Page 9 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
Jenkins interrupts with another demand, forcing a break in the flow. The Americans whisper together, huddled at their end of the table. The Russians lean back, inscrutable. I let them talk, using the lull to study her again.
She’s writing furiously, head down, trying to keep her hands from shaking. I wonder what she thinks will happen next. If she believes in the safety of daylight, of public spaces, of security guards posted in the lobby.
I shift in my chair, the smallest movement. She glances up, catches my eye for the first time, and freezes. The fear is plain now, blooming in her irises, widening her pupils. She’s breathing too shallow. I give her nothing—no recognition, no comfort. Just the cool, steady weight of my attention.
Alexei leans forward, speaking in Russian, “Shall we move to finalize the agreement?”
I nod, keeping my eyes on Jenkins as the American rattles off the final numbers. My mind never leaves her. There is no way she leaves this room unchanged. Her world is already shrinking, options closing one by one.
The documents move down the table, signatures gathering like falling dominoes. I reach for the pen, sign smoothly, then pass it on, my mind already moving ahead. Lui is waiting. He’ll have her details, her history, her habits. He’ll know who she talks to and where she goes. I trust him to find what matters.
Chapter Five - Jessa
My pen moves in neat, even lines across the page. Legal English, then Russian, then English again. It’s all clauses about exclusivity, penalties, delivery windows, force majeure. I write, translate, document, eyes never straying from my notepad unless someone asks me to read a line aloud. I keep my head down, shoulders stiff, making myself small and forgettable.
But the words from the party keep slamming into me, sharp and unwelcome. The memory is clearer now than it was that night: the sound of Russian spoken low and urgent, the hard glint of ice-blue eyes, the shape of a threat hanging in the air.
I’d tried to convince myself it was nothing, just business talk or the kind of bravado men use to make themselves feel powerful. But now, trapped in this glass-walled conference room, I know better.
Blood. Disposal. Before sunrise.The voices from the garden crawl under my skin. My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure someone will hear it. Every word that passes between the Russians sends another chill along my spine.
I let my gaze shift, slow and careful, toward Chris Jenkins. He’s the loudest man at the table, the one who seems sure he’s always the smartest person in the room. He pushes back on every point, voice booming as he argues about percentage points and control. He’s the American investor I read about in the pre-meeting briefings. A rainmaker, a risk-taker, someone whose presence can make or break a deal.
He’s also the man they were talking about at the party. I know it. I remember the Russian words, the way the man withthe cold eyes—the same man sitting at the head of this table now—spoke about making something disappear before sunrise.
They said the name—Jenkins.
It’s not business. Not some faceless warning or vague intimidation. They were planning. Plotting. Not just to push Jenkins out of a deal, but to end him.
A wave of nausea washes through me. I keep writing, keep translating, but my fingers tremble faintly on the page. I hope no one notices. I breathe in and out, slow, careful, willing myself to look as unremarkable as I did an hour ago.
The meaning behind every phrase is different now. I see the way the Russians barely look at Jenkins, how they pass quick glances between each other, silent agreements flickering in the tension between words. They’re waiting. Watching. Biding their time.
I’m sitting in this room, pen in hand, pretending I don’t know. Pretending I’m just a contractor, that I haven’t already heard the beginning of a murder.
I want to look at Jenkins, to warn him. What would I say? I can’t risk a note, a whisper, not with so many eyes—especially not with that Russian at the head of the table watching me, his gaze too cold, too knowing. He’s seen me now, knows that I know him from somewhere, even if he doesn’t remember the details.
Maybe he remembers exactly. Maybe that’s worse.
I keep my face blank. I translate the next clause—something about dispute resolution, the kind of phrase that normally means lawsuits and arbitration.
Now, every word feels like a countdown. Jenkins doesn’t see it. He keeps talking, arguing, fighting for his contract, never once suspecting that the people across the table are writing his death sentence behind every polite smile.
When the meeting ends, there’s a flood of relief from the Americans. Laughter, backslaps, the click of pens as contracts are closed. Jenkins rises first, already on his phone, talking about dinner plans, his future, the next big move. He has no idea. He stands in the center of the storm, unaware of the knives that have already been drawn.
I gather my notes with careful fingers, forcing myself to keep breathing, to look calm. I am professional. I am neutral. I am invisible. I pack my laptop, stacking the folders just as I’ve done a dozen times before. All the while, my mind spins:How do I warn him? How do I save a man who would laugh in my face if I tried to tell him the truth?
If I try, what will that Russian from the party do to me?
I risk a glance up, searching for the Russian’s face, but he’s watching me already, unreadable. My stomach twists. I wonder how long I have before I’m part of this, before the fact that I know too much turns me from a witness to a liability.
I can’t breathe. For a moment I think I might faint, right here, between the empty water glasses and the heavy stack of signed papers. I force myself to swallow, to blink, to go on as if nothing has changed.
I can feel his eyes burning into my skin before I ever look up. I don’t need to see him to know he’s watching. Every nerve in my body is screaming, tense as piano wire, even as my pen moves dutifully across the page. Legal English, Russian, English again.
Translate, record, disappear.
The Americans and Russians volley words across the table, all sharp smiles and practiced composure. Jenkins leans back and jokes, “If you guys squeeze us any harder, you’ll have to marry into the family. At least let me pick the daughter.” He laughs at his own wit, his voice booming off the glass, but the Russians don’t crack a smile.
