Page 27 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
Her gaze flicks to me, something in it unreadable. Defiance, maybe. Curiosity, more likely, but she doesn’t argue again.
We walk toward the warehouse where the ally waits, the gravel crunching underfoot. I can feel her tension like static in the air, hear the way she holds her breath a second too long when a pipe rattles in the distance. She doesn’t know that I’m already counting exits, already reading the rhythm of the night.
The silence presses harder as we approach the corner. My hand shifts inside my coat, not pulling the weapon, just resting near it. Habit. Instinct.
One last glance at her before we round the bend. Her chin is tilted higher now, her mouth set. She’s afraid, but she’s trying to bury it under stubbornness.
Good. Fear keeps people alive… but only if they know when to listen to it.
The first crack of gunfire splits the air, sharp enough to rattle the windows. In the split second before chaos swallows the street, my only thought is that she’s too exposed.
The echo rolls down the narrow street, a vicious drumbeat that promises more.
I don’t hesitate. My body knows what to do before thought catches up. My hand finds Annie’s arm just as the second burst rips through the night. The sound multiplies; glass shattering somewhere above us, the ricochet of rounds sparkingoff metal, the bark of my men shouting in Russian as they return fire.
The air fills with the stink of cordite and exhaust. Acrid smoke clings to the back of my throat, bitter and choking. Every breath tastes like iron.
Annie freezes. I see it in the corner of my eye—the way her body locks, eyes wide, chest heaving too fast. She’s rooted to the open, caught like prey in headlights. The sound overwhelms her, the chaos pressing in from every side. It’s her first real taste of violence outside the insulated walls of the estate, and it’s breaking through her defenses one heartbeat at a time.
I don’t give her a chance to stay frozen. I rip her sideways, hard enough that she stumbles, and shove her down behind a parked car. My grip clamps around her wrist, anchoring her as bullets scream overhead.
The pavement bites through my coat as I drop, dragging her with me. Her breath bursts out in a startled cry, half smothered by the roar of gunfire. My body covers hers before she can move, pinning her against the asphalt.
Another shot cracks so close I feel the heat skim past my shoulder. A burst of pain follows—hot, sharp—when a round grazes my arm. I grit my teeth, refusing to give the wound acknowledgment. Blood is nothing compared to keeping her alive.
“Stay down,” I growl, my mouth near her ear. My voice has to cut through the chaos, low and commanding. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”
Her eyes flick to mine, pupils blown wide. She wants to argue—I see it in the tremor of her lips—but the next volley slams into the hood of the car above us, metal shrieking. Herhead ducks instinctively, and she presses tighter against the ground.
Good. She’s listening.
I shift my weight to shield her better, my chest pressing into her back, every muscle braced. The scrape of gravel grinds into my knees, but I don’t care. My focus stays locked on the street beyond, reading the rhythm of the attack, counting the shooters by the pattern of their fire.
Around us, the world is chaos. My men bark orders between bursts of Russian, their rifles answering in controlled rhythm. Windows above explode into shards, raining glass across the pavement. The acrid smoke thickens, mixing with the copper tang of fresh blood.
Annie’s heart hammers beneath me, fast and uneven. Her hands clutch the ground, fingers scraping against grit. She’s terrified—I can feel it in every tremor of her body—but she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t thrash. She holds still, pressed under me, trusting that I know what I’m doing.
I press my injured arm tighter to my side and lean close again, voice hard as steel. “You stay put, no matter what happens. Understand?”
She nods quickly, the motion jerky, and twists to gaze up at me with doe-like eyes.Fear burns there, but something else too—something stubborn. She won’t let panic own her completely.
The gunfire begins to thin, attackers losing their rhythm as my men push back. I don’t ease off her, not yet. Not until I’m certain the street is ours again.
For now, she stays beneath me, the chaos raging overhead, and I remind myself that her safety comes first, even if it means bleeding into the dirt to keep her there.
The car is thin shelter, metal groaning every time a round slams into its frame, but it’s enough to keep her alive. I press myself tighter against her, chest to her back, one arm braced above her head to shield what I can. The heat of her body seeps through her clothes, trembling against mine. Her breath comes in ragged bursts, shallow and quick, like a bird beating itself against a cage.
The next crack of a rifle punches through the night, and pain slices along my arm—sudden, hot, tearing fire. I grunt, teeth clenched as the shock rips through me. The bullet only grazed, a few inches above the first wound… but it burns, blood sliding warm beneath my sleeve. I shift my weight, keeping it hidden, not giving her the satisfaction—or the fear—of seeing me falter.
But Annie notices. She tilts her head just enough to catch the tightness in my jaw, the way my lips flatten against the pain. Her eyes are wide, still glassy with panic, but they fix on me like she’s memorizing every flicker.
“You’re bleeding,” she whispers, voice breaking on the words.
“It doesn’t matter,” I snap back, low and firm. My voice has to be harder than the bullets overhead. “What matters is you. Staying down. Staying silent.”
She swallows, her chin digging against the pavement. “I can help—”
“No.” The refusal leaves me sharp, clipped, absolute. “You’ll do exactly as I say, or you’ll die. Understand?”
