Page 12 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
The job always calls me back. I open my phone, scroll through messages. Updates about Jenkins. About timing. About the “accident” that’s already in motion.
My mind settles on the task. There’s too much at stake for mistakes. I can’t afford another loose end.
She’s a thread, and if she pulls the wrong way, everything could unravel.
She could be lying. It’s the first thing I tell myself. People in my world have told greater lies, for less reason. She could be bait, a plant, someone sent by Jenkins’s enemies or even my own.
None of it feels right. The memory of her sitting there—small, tense, almost breakable—doesn’t match the profile of a trained agent. She didn’t act like someone used to deception. She acted like someone who’s too observant for her own good. The kind who wanders too close to the fire, not because she wants to get burned, but because she can’t help looking.
I stare out at the glass and steel of Midtown, watching my reflection slip over the city’s surface. Jaw tight, eyes hard. I can see the question in my own face. What is she, really? Just unlucky, or something more?
Inside the car, the silence thickens. Lui glances at me in the mirror, waiting for orders, but I don’t say a word. My mind won’t let go of the girl. Logic says she needs to be dealt with, erased quietly before she can do damage.
The rest of me—the restless, hungering part—wants something else. It wants to see her again. To look her in the eye and watch what flickers there. Fear, defiance, curiosity. It wants to break her open, see what mystery is hidden behind those pretty, clever eyes.
I don’t know which instinct will win yet. Maybe I won’t get to choose.
“Take me home,” I mutter, and Lui nods.
The car slips north, away from the towers and crowds, toward the part of the city where the old money lives. The skyline fades, replaced by tree-lined streets and stone gates.
My home rises at the end of the drive, massive and old-fashioned, the kind of manor that looks like it was built for another era. Iron gates swing open. We roll up the circular drive, tires crunching on perfect gravel.
Lui parks by the side entrance, engine humming. I climb out, coat swirling behind me, and motion for him to follow. Inside, the marble is cool beneath my shoes. The housekeeper nods as I pass, then vanishes into the shadows. Everything in this place is built for silence, for secrets.
My office is on the second floor, overlooking the gardens. Dark wood, shelves of books I never have time to read, a heavy desk littered with files and electronics. I stand behind the chair, hands braced on the back, and wait for Lui to shut the door.
He does, moving with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times.
“Sit,” I tell him, voice low. He drops into the leather chair across from me, posture casual but eyes alert.
“I want you to keep tabs on the girl. Jessa Whitaker. The translator.” My words are precise, deliberate.
Lui’s mouth quirks. “She get to you, Boss?”
I ignore the jab. “Don’t let her out of your sight. I want to know where she lives, who she meets, what she does when she thinks she’s alone. If she tries to contact Jenkins or anyone from today’s meeting, I want to know before she says a word.”
He nods, already tapping notes into his phone. “You want me to watch her, or dig deeper?”
I hesitate, jaw working. The question hangs between us, and I feel the pull in both directions. “Just watch for now, don’t make contact. She runs, you follow. She talks, you record. If she steps out of line—if she’s bait, if she’s trouble—bring it to me first.”
He nods again. “Easy. Want me to put someone on her building?”
“Only people you trust,” I say. “Nobody stupid. She’s not the usual problem.”
Lui gives a crooked grin, but there’s respect in his eyes. “She’s not the usual anything, Boss.”
I turn to the window, staring out at the lengthening shadows on the lawn. The sun’s already sinking, orange light slanting through the branches of the old trees. My mind is racing. I want her gone. I want her safe. I want her here, sitting in front of me so I can ask all the questions she’s never supposed to answer.
“She was scared,” Lui says quietly. “But she didn’t freak out.”
“No,” I agree, almost to myself. “She didn’t.”
He stands, knowing he’s dismissed. “I’ll keep you updated.”
When he’s gone, I sink into my chair, elbows on the desk, fingers pressed to my temples. The silence in the manor is absolute. No footsteps, no voices. Just the echo of her laugh: soft, surprised, still ringing somewhere in my memory.
I close my eyes and see her as she was at the party: hair down, jacket zipped, mouth set in a line that promised she wouldn’t run unless she had to. Then I see her today, hair up, voice precise, hands trembling only for a second. Both versions are real. Both are dangerous.
