Page 37 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I lean back, silent, letting her sit with the tension. Letting her know that whatever waits at the end of this drive isn’t hers to predict, or question, or control.
Her reflection in the window stares back at her, pale and drawn. She doesn’t notice the way my eyes linger, memorizing every flicker of doubt she tries to hide.
I’ll make sure she learns—her fear, her curiosity, even her silence—they all belong to me.
The car pulls to a stop in front of an unmarked building, rain sliding in silver sheets across the windshield. From the outside, it looks like nothing: a shuttered restaurant with faded lettering, the kind of place most people walk past without noticing. Inside, it’s something else.
I lead her in through a side door. The hallway smells faintly of bleach and old smoke, the light dim, the floor tiled in patterns meant to disguise dirt. At the far end, a door stands open. Voices drift from within, low and heavy, the kind that carry weight even when they’re quiet.
She hesitates for a fraction of a second before stepping forward. I press a hand against the small of her back, guiding her. Subtle, but claiming. My touch reminds her where she belongs, and reminds them before they can think otherwise.
The room is thick with smoke and the sharp scent of vodka. A long table sits under a single lamp, shadows crouched in the corners. Men turn when I enter—associates, partners, a few I wouldn’t trust to sit alone in the dark without sharpening their knives. Their eyes flick from me to her.
“She stays with me,” I say.
Some of them nod, others exchange glances, curiosity sparking. A woman at my side is unusual, but I don’t indulge them with reasons. Their opinions don’t matter.
Annie stiffens under the weight of their stares, but she doesn’t falter. Her gaze moves quickly, darting across the table, noting who sits at my right, who waits before speaking, who drains his glass too fast. She thinks she’s being discreet. She isn’t. I see every flicker of her eyes, the sharp edge of her attention.
Interesting.
The meeting begins the way they always do: talk of numbers, shipments, which docks are clear, which streets belong to whom this week. Money passes between hands, agreements made in phrases that don’t sound like agreements at all. Annie keeps her head slightly bowed, but her eyes never stop moving.
Then the tension comes. It always does.
One man, broad and red-faced, leans forward, his voice cutting sharper than it should. “This route is weak. You give it to him, you’ll regret it.” He jabs a finger toward another at the table. “It should be mine.”
The air shifts. Men lean back, waiting. The weight of the room tilts toward me.
I don’t raise my voice. I never need to. I lean in slightly, enough that my shadow slides further across the table. My words are precise, measured, carrying no heat but promising plenty. “It isn’t yours. And you’ll keep your opinions quiet if you plan on leaving here tonight.”
The stillness is immediate.
The man’s face drains, his mouth half open like he wants to argue, but the words die before they can form. The silence stretches, heavy as iron. I watch him fold in on himself, his bravado leaking out into the floorboards.
The rest of them look away. No one else speaks.
Beside me, Annie flinches. I feel it in the faint tremor of her breath, the way her body tightens under my hand. She doesn’t drop her gaze. She doesn’t hide. Her eyes are fixed on me, steady, unblinking, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of my voice when I make a threat.
That, more than the man’s silence, interests me.
She isn’t cowed. She isn’t pretending not to hear. She’s learning.
I file it away.
***
The club hums like a living thing—bass vibrating through the floor, smoke curling thick beneath flashing lights, perfume hanging heavy in the air.
Laughter cuts sharp through the music, edged with the clink of glasses and the low murmur of deals being made in corners. This is one of ours, a Bratva house through and through. Everyone here knows whose name keeps the doors open and the floors clean of unwanted blood.
I sit in the back with my cousins, leather booth curving around us, a bottle of vodka sweating against the table. Milan leans close, a grin tugging at his mouth. He’s younger, sharper at the edges, always watching for weakness to poke at.
“So,” he says, pouring himself another shot, “how’s our little gallery assistant adjusting to her new life?”
His tone is light, but his eyes glint. He wants a reaction.
I don’t give him one. I lift my glass instead, vodka burning smooth down my throat.
