Page 11 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
I force myself to slow down, blending with the lunch rush. I need to look ordinary, invisible, just another anonymous face swallowed by the city. I can’t shake the certainty that I’m marked, that I’ve seen too much, that some invisible thread is already pulling me back into danger.
A cab screeches past. Someone shouts into their phone. Life goes on, indifferent, as if I’m not carrying a secret that could get me killed. My phone buzzes again.
This time it’s a message from Vivienne.
Drinks tonight? Tell me you survived the corporate sharks!
I nearly laugh, the sound brittle. I keep walking, heart hammering, every sense straining for a warning. Whatever happens next, I know this: I’m in deeper than I ever meant to go, and getting out won’t be as simple as just going home.
Chapter Six - Markian
The meeting ends as these things always do: forced handshakes, too many smiles, empty congratulations traded in two languages. Jenkins pumps every palm, grinning like he’s just won a prize, but I see the tension in his jaw.
The Americans gather their folders, voices rising, all self-congratulation and relief.
The Russians move slower, quieter, slipping out of the room with practiced calm. I stay a moment longer, scanning the table. Every surface is swept clean—except the chair in the corner, the one where the translator sat.
The girl. My mind drifts back to her over and over. The way she sat: perfect posture, but her eyes darted too much, her skin too pale. She wore her hair up, clothes neutral and businesslike. She looked like she belonged, but she moved like a ghost. Like she knew she was somewhere she shouldn’t be.
As I leave the room, Alexei falls into step beside me. The corridor is crowded, but we move like shadows, close enough for our words to stay private.
“She was at the party,” Alexei murmurs in Russian, his tone cautious. “The blonde. The translator. I saw her in the garden, near the back hedge.”
I don’t slow down. My expression stays flat, unreadable. “You think she understood?” I ask, keeping my voice low. My mind is already replaying the conversation from the garden—blood, Jenkins, sunrise. It wasn’t meant for outsiders. Not for girls who disappear into corners and take notes with shaking hands.
Alexei’s gaze sharpens. “She’s too clever. Most Americans wouldn’t have caught half of it. But her Russian is perfect, and she was listening.”
I make a small sound, deep in my throat. “I’ll handle it.” My tone leaves no room for doubt. Alexei falls silent, but I know he’ll be watching. That’s his job. That’s why he’s still alive.
She’s a loose end. A detail that doesn’t fit. Something to be dealt with quietly. No one needs scandal or loose lips right now. Jenkins is already scheduled, everything set. The last thing I need is some translator with a memory for names and a sense of curiosity. If she heard anything—if she understood—she’s a problem.
As we move through the marble lobby, toward the elevators, I can’t shake her from my mind. I see her everywhere. The ghost of her hands pressed to the page, the shine of her eyes when she looked up at me. The way she shrank under my gaze, but didn’t break. There was fear, yes, but something else. Resilience.
She wasn’t dressed the way she was at the party. No leather jacket, no boots, none of the restless, edgy energy. Today, she wore soft gray, hair pinned up, quiet as an apology. But I noticed how her hand trembled when she wrote, the way she fidgeted with her pen, as if every word cost her something. I noticed, too, when Jenkins made some joke and she smiled. A real smile, small and bright, like she forgot where she was for a moment. It cracked something inside me. She shouldn’t be able to look that untouched in a room full of men like this.
In the elevator, Alexei clears his throat. “Want me to find out where she goes? I have her details.” He says it like it’s nothing. For him, it is.
I nod once. “Yes. Quietly. No one needs to notice. If she talks, we’ll hear it before anyone else does.” My mind is already making plans. Surveillance. Pressure. Maybe a warning, if she gets too close to trouble.
Alexei’s phone buzzes with a message. He glances down, then grins. “She’s gone. Took the north exit, walked fast. Smart girl.”
I picture her outside, pushing through crowds, looking over her shoulder. I wonder if she feels the net tightening, or if she still believes she’s invisible. I wonder, too, if she’ll run or if she’ll wait for someone to come and ask what she knows.
We step out onto the street. Midtown noise rushes in—horns, shouting, the endless churn of city life. My driver is waiting, engine running, the car a sleek black shape by the curb.
I pause before getting in, letting the sunlight hit my face. Alexei waits, his eyes never leaving my profile. “You want her scared?” he asks, as if it’s a question that matters.
I shake my head. “I want her silent. There’s a difference.”
He nods, understanding. “If she’s a threat—”
“I’ll decide what she is,” I interrupt. I slide into the car, the door closing with a soft thud.
Inside, I close my eyes for a moment. Her voice echoes, careful and precise, translating Russian into English with no hint of accent. I see her hands trembling, her mouth pressing into a thin line. I think of the way she looked at me, afraid, but not crushed. Not yet.
Lui glances at me in the rearview. “Where to, Boss?”
“Wait,” I say. I want to be sure she’s not being followed, that we’re not being watched. For a moment, I’m not Markian Sharov, Bratva heir, city prince. I’m just a man thinking about a girl with too much light in her smile, a girl who can still laugh in a room built for men who never do.
