Page 53 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
The glass of vodka sits beside it, beads of condensation slipping down to stain the paper. I stare at the mark like it might shift under my gaze, like I could will the truth from it.
My jaw aches from how hard I grind my teeth. Every time my mind drifts to Moreno, circling closer, a fresh surge of violence crashes through me. The thought of his men prowling streets she walks, of his eyes on her, makes my stomach twist with rage sharp enough to taste.
My hand tightens around the glass until it trembles, liquid quivering inside. I curse low, the word raw, and setit down before it shatters. The tension doesn’t leave. It coils tighter, thick in my chest, a weight I can’t exhale.
The map blurs for a second, vision dark with fury. Moreno making the first move, Annie caught in the crossfire—my mind fills with images I don’t want but can’t stop. Her body crumpled in the dirt, her voice silenced, her fire gone. It rips through me like a blade.
I don’t pray. Haven’t in years.
What I do, is make a vow in the silence of the storm.
If Moreno touches her—if he lays a hand on what’s mine—there will be nothing left of him. No men, no holdings, no whispers of his name. I’ll erase him piece by piece until even memory refuses him.
The rational voice in me fights back. Cold, clinical. She’s a liability. She’s the one who broke trust, the one who went looking where she shouldn’t. She drew this danger. Let her carry it.
Another voice answers, darker, truer.
She ismine.
She was from the moment she stood in my halls and dared me to break her. From the moment she defied me, touched me, let me inside her. Every fire she lit, every scar she left—they all bind her to me.
I won’t let anyone—least of all Moreno—take what belongs to me.
The storm batters harder. I lean forward over the map, elbows pressing into the wood, eyes fixed on the circle inked dark around the town.
One way or another, this ends with blood.
I already know whose it will be.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Annie
The morning begins quietly, the kind of quiet that always makes me uneasy. I push the stroller along the cracked sidewalks, wheels rattling over uneven concrete. The salty wind whips strands of hair across my face, stinging my eyes, and overhead the gulls wheel and cry. Their voices mingle with the creak of the harbor, the steady rush of waves.
My son babbles up at them, pudgy hands waving wildly from his blanket. His laugh cuts through the chill air, and despite the constant undercurrent of caution that trails me everywhere, I can’t stop the small smile that pulls at my lips. For a moment—just a moment—it feels almost ordinary.
The diner’s neon sign glows faintly ahead, buzzing soft, the promise of another shift, another day survived. I push forward, the rhythm of routine steadying my nerves. Groceries later, laundry after. Keep moving, keep breathing, keep safe.
Then the air shifts.
A van rounds the corner too slowly, tires dragging, presence heavy, deliberate. My stomach lurches. Instinct spikes sharp, blood rushing to my ears. I grip the stroller tighter, pushing faster, heart hammering.
The van rolls to a stop. Doors swing open before I can think.
Three men spill out. Efficient. Purposeful.
One clamps a hand around my arm, iron-tight. Another seizes the stroller. The third slaps his palm across my mouth before the scream can tear free.
I thrash, clawing at the grip pinning me, kicking hard, my muffled cries shredding my throat against his skin. Panicclaws through me, wild and suffocating, but it’s my son’s cry that detonates the terror into something fiercer.
His wail pierces the air: high, panicked, heart-shattering.
The sound slices through me, igniting a sharper, desperate fury.
I bite down hard on the hand silencing me, tasting blood. The man curses, grip slipping for half a second, and I slam my elbow back into his ribs. My other arm lashes out, nails raking across the face of the one holding me.
“Don’t touch him!” I scream as my mouth comes free, voice ragged, raw, feral. My son’s sobs choke the air, feeding the blaze tearing through me.
I fight like I’ve never fought in my life, every ounce of fear twisting into something savage. Because this isn’t about me anymore.
