Page 50 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
When she’s done, she pauses in the doorway, eyes narrowing. “She’s ruined you, you know.”
I take another swallow of vodka, letting it burn. “Leave.”
She does.
The door shuts behind her with a hollow sound. The silence rushes back, heavier than before. I stare into my glass, the liquid trembling faintly in my hand.
Alone again. Still, it isn’t enough to bury her ghost.
Chapter Twenty-One - Annie
The city fades behind me like a fever I’ve barely survived. I trade its choking smog and neon noise for a coastal town where the sea and sky swallow everything else, leaving only salt air and gulls crying overhead. It isn’t paradise, not really, but it feels safer, quieter. A place to disappear.
I rent a modest apartment above a bakery. The walls are thin, cracked paint curling from the plaster, the radiator groaning like an old man in winter.
Every morning the scent of bread drifts through the floorboards—warm loaves and cinnamon, butter and sugar—and it softens the edges of my solitude. For the first time in weeks, I wake to something other than fear.
Finally, I’ve had the courage to leave my old career, my old life, behind.
I’m careful. Always careful. Rent paid in cash. No IDs that could trace me back to the gallery, the city, to him. I give no more than a first name to the landlord, and even that feels like too much. I speak in clipped answers, smile when I have to, and keep my head down. Every choice is armor, every precaution another layer between me and the world I’ve left behind.
Work comes quickly, the kind no one asks questions for. A diner along the harbor, all linoleum floors and the constant hiss of the fryer. I slip into a uniform that doesn’t quite fit, an apron that smells of grease, and let the rhythm carry me.
Orders called, coffee poured, tables cleared, tips counted. My feet ache, my back twinges, but I’m grateful. Exhaustion is a balm. The pay is small but steady—enough for rent, groceries, and the quiet anonymity I crave.
The sea air follows me everywhere. On the walk to work it bites at my cheeks, sharp and cleansing, carrying salt strong enough to sting my lips. On the way home, it tangles my hair, damp and briny, clinging to my coat. I tell myself the salt breeze is washing me clean, stripping away the shadow Dimitri left behind. Some days I almost believe it.
The habit remains. Even when no one follows, I glance over my shoulder. Every shadow on the street makes me tense, every sudden sound pulls my stomach tight. The paranoia doesn’t leave. Maybe it never will.
At night, the waves keep me awake. Their rhythm is steady, relentless, pounding against the shore as though reminding me of time passing, of something I can’t control. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the bakery’s warmth long faded into cold air.
My hand drifts to my stomach. The swell is small, barely noticeable beneath my shirt, but I feel it. Every day it grows heavier—not just in my body but in my mind. The knowledge of what it means is constant, an anchor I can’t put down.
This life inside me is mine to protect. Mine, and his.
The thought makes my chest ache. I curl tighter beneath the blankets, palm pressed firm over the secret I carry, and listen to the waves crash until dawn bleeds pale across the horizon.
Months slip by in the rhythm of tides and routine. My belly swells, rounder and heavier with each week, slowing my steps until even the short walk to the diner feels longer. I adjust my uniforms, stitch loose seams, and layer sweaters to disguise the obvious. When the buttons no longer close, I shrug into oversized coats. If customers notice, they say nothing. If coworkers glance, I brush it off with a laugh.
On my days off, I take the bus to the next town over. The shops there don’t know me, don’t ask questions when I pay in cash and buy nothing in bulk. A tiny onesie folded into a paper bag. A soft blanket hidden between secondhand coats.
Bottles, pacifiers, diapers—each purchased quietly, carefully, spread out so no one can connect the pieces. When I return home, I tuck everything into a trunk beneath my bed. A secret life waiting in the dark, wrapped in fabric and fear.
The older women in town notice anyway. Their eyes follow me at the bakery or the market, knowing smiles tucked into the corners of their mouths. Sometimes one will touch her chest softly, a small gesture of recognition, but I never linger. I thank them politely, step back quickly, keep moving. Trust is dangerous. Curiosity is deadly. I have to remain invisible.
Mia’s absence gnaws at me in ways I don’t admit even to myself. There are nights I reach for the phone, thumb hovering over her number, aching to hear her voice, to explain, to let her carry even a fraction of this weight.
Even a postcard could betray me. A single slip could place me back in the shadow I fled. So I lock her away with the rest of it—loneliness folded tight, hidden like the baby clothes under my bed.
Yet—despite the fear, despite the isolation—small moments of joy creep through the cracks.
I unfold a tiny onesie, the fabric impossibly small, and run my hands over the seams. I imagine warm skin filling it, soft weight curled against my chest. I feel the first flutter inside me, light as wings against my ribs, and my breath catches on a laugh that surprises me. Standing by the window at night, hand resting on the swell of my stomach, I whisper into the quiet. Promises I don’t write down. That I’ll protect. That I’ll never let him—or anyone—take this from me.
The sea answers back in its endless rhythm, steady as a heartbeat. For the first time in months, I let myself believe this isn’t only a burden.
***
The storm comes without warning, winter winds slamming against the bakery walls, rattling the thin glass of my apartment windows. By midnight, the contractions begin—sharp, merciless, bending me double until my palms brace against the floorboards. Panic claws at my chest with every surge of pain, each one closer, harder, dragging me under.
