Page 38 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
Milan smirks. “Don’t tell me you’re attached, brother. She follows you like a shadow. Must be convenient, hm?” He drags out the last syllable, sly. “Or maybe it’s more than convenient.”
The table chuckles, low and knowing.
My gaze cuts across him, steady and cold. “She’s a liability. Nothing more.”
His smirk falters, just slightly.
“I keep her close because it’s safer than letting her run wild,” I continue. My tone doesn’t rise, but the weight of it makes the air shift. “She’s useful under my eye. Dangerous without it. That’s all.”
Milan chuckles again, but it’s thin this time, forced. He lifts his glass in mock salute and lets the matter drop. The others follow his lead.
The music thunders on, lights shifting red and gold across the crowded floor. Women drift between tables, practiced smiles and painted lips, the scent of expensive perfume clinging toevery touch. One slides in beside me, her dress glittering under the strobe, hand resting lightly on my shoulder. She leans close, her mouth brushing my ear, breath warm with alcohol and sugar.
Normally, I’d let her.
Tonight, nothing stirs.
I feel the press of her body against mine, the softness of her hand, the practiced heat in her whisper. It leaves me cold. My mind doesn’t fill with her scent, her touch, her voice. It fills with Annie—Annie’s breathless gasp in the dark, the tremor in her body when I pushed inside her, the sharp defiance in her gaze when she stood at my side earlier, memorizing every move like she belonged at that table.
The escort’s perfume cloys. Annie’s scent—clean, faint soap, the taste of rain on her skin—burns sharper in memory.
I push the woman away, not roughly, but final. My expression doesn’t shift. Unreadable. She blinks, confusion flickering before she slides off to another man who’ll pay for the illusion she offers.
The others don’t question me. They know better.
Inside, I know the truth.
Annie’s under my skin.
I finish my glass and pour another, the vodka sharp enough to clear my throat but not enough to silence memory. The storm won’t leave me. The sound of her voice, raw and desperate, whispering she was untouched before me.
The feel of her cunt gripping me so tight it burned, the way her nails dug into my shoulders like she couldn’t tell whether she wanted to hold me closer or push me away.
I tell myself again:she’s here for control.That’s all. I brought her into my world to keep her from becoming a threat, to use her, to test her, to remind her she lives because I allow it.
When I close my eyes, it isn’t the escort’s perfume that lingers. It isn’t vodka I taste. It’s her—her lips, her moans, her body breaking open under my hands.
The fire she lit hasn’t dulled. The night only stoked it.
I tip back the last of my drink, jaw tight, and signal for another bottle. I’ll drown her out, if I can.
I already know the truth: there’s no drowning a fire once it’s set in your chest.
Chapter Seventeen - Annie
I know better than to believe Dimitri’s decision to bring me along means trust. It isn’t trust—it’s possession. A leash disguised as an invitation. He keeps me close because it pleases him to watch, because having me at his side lets him prove to his men that even a woman like me bends under his hand.
I take the opening anyway.
Each meeting, each exchange, I sharpen the picture in my head. The coded talk of shipments, the quiet negotiations over territory, the way certain men defer and others push too far. I keep my eyes down, my mouth shut, but my ears are open. He thinks silence means obedience. He doesn’t realize silence can mean strategy too.
A name keeps surfacing, floating like a shard of glass in the current. Moreno. Gabriel Moreno. Sometimes it’s muttered in irritation, sometimes with a twist of contempt, sometimes as a warning. Each time, my stomach knots tighter. I don’t know why yet, but the sound of it digs under my skin in a way the rest of their jargon doesn’t.
Late one night, the chance comes.
The estate is quieter than usual, a hush lying heavy over the halls. Dimitri’s men keep to their posts, their boots echoing faintly when they change shifts, but the wing leading to his office is empty. I know he’s elsewhere. Downstairs, perhaps, or in one of the back rooms where business is conducted long after midnight.
I slip through the corridor, my steps soft on the thick carpet, heart racing too fast. The door gives under my hand with a soft click, and I step inside.
