Page 43 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
The fury hits me raw, searing, impossible to contain. My hand slams down on the desk with enough force to rattle the lamp and make her jump. The crack echoes through the study, reverberating off the walls.
“You think I’m a fool?” My voice rises, harsh and unrestrained now. “You looked. You saw. Don’t insult me by pretending ignorance.”
She flinches but doesn’t step back. That defiance that once intrigued me now burns like betrayal.
The doorframe darkens as two of my men appear, drawn by the raised voice. Their eyes flick from me to her, waiting.
Annie turns instinctively, panic flashing across her face as she realizes what’s coming. “Dimitri—”
I don’t give her the chance. My command is clipped, final, leaving no room for doubt. “Take her away. She’s finished here.”
Her breath catches. “No, please—listen to me!” She rushes around the desk, reaching for me, her hand desperate on my arm. “You have to believe me. I wasn’t trying to betray you, I was—”
“Enough.” My voice is cold steel, unyielding. I don’t waver, don’t soften.
The guards move forward. Her grip slips from my sleeve as they seize her by the arms. She struggles, twisting against them, her eyes locked on mine, wide and pleading.
“Dimitri! Please!” Her voice breaks, echoing through the hall as they drag her away, her words turning ragged with desperation. “I didn’t mean it—I swear—I didn’t—”
I don’t follow. I stand in the center of the study, jaw clenched, chest tight, listening as her protests fade into the distance.
Her absence leaves the room colder, and still I don’t let myself look at the folder again. I already know the truth. She saw too much.
The door slams somewhere deep in the house, followed by the scuffle of boots on marble. I don’t move. I hear her voice, thin at first, then sharper, fighting against the inevitable. My name breaks from her throat once, twice, torn raw, but I don’t answer. I don’t follow.
From the window, I see them dragging her across the courtyard, her small frame thrashing against hands twice the size of hers. The night swallows her cries, the cold air carrying them no further than the gates.
My fists clench at my sides, nails biting deep into my palms, the only sign of what it costs me to remain still.
Driving her out feels like tearing something out of my own chest, but discipline anchors me. I force myself to believe it’s necessary.
“This is mercy,” I tell myself. She should already be dead. Letting her live, letting her walk away—that is leniency no oneelse would have received. She should be grateful her blood doesn’t stain the stones outside my gates.
I repeat it again, slow and cold, until the words sound like truth. Except the hollow feeling inside me grows, gnawing at the edges of my certainty, whispering that I’ve made a mistake I can’t undo.
I don’t move from the study window, though my fists tighten at my sides until my knuckles crack. She’s small down there, dragged across the courtyard by men who follow my orders without hesitation. Annie struggles, shouts, calls my name once, then again, but I don’t answer. I force myself to remain still.
It feels like ripping out a piece of myself, leaving it to bleed on the gravel. I convince myself it’s necessary.
The guards push her through the gates. She stumbles, nearly falls, but stubbornness keeps her on her feet. I see it even from up here—the same fire that made me notice her in the first place, the same fire that now burns me like betrayal. One of the men shoves her forward. I hear his warning faintly through the night air: don’t come back. Then the gate shuts, a heavy clang that echoes finality.
She stands on the other side, arms wrapped around herself, shivering in the cold. For a moment she doesn’t move. She just stares back at the estate, chest rising sharp with the ache of what’s been taken from her. Then she turns, disappearing into the dark.
I drag my gaze from the window back to the desk. The folder is still there, open where she left it, its photographs spread like accusations. My hand closes it with a snap, shoving it into the drawer with more force than necessary. The sound of wood slamming against wood echoes through the study.
I lean back against the desk, dragging in a breath that feels heavier than the room. My mind replays it all—the look in her eyes when I caught her bent over my desk, the tremor in her hands, the lie on her lips. The desperation when she reached for me, clutching at my sleeve like she believed I might actually listen.
For a moment, I almost wanted to. That’s what burns worst of all.
The rage has burned itself out. What remains is colder. Resignation. She crossed a line I can’t forgive. In my world, broken trust is rot; it spreads until it destroys everything. The only cure is fire.
I tell myself she was nothing more than a liability. A woman who should have been killed the night she saw blood on my hands. I spared her once. Twice. More than most would ever deserve. Tonight I gave her mercy. Mercy in the form of exile instead of execution. She should be grateful.
So why does it feel like I gutted myself instead of her?
I pour a drink, vodka splashing into crystal, the smell sharp, familiar. I throw it back in one swallow, let the burn scorch my throat, but it doesn’t ease the hollow twisting inside me. I pour another, slower this time, staring into the glass as though it holds an answer.
The study feels too empty without her. The silence presses in from every wall, heavier than the night. The chair she used to sit in is vacant, the air missing the heat of her sharp tongue, her restless energy, her constant need to test the boundaries I set. I used to find it irritating. Now the absence of it gnaws at me.
