Page 58 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
When that moment comes, nothing she says will stop me. I will tear through every secret, every lie, every silence she built between us. She gave me a son and hid him from me. She left me hollow while she carried him, let me believe she was gone when she was never gone at all.
The storm outside rages, but the one inside me burns hotter.
The ride from the compound is a blur of rain-slicked roads and the thrum of engines. My men sit silent, weapons across their knees, eyes scanning the dark. Inside the truck, the air is thick, heavy with smoke and the lingering echo of gunfire.
Annie holds Henry close, her body curled protectively around him. He stirs, whimpers once, then quiets, lulled by her steady heartbeat. Her eyes never leave me, though—sharp, accusing, terrified. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The weight of everything she’s hidden presses louder than words.
I let the silence stretch, jaw tight, hands flexing against my knees. Questions tear through me, hot and relentless. Whydid she keep him from me? Why did she vanish, make me believe she was lost, while carrying my blood inside her?
I force the fury down, keep my voice steady when I finally speak. “You’ll explain.”
Her chin lifts, defiant even now, though her arms clutch Henry tighter.
Later. The word drums in my skull. Later, when the storm ends, when there are no more excuses.
She will answer me; and when she does, nothing between us will ever be the same again.
Chapter Twenty-Five - Annie
The doors slam shut behind me, the sound ricocheting through marble halls until it settles in my bones. Outside, rain lashes the windows, wind clawing at the estate walls, but none of it compares to the storm in his eyes.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t have to. Every word that leaves his mouth is low, sharp, honed like a knife. Fury simmers in the clipped cadence, in the hard set of his jaw, in the restraint that feels worse than rage. It’s like standing in front of a dam ready to break, waiting for the flood to consume me whole.
My back is against the wall, palms damp, but I force my chin high. I won’t let him see me cower. The air between us is heavy, charged, too small for both of us. The silence presses in, thick with everything unsaid.
I think of my son—safe upstairs, tucked in under the care of one of the staff—and I hold on to that like armor. That’s my anchor, my truth. He can control this house, this empire, but he doesn’t get to control that. He doesn’t get to dictate me.
“I stayed away,” I say, steady even though my chest shakes with the effort, “because your world is a place where children don’t survive.”
The words scorch my throat, bitter and sharp, but I don’t take them back. They fall into the space between us, heavy and irrevocable. My pulse hammers, my body tight as a bowstring, waiting for the blowback.
Something flickers across his face—hesitation, maybe even pain—but it’s gone before I can catch it. The storm in his gaze only darkens, hotter, more dangerous, as if I’ve thrown a challenge instead of an explanation. He steps closer, slow, deliberate, his shadow swallowing me whole.
The floor feels unsteady under my feet as he closes in. Heat rolls off him, his mouth a hard line, his eyes burning with something I can’t name. Every instinct in me screams to look away, to yield, but I lock myself in place.
My fingers curl against the wall at my back, nails biting into stone. I picture my son’s small hand curled in mine as he sleeps, his steady breathing proof that innocence still exists in this blood-soaked world. The memory steadies me, keeps my chin lifted even as fear twists in my gut.
I won’t apologize. I won’t regret. He wanted the truth. Now he has it. What he does with it now will decide everything.
For a heartbeat, something shifts in his eyes. The fire falters, exposing something raw I can’t quite name—pain, maybe, or something deeper he refuses to let me see. It vanishes as quickly as it came, swallowed by heat sharper than before.
He closes the distance between us, each step dragging the air tighter. His presence presses into me, heavy, suffocating. His face is carved from steel, but his eyes burn with more than anger. They burn with betrayal, and it cuts deeper than I want to admit.
I don’t move. Every instinct screams at me to bow my head, to yield, to make myself small. But I’ve already given too much to fear, and I won’t give him this. To apologize would be admitting I was wrong to protect my son, and I’ll never do that.
The silence stretches between us, a gleaming blade balanced on a breath. It dares one of us to move, dares one of us to break. My pulse hammers, my throat tight, but I hold the line. I anchor myself in the truth, even if it destroys me.
I meet his gaze head-on, my voice cutting through the tension like steel. “I did what I had to. I don’t regret it.”
The words hang in the air, heavy, defiant, both a shield and a strike.
His jaw locks, the muscle ticking hard. His hands flex at his sides, fists forming and loosening as if he’s fighting the urge to touch me, or to tear the room apart. The silence between us thickens until it feels combustible, every second feeding the spark that waits to ignite.
I force myself to stand steady, even as my heart pounds so loud I swear he must hear it. I don’t blink. I don’t look away. Whatever storm he’s ready to unleash, I’ll face it head-on.
His gaze drags over me like fire, searing, punishing, unrelenting. I feel it crawl over my skin, into my lungs, until breathing becomes a battle. He steps closer still, the heat of him so near I can taste it on my tongue.
His voice slices through the silence at last, low and sharp enough to sting. “What were you doing in my office that day?”
