Page 2 of A Baby for the BRATVA Boss
It should sound like mercy. It doesn’t. We both know my father is beyond finding peace. He is too deep into his addiction.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”
My father’s voice cracks again, but I don’t let him speak.
Yury studies me for a long moment. His gaze is heavy enough to make me feel stripped bare. “You have thirty minutes to pack what you need.”
I turn away before he can see the tremor in my hands.
It doesn’t take thirty minutes to pack what’s left of my belongings. My father sold or gambled almost everything. I have clothes, old, seasons out of style, a few toiletries, a book that was my last Christmas gift from my mom before she died.
I grab my threadbare coat and the white scarf my mom knitted for me a long time ago, winding it around my neck twice.
When I return downstairs, I find my father has collapsed into his chair again, eyes glassy, lips moving soundlessly.
I take my mother’s clock and I don’t say goodbye.
Outside, the night has thickened. Snow falls in heavy sheets, muting the world. The car waiting at the curb is black and gleaming, its headlights slicing through the dark like knives. Dubovich opens the door and waits, patient, silent.
I hesitate only once, on the threshold of what was our ancestral home. Now I don’t even know who owns it. The cold bites through my boots, but it feels clean. Honest. I breathe it in and step forward. His hand brushes my back as I slide into the car. Even that small touch leaves a trail of heat behind.
The door shuts with a quiet click, and suddenly the world is smaller. Warmer. Claustrophobic.
Dubovich slides in beside me. He doesn’t look at me at first, just gives a brief nod to the driver. The estate starts to fall away and be replaced by the city, the streetlights flickering on as the sun finally sets.
I press my hands together in my lap to keep them still. The leather seat is warm beneath me, the air thick with the scent of cloves and something darker I can’t name.
I risk a glance at him. His face is carved from shadow, sharp in the passing light. “Where are we going, Mr Dubovich?” I ask.
His mouth moves, almost a smile. “You can call me Yury. At Christmas I always spend time in the mountains. I have a lodge. It’s modest, comfortable. I hope you’ll like it.”
A shiver runs through me.
“What were the terms?” I ask. “What is expected of me?”
He looks at me, gray eyes glinting like gunmetal.
“Your father caught wind that I want an heir. He asked or a week, or I could take you.”
Ice slides down my spine. I’m shaking now, there’s no point trying to hide it. I know enough of this world to know that someone as powerful as Yury doesn’t do things by half.
He wants a baby. I have a uterus.
“Your father assured me that you are healthy.” He says it like a statement but it’s a question. I think back to yesterday. The last day of my period and I shudder.
“As far as I know. I’ve never been pregnant before...” I stop myself revealing anymore and turn to face the window while I focus on not throwing up.
The snow outside turns the world white. Endless. Empty.
The car keeps climbing, headlights cutting through the falling snow. I watch it blur against the glass and tell myself I’m only doing what I have to do to survive. If that means letting him put a baby inside me, carrying it, birthing it and handing it over. That’s what I’ll do. Then I can leave this world behind and start a new life somewhere where the Bratva can’t reach.
Yury
The girl barely speaks.
That’s fine. I don’t need her words yet. Words are cheap. I’ve learned more in silence than any confession ever gave me.
She sits angled toward the window, face lit by the passing glow of the city’s edge, her reflection caught between the glass and the night outside. Every now and then, the light catches on her mouth, and I have to look away before my thoughts turn somewhere they shouldn’t.
