Page 47 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I roll onto my side, arms wrapping around myself, and the weight of it hits me harder than it ever has. He cast me out like I was nothing, and now I’m here, broken, carrying the one piece of him I can never erase.
The next morning, I tell myself I’ll try. I’ll get up. I’ll go to work. I’ll pretend I’m still Annie Vale, the girl who lived paycheck to paycheck, who got annoyed when the coffee machine broke, who rolled her eyes at bosses and deadlines. I’ll fake normal.
I get dressed slowly, pulling on jeans that pinch at the waist. I force down half a piece of toast and chase it with black coffee, bitter and scorching. I sling my bag over my shoulder andstep into the hallway, head down, ready to drown in the noise of the city.
It doesn’t last.
Halfway down the block, it hits; it’s sharp and sudden, a wave of nausea that doubles me over. My hand shoots out to the nearest wall, pressing hard as bile rises in my throat. My stomach twists, sweat breaking across my forehead despite the chill of morning air.
I gag, stumble into the nearest alley, and retch until my body feels hollow. My knees shake, palms braced on cold brick as I gasp for air.
There’s no brushing it off now. No flu, no stress, no convenient excuse. The truth has been circling me for weeks, and now it slams into me undeniable.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve, tears pricking my eyes though I don’t cry. My chest heaves as I straighten slowly, the world tilting under my feet.
I can’t pretend anymore.
The life growing inside me is real. Dimitri’s.
No matter how far I run, no matter how fiercely I try to deny it, I can’t undo what’s already begun.
Chapter Twenty - Dimitri
The estate is quieter than I ever imagined it could be. No arguments bleeding through the halls, no sharp footsteps where they don’t belong, no reckless tongue daring me to snap at the wrong moment. I told myself this is what I wanted—control restored, order maintained.
I fill my days with routine. Shipments to oversee. Security briefings. Meetings with Bratva captains where the same clipped words are exchanged, the same hands shaken, the same numbers pushed across the table.
Business carries on as it always has. My men speak to me with respect, their eyes steady, their voices precise. Nothing is out of place.
It doesn’t matter. The edges of every task feel dulled. The victory of control doesn’t taste as sharp as it should.
Silence follows me everywhere. It seeps into my skin, an unwelcome companion I can’t shake. At dinner, I notice how large the dining room feels when it’s only me at the table. My plate clatters too loudly against porcelain. My glass echoes against the wood. I eat quickly, without appetite, and return to work before the emptiness can press closer.
At night, I work longer than I need to. Files spread across my desk until the clock ticks into hours I used to reserve for rest. Anything to avoid walking to my private quarters, where the silence is heavier, more accusing.
When I finally give in, I pour vodka as always. Tonight, though, without thinking, I pour two. I set one in front of me, the other across the table, where the chair sits empty. The gesture is instinct, thoughtless, as if my body remembers a presence I swore I erased.
I stare at the glass, fury twisting in my chest, and curse under my breath. I down the first in one swallow, then the second, punishing myself with the burn.
The hollow ache gnaws, sharp and constant, but I refuse to name it. She’s gone. That was my choice. She crossed me, and I acted as I always do—with finality. Anything else would have been weakness.
I remind myself of this every time my mind drifts to her voice, her eyes, her hand clutching at my sleeve as though I was worth pleading to. I crush the memory like ash between my teeth, bury it under discipline.
She’s gone. Still, the silence lingers, filling every corner of this house until it feels less like an empire and more like a tomb.
The silence claws at me until I can’t stand it anymore. The walls feel closer than they should, the air too thick, my own thoughts circling like vultures. I sit at my desk, phone in hand, thumb hovering over a number I shouldn’t call. Hers.
For a breath, I let myself imagine it—the sound of her voice, sharp and wary, maybe even trembling. The way her silence might stretch before she dared to speak.
I shut the thought down and press another number instead.
Vika.
She has always been easy. Beautiful, sharp, loyal in her own way. Once, she was my favorite, the woman I returned to when the world grew too loud. She never asked questions she didn’t want answers to. She knew her place. Reliable. Uncomplicated.
She answers on the second ring, her voice sultry, laced with memory. “Dimitri.”
Within the hour, she’s at the estate.
