Page 41 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
I glare at him. “Get out.”
He leaves without another word.
Nights are the worst. The mansion feels hollow, every footstep echoing down empty corridors. I spend hours awake, wandering, searching for something I can’t name. Sometimes I sit in her room, running my fingers over the cold sheets, and wonder what I’d say if she walked through the door. Would I beg? Would I rage? Would I hold her or break her all over again?
Other times, I dream of her. In those dreams, she’s always pregnant—round and soft and broken, tears running down her cheeks as she begs me for mercy. Sometimes she’s running, clutching a child to her chest, and I chase her through rain-slick streets. Sometimes I catch her. Sometimes I don’t. Every time, I wake up burning, empty, desperate.
One night, I see her—really see her—in the crowd at a gala. My heart stops. I push through the sea of bodies, ignoring Elena’s protests as she clings to my arm. But it’s just a stranger. Another ghost.
I curse, nearly break my hand against the wall in the alley behind the venue, and return to the party with blood on my knuckles and hatred in my veins.
Alexei corners me after. “You need to stop, Markian. For all our sakes. She’s not yours anymore.”
I smile, slow and cold. “She’s mine. She always will be. You just don’t understand.”
His expression hardens. “No, and neither does the rest of the Bratva. You’re making enemies of everyone because of her.”
I shrug, lighting a cigarette. “Let them come.”
In my most twisted moments, I see her with my child—my heir—living some half-life far from here. I imagine her reading stories at night, tucking a little boy or girl into bed, whispering my name like a warning. The thought should break me, but it doesn’t. It fuels me. It keeps me searching, even as the city crumbles beneath my hands.
Tonight, I return to her room again. The bed is cold, the air thick with memories. I sit on the edge, head in my hands, and let the ache swallow me whole.
I don’t care about anyone. I don’t care about the Bratva, or the empire I’ve ruined chasing after something I can never have.
All I want is her, and if it takes burning down the rest of the world, I’ll do it.
Somewhere, out there in the dark, I know she’s thinking of me too. She has to be. She always will.
***
It is long past midnight when Lui steps into my office without knocking. Most nights, I barely notice when people come and go. These days, the manor is just a backdrop of empty rooms, hollow corridors, and memories clinging to every stone.
Tonight, the air shifts when Lui appears. He does not bother with pleasantries or caution. He walks straight to my desk, drops a worn folder in front of me, and settles into the chair across from mine.
“Got something,” he says. His voice is gruff, but there is an undercurrent of excitement—something hungry, electric. “Might be nothing. Might be everything.”
I blink, slow and heavy, dragging my gaze up from the glass of vodka in my hand. My eyes are bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, too much drink. I force them to focus, pushing away the numbness that has dulled me for years. There is something in Lui’s face, an edge I have not seen in a long time.
I set the glass aside and reach for the folder, my hand steady even though my pulse leaps. The cheap manila creaks as I flip it open. There is a photo clipped to the first page—blurry, grainy, caught at a distance, but I would know that silhouette anywhere.
A woman, slim and blonde, stands on a sun-washed street, a stroller at her side. She is wearing sunglasses, her hair caught by the wind, her chin tilted down as she fusses with a child’s hat. I stare at the image until it burns into my mind.
For a moment, everything is silent. My world narrows to the thin slip of paper in my hands. I take in the small, careful details like her posture, the way her hand curves protectively over the stroller, the slight arch of her back. I know her body as well as I know my own.
My hand tightens on the edge of the desk. The wood creaks beneath my grip. “Where?” I ask, voice low, every syllable laced with warning and hope.
Lui’s grin is all teeth, sharp and wild. He leans back, stretching out like a man who has waited a long time to be right. “Somewhere warm,” he says. “Little coastal place. Fishermen, tourists, old folks. Nobody with a past. Took a while to get the lead, but our man down south swears that’s her. Got the kid too.”
He taps the photo, just above the stroller. “Saw her at the market. Pays in cash. Keeps her head down. Never uses the same shop two days in a row. Woman’s a ghost. She let someone take this. Probably a neighbor, just being friendly. That’s how it ended up on a Facebook page for new mums. Our guy’s girlfriend spotted it. Lucky break.”
A shock of adrenaline punches through me. I thumb through the rest of the folder. There are a few more photos, just as blurred—her leading a toddler down a sandy lane, the back of her head as she chats with an old woman on a bench. In one, a small child’s face is barely visible. They have round cheeks, pale hair, a look that is half mine and half hers.
I sit back, letting the weight of it all settle into my bones. For three and a half years, I have burned this city to the ground for a ghost. Every lead was dead, every whisper a lie, every safehouse I raided full of nothing but shadows. I have ruined alliances, toppled rivals, paid snitches and broken informants until their memories ran dry.
The Bratva calls me a madman behind my back. Elena, my fiancée, barely tries to hide her contempt. Only Lui has stayed by my side. Watching, waiting, following my madness to the bitter end.
He is watching me now, waiting for the old fire to return. “What’s the play, Boss?” he asks. His voice is careful, but there is something eager beneath it.
