Page 5 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
I nod, remembering. My father in these same halls, his disinterest sharper than any knife. He did his duty. So do I.
Oksana lowers her voice. “Alexei says you’re on edge tonight.”
“Nothing to worry about,” I say. “Just keeping the right people safe.”
She arches a brow, unconvinced. “You’re your father’s son, Markian. Don’t forget, everyone is always watching.”
I offer a tight smile. “I never do.”
She drifts away to join the circle of wives and their low, gossipy voices. I catch a flash of red lipstick, the clink of jewelry, then lose sight of her.
Time crawls. I move through the rooms, nodding to the men who expect it, shaking hands with politicians, smiling at women whose perfume lingers long after they pass. Every so often, I scan the room, searching for the girl.
There’s no sign. Maybe she really did vanish, slipped out before the party could pull her under. Or maybe my men are already trailing her through the city.
Alexei comes up again, bumping my arm. “If you keep looking like that, people will think you’re waiting for someone.”
I hide a grin. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just bored.”
He laughs, louder than I’d like, but it breaks the tension. “Come. Hess wants another word. Try to look interested.”
We cross the ballroom to where Hess stands with his cronies, all of them trying too hard to look at ease. They want things from us… favors, protection, secrets they can never ask for out loud. It’s all a dance, careful steps, never missing a beat.
Hess clears his throat. “Markian, can I ask. Someone mentioned you’re expanding on the East Side. That true?”
Alexei answers before I can. “It’s true. We’re always looking for partners, but only the reliable kind.”
One of Hess’s men laughs nervously. “That’s us. Reliable.”
I let my eyes linger on him a little too long. He wilts under the attention, then looks away. Alexei grins, enjoying himself. I step back, letting him handle the talk. I have no patience for men who can’t look me in the eye.
I drift to the edge of the dance floor, letting the swirl of bodies shield me from view. A slow song starts. The bandleader croons something old and sad. I catch a glimpse of Vivienne Wilder, all gloss and champagne, laughing too loud with a cluster of college friends. There’s no blonde beside her. If the girl was her guest, she’s abandoned her.
The room is too warm, smells of flowers and sweat and money. I let myself melt into the background, just another shadow among a hundred. Occasionally, someone stops to greet me: a councilman, a judge, a familiar face from one of the city’s darker corners. The small talk drags on. My answers are polite but empty.
I check my phone, scrolling through messages. Nothing from Lui. That means there’s nothing to report. The girl has either gone home, or she’s disappeared into the city’s arteries, swallowed up by neon and night.
Chapter Three - Jessa
Normal. Safe. Boring, even. That’s how I want life to feel after last weekend. No more marble floors, no more Russian murmurs just out of earshot, no more cold blue eyes watching me like I might shatter if I breathed wrong.
The city’s rhythm pulls me under, smoothing out my nerves. Morning coffee, subway screech, too-bright sky between skyscrapers—I let routine do its work.
By noon, I’m in Midtown, walking briskly with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder. Today’s job is exactly what I need. No surprises. No parties. No wolves behind gold trim. I’m a translator and contract writer, nothing more, for a closed-door meeting on the twelfth floor of a building that looks like a hundred others on this street.
Security’s tight but polite. I show my ID, sign my name, answer the usual questions: no recording devices, no outside phones, no drama. The elevator is a cold silver box. My reflection stares back at me. My hair is pulled into a smooth bun, minimal makeup, tailored navy slacks and a soft gray sweater. Every inch calculated to disappear. Not the girl from the party. Not the girl with trembling hands and too many questions.
I reach the suite early. There’s already a receptionist waiting, her face carefully blank. “You’re Ms. Whitaker?”
“Yes,” I say, matching her tone. “For translation and legal documentation.”
She checks a list, then leads me into a glass-walled conference room. Sleek, expensive, impersonal. A long table of polished wood gleams under recessed lights. Leather chairs, acity view, bottled water and little else. Every surface is clean enough to erase fingerprints.
I settle into my assigned seat at the far end, tucking myself into the corner as unobtrusively as possible. I unpack my laptop, check my digital notepad, align my pens in a straight row. Deep breaths. Professional. Invisible.
The Americans arrive first: a trio of men in navy suits and starched shirts, every smile just a little too tight, every handshake a silent dare. I recognize two of them from a contract last fall—one is a corporate lawyer, the other some kind of venture capital guy. Neither says my name, though one nods in polite recognition.
Then the Russians enter. Dark suits, careful faces, eyes sharp and cold. They don’t bother with smiles, only curt nods and murmured greetings in Russian. I catch a few familiar faces from previous jobs. One I know by reputation alone, a silver-haired man with the manner of a chess grandmaster.
