Page 4 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
“Probably,” I agree. My voice is rougher than I intend.
I know better than to trust probability. The Bratva survives by being ruthless, not optimistic.
Alexei shrugs, moving off to handle his business. I turn back to the party, but my mind stays in that corridor, replaying the look in her eyes. Not quite fear. Not quite innocence.
I find myself glancing toward the door, expecting her to come back, to say something stupid or brave. She doesn’t. The hall is empty, the moment gone, but it stays with me, restless and sharp.
I remind myself: just a girl, just a mistake. A small thing, easy to erase if it comes to that.
Except, I know my instincts. I know the way my skin prickled under her stare, the way my mind started to turn. I don’t like loose ends.
I slide my hand into my pocket, fingering the worn edge of my lighter. Old habit. I listen to the rise and fall of the music, the ebb and flow of conversation, the mechanical perfection of a world that eats the weak for sport.
A girl like her—small, soft, breakable—should have never looked twice at me. She should have run the second she saw my face. Instead, she lingered. She listened. She walked away, but she left something behind. A trail, a question, a problem.
I wait, watch, let the night roll on, but my mind keeps circling her face, the fear and the defiance, the way her hands shook but her eyes didn’t.
Maybe she is nothing. Maybe she’s something I’ll have to deal with.
Either way, by sunrise, I’ll know.
With that in mind, I continue with my duties. The ballroom is too bright, too loud, filled with the kind of laughter that never reaches anyone’s eyes.
I make my way back through the crowd, nodding where I’m expected to, accepting handshakes from men whose names I barely care to remember.
Each interaction is a performance. It’s all so routine, I hardly notice when I smile and offer some practiced pleasantry in return.
Alexei falls in beside me again, two glasses of vodka in hand. He passes one to me without a word. I take it, grateful for the familiar burn. He leans closer, keeping his voice low. “Still thinking about the girl?”
I give a short shrug, watching a pair of lawyers argue over a cigar at the other end of the room. “Just making sure we’re not surprised by anything tonight. That’s all.”
Alexei smirks. “You worry too much. She’s probably already gone.”
I scan the room for any sign of her: blonde hair, leather jacket, those too-bright eyes. Nothing. The crowd has swallowed her whole, or maybe she was smart enough to slip out the side door and not look back.
A business associate, some Wall Street type with slicked-back hair and a voice too loud for this space, appears at my elbow. “Markian, you haven’t forgotten about that thing in Brooklyn, right?”
I let my lips curl into a polite smile. “No, Mr. Hess, I remember. I’ll be in touch with your man on Monday.”
He nods, looking both relieved and a little afraid. I hold his gaze long enough to let him stew before Alexei cuts in, nudging me toward the bar.
“You look bored,” he mutters, and I can’t argue. I am.
These parties are all the same. The music is a dull throb, expensive jazz band working through their set, but nobody really listens. Guests linger near the buffet, loading their plates withcaviar and shrimp as if the food is the only real reason they came. It probably is, for most of them.
I stand by the window for a while, looking out across the glittering lights of the city. Manhattan sprawls beneath us, indifferent to our petty games. I let my mind wander. It always goes back to the girl. For all my searching, there’s no trace of her among the chattering women and red-faced bankers. It’s almost as if she was never here.
A waiter offers me another drink. I decline, then think better of it and take the glass anyway. There’s a lull in the crowd. People drift from room to room, voices rising and falling in meaningless conversation.
“Long night?” someone asks. I turn and find Oksana, one of the old guard’s wives, watching me with a sly smile. She’s elegant, diamonds at her ears and a dress cut to impress.
“The longest,” I reply, giving her a real smile for once. She’s sharp, and she knows more than most of the men here.
She studies me. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“I would.” I finish my drink, set the empty glass on a tray passing by. “I don’t get to leave early. It’s not that kind of night.”
Oksana laughs, quiet and genuine. “Your father used to say the same thing. He hated these events.”
