Page 18 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
What she doesn’t know is that I’ve already planned the rest.
Another car will follow at a distance, two of my best men inside, armed and ready. If she tries to run, if she even steps out of line, they’ll put her down before she gets two blocks. But I don’t think she will. Not yet. She’s clever enough to know the leash is still around her throat, even if I’ve let her think it’s looser.
The neighborhood she’s going into is a cold one, all narrow streets and old men who watch too closely. History clings to the bricks there. The people remember debts longer than lifetimes, and they know the kind of car that pulls up with tinted windows and a driver who doesn’t smile. That’s the backdrop I want her to see.
A reminder that my world doesn’t stop at the gates of my estate—it stretches into every corner of this city, every dark street, every door with rusted hinges.
I watch her from the window as she leaves. Sergei opens the car door for her, and she slips inside, the case clutched against her chest. The rain has eased into a fine drizzle, the kind that soaks you slowly and seeps into your bones. She glancesback once at the estate, her eyes narrowing as if memorizing the path. I file away the look.
The engines rumble to life. The convoy rolls forward, my second car hanging back just enough to keep her from noticing. I know every turn they’ll take, every intersection, every alley where someone might be watching.
If she runs, it will be her last mistake.
As I track the taillights disappearing down the long drive, I know she won’t.
***
Annie
The car slows, tires crunching against uneven pavement. My grip on the case is iron-tight, my palm damp where the handle cuts into it.
Sergei clears his throat from the driver’s seat but doesn’t look at me. He’s been quiet the whole ride—stiff posture, eyes flicking from mirror to mirror, hands white on the wheel. He’s nervous. That doesn’t help my nerves.
We roll into a narrow street that looks like it hasn’t seen sunlight in years. Cracked bricks lean over the sidewalks like crooked teeth.
Men linger in doorways, smoking, eyes following the car with the kind of curiosity that isn’t casual. It prickles under my skin, sharp and electric. I’m painfully aware of the way pedestrians shift out of our path. Not because they fear hitting the car—because they fear what’s inside it.
My throat is dry. I adjust my hold on the case and make myself breathe evenly. Dimitri’s words echo in my head:“Deliver it. Don’t open it. Don’t ask questions.”He offered no reassurance or safety net. Just an order.
The car stops outside a warehouse with peeling paint and windows like blind eyes. A man waits at the entrance, his black coat buttoned to the throat, his face gaunt but sharp. Sergei cuts the engine and gives me the smallest nod. “This is it.”
I want to ask him what happens if I screw up, but the words stick. Instead, I push the door open, step into the drizzle, and feel the cold sink into my skin. The man at the entrance doesn’t smile. His eyes track me the way a predator tracks prey, measuring, dissecting.
I force my legs forward, case heavy in my hand though I know it’s light. The man takes a slow step toward me.
“You have something for me.” His voice is thick with an accent, Russian drawn out like smoke.
I hold the case out, my knuckles pale around the handle. “Here.”
He doesn’t take it. His gaze lingers on me instead, sliding from my face down to my grip on the case, then back again. It’s the kind of stare that makes my stomach knot.
“What’s inside?” he asks.
The question is a trap. I hear it in the deliberate softness of his tone. He knows I don’t have the answer, but he wants to see what I’ll do.
I meet his eyes, even though every instinct screams not to. “That’s not my business.”
He chuckles, low and humorless. “Not your business,” he repeats, like he’s rolling the words around, testing them. He steps closer, too close, until I can smell smoke and cologne on his coat. His hand brushes the case, but instead of taking it, he lets his fingers linger against mine. My skin crawls.
“You’re new,” he says. “Pretty little thing like you, carrying something this important. Strange choice.”
My jaw locks. I keep my grip steady, though my heart’s slamming against my ribs. “Do you want it or not?”
His smile is thin. “You have nerve. I like that.”
Finally, he takes the case, fingers sliding it free from my hand with deliberate slowness. I ball my fists to stop them from shaking. He turns it once, weighing it, then tucks it under his arm.
“Tell him I said thank you,” he says. His eyes glint, cold and sharp. “Tell him I like his new courier.”
