, an impulsive decision made in a moment when instinct overrode everything else, and the possibility that she might be Irina Volkov became more important than protocol or common sense.

I keep my voice level and controlled. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Her laugh is harsh and bitter. “Wrong place? I was taking a break from work. In an alley behind the club where I’ve worked for three years.”

“Wrong time,” I repeat, studying her face carefully for any micro-expression that might give her away.

She backs toward the window, putting distance between us. “Wrong time for what? What exactly do you think I am?”

I reach into my jacket and pull out a photograph I’ve been carrying for the past week. It’s grainy and ten years old, but theresemblance is unmistakable. “I think you might be someone who’s been missing for a very long time.”

The woman in the photograph has the same honey-blonde hair, similar enough bone structure that the differences can be explained with plastic surgery, and the same full lips that beg for kisses. Yet there’s something harder in her expression, something calculated, that’s completely absent from the woman standing in front of me.

I hold out the photo and watch her face carefully as she takes it. “This woman’s name is Irina Volkov. She disappeared ten years ago with information that got my brother killed.”

Sabrina stares at the photograph for a long moment, her face going pale as she processes what I’m telling her. Then she looks up at me with an expression that’s equal parts confusion and horror. “You think I’m her?”

I keep my voice steady. “The resemblance is remarkable.”

She hands the photograph back to me with hands that are trembling slightly. “ I’m not her. I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.”

I take the photo and slip it back into my jacket. “Are you sure about that?”

Her voice rises with stress and disbelief. “Of course, I’m sure. I would remember if I’d lived another life under a different name, or met someone who looks so much like me.”

I arch a brow. “Memory can be unreliable.”

She backs against the window, pressing her shoulders to the glass. “Not that unreliable. This is insane. You kidnapped me because I look like someone you’re looking for?”

I move closer, stopping just outside arm’s reach. “Among other reasons.”

Her voice gets sharper. “What other reasons?”

“You work in a place that attracts a certain type of clientele. The kind of people who might have information about dangerous things. You could still be useful.”

She shakes her head rapidly. “I serve drinks and make small talk. I don’t interrogate customers about their criminal enterprises.”

I tilt my head. “But you listen and observe. You’re in a position to overhear things that most people never would.”

She looks around the room as if searching for an escape route. “This is crazy. You’re crazy if you think I’m some kind of spy or informant.”

I settle into the chair across from the bed, making it clear this conversation is going to continue whether she likes it or not. “Then prove it.”

Her voice cracks slightly. “How exactly am I supposed to prove I’m not someone else?”

“Start by answering my questions honestly.”

For the next hour, I probe for inconsistencies while she answers every question with the kind of detail that suggests she’s either telling the truth, or she’s had years to perfect her cover story. She tells me about surface details about her childhood in Modesto, her mother’s death from cancer, her father’s abandonment, and her struggles to pay off medical debt that isn’t legally hers. It’s clear she’s keeping details to herself, but it feels like she’s trying to protect herself, not lie to me.

I ask about her first job at a coffee shop near campus, the manager who stole tips, and her time at Olive Garden before she started working at the club. She provides names, dates, and specific details about coworkers, customers, and daily routines that would be nearly impossible to fabricate convincingly.

Each answer builds on the last, creating a web of small details that feels authentic in a way professional cover stories rarely do. Either Sabrina Clyde is exactly who she claims to be, or she’s the most thoroughly prepared operative I’ve ever encountered.

---