Page 54 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
They can drag me, they can break me, but I’ll tear them apart before I let them take him.
I fight like a wild thing, nothing left but instinct and fury. My nails rake down an arm, tearing flesh. My teeth snap when I can reach, biting hard enough to taste blood. The stroller jolts violently as one of them shoves it toward the van, my son’s cries breaking higher, shriller, splintering through my skull.
I wrench against the grip crushing my wrists until the skin burns raw. My shoulders ache from the force, but I keep pulling, keep twisting, my body a weapon fueled by panic.
“Dimitri,” one of them hisses against my ear.
The name strikes like a blade.
Ice floods my veins. They know. They know who I am; and worse, they know whoheis.
My breath snags, terror choking me, but I don’t falter. I can’t. Every instinct screams:don’t let them near him.My sonis wailing, desperate, reaching tiny hands into the air, and the sound tears something in me wide open.
I kick, hard, my foot colliding with a shin. A sharp curse in Russian, the sound ugly, and then a shove that nearly knocks me off balance. Pain shoots through me, but I don’t stop. My body thrashes with no rhythm, no sense, only the savage need to protect him.
The men bark clipped Russian at one another, their voices cold, efficient. I don’t need to understand the words. I hear it in their tone: I’m not random. I’m not a target of opportunity. I’m wanted. Sent for.
Leverage.
My child—my son—is leverage too. The thought makes me sick.
I twist violently, managing to angle myself between the stroller and the man dragging it closer to the van. I half shield my son with my body, spitting muffled screams, throat tearing raw as they force me forward. My nails catch on cloth, on skin, but it’s useless against the strength pressing in on every side.
The street stays silent. No neighbors step out, no curious faces peek through curtains. The world has turned away, leaving me alone in the snare.
My son’s cries are frantic now, a sound that rips me open and leaves nothing but fire.
“Stop! Don’t touch him!” My voice is ragged, nearly gone, but I scream it anyway, over and over, each time harder, until the words break into sobs.
They don’t listen.
Hands clamp tighter. The stroller bangs against the side of the van, wheels catching for an instant before it’s yanked forward. My body is hauled up the steps, shoved across the metalfloor. My shoulder slams into the wall, pain exploding, but I scramble back, reaching for my son.
The last thing I see before the door slams is his face; red, wet with tears, mouth wide in a cry that guts me.
The engine roars to life, drowning him out, drowning everything out.
The van jerks forward. Darkness swallows us whole.
The van lurches forward, tires spitting water from the wet street, the engine’s growl filling every corner of the metal box. Through the slits of the back windows, I catch brief flashes of the town slipping away, neon signs dissolving into shadow, the faint hum of the harbor swallowed by distance.
I press myself hard against the side wall, my body a barrier, wedging myself between my son and the men. My arms lock around him so tightly my muscles scream, but I don’t let go.
His damp cheeks press into my collarbone, breath hitching in hiccupping sobs, tiny fists gripping the fabric of my shirt.
The men say little. Just clipped exchanges in Russian, the words too quick for me to catch, though the tone is enough: calm, certain, assured.
The leader is the one who speaks most. He sits opposite me, posture steady, his gaze fixed. He doesn’t leer or sneer, doesn’t bark orders—he studies. Weighs. Dissects. His eyes rake over me, not with hunger, but with calculation.
I can feel it in the heaviness of his stare. To him, I’m not a woman. I’m a weapon. A hostage meant to cut deeper than bullets or knives.
I force myself to study him back. Three men.
The leader: older, sharp-eyed, the kind of calm that comes from knowing he’s the most dangerous person in the room. He’s the one I need to fear most, the one who won’t slip.
The other two: muscle. Broad, heavy-handed, brutal. They lean back with false ease, careless in their confidence. Sloppy enough to leave a crack if I’m patient.
If an opening comes, I’ll take it.
