Page 4 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
I snap my cigarette alight, inhale smoke deep into my lungs. “I want it fixed. Now.”
His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Digital warfare isn’t fists and rage. It takes time.”
“Time is blood,” I growl. “I don’t bleed for anyone.”
He takes the seat before the glowing monitors, the blue light climbing up his jaw. His fingers hover, then descend. Keys clatter in a staccato rhythm, sharp and quick, screens blooming with cascading lines of code, proxies lighting up and burning away. The glow shifts constantly, like chasing ghosts.
I pace behind him, smoke curling around me, the predator who cannot strike in this kind of war. My men linger useless at the walls, restless energy bleeding into every corner of the room. The hum of servers blends with the frantic tapping ofMiron’s fingers, and it grates on me, stretching every second into a test of restraint.
“This isn’t amateur work,” Miron murmurs, his gaze never leaving the code. “They’re precise. Surgical. Every proxy burned behind them, every trace hidden under a dozen others.” He pauses, tilts his head. “This isn’t just business. This is personal.”
The word bites deeper than I expect.Personal. Someone dared to touch me not as rival, but as enemy. The distinction matters. It makes the game bloodier.
Hours drag by. The office turns suffocating, the tick of the clock too loud, the servers’ buzz drilling into the skull. Ivan’s boot taps the floor, small but steady, until the sound claws under my skin.
“Stop!” I snap, and the word lashes through the air like a whip. He freezes instantly, guilt flushing his face.
I lean against the desk, cigarette dying between my fingers, the ash long and brittle. The room feels smaller the longer we wait. My thoughts spiral down into places I keep locked away. Memories of betrayals, rivals with daggers hidden in smiles, men I buried and swore would never rise again. Except ghosts always find a way back.
Or worse, someone inside. A leak. A crack in loyalty. The kind of rot that destroys an empire from the inside out.
I glance at my hands. Knuckles raw, blood smeared across them in drying streaks. Fists are what built this kingdom, flesh-and-bone certainty. Against a faceless ghost, they might not be enough. For the first time in years, that thought needles deep under my skin.
Fragility. A word I despise, but it curls around me in the blue glow, speaking of empires falling to whispers and keystrokes instead of bullets.
The sound stops. Fingers frozen mid-strike. Miron sits utterly still, and the silence that follows him is loud enough to choke the room.
Every man goes still with him. Even I do.
Slowly, his head tilts. His gaze narrows, sharp as a blade. Then his hands move again, deliberate, careful, retracing. His voice comes low, more to himself than to us. “There. Too clean. Nobody hides that clean unless they want you to notice.”
The hunt begins.
Lines of code dance across the monitors, proxies peeling away one by one under his assault. My men lean forward, breaths held, as if watching the moment a predator corners its prey. Time folds in on itself, stretched thin, taut with anticipation.
Then Miron straightens, pushing back from the desk, satisfaction flickering across his features. His eyes gleam when they meet mine. “Got something.”
“What?”
“I don’t have a name, but I found an IP narrow enough to follow. Narrow enough to hunt.”
The room exhales as one, tension breaking. Relief flickers, though it’s edged with dread—because they all know what comes next.
I don’t explode. I don’t shout. Instead, I pour a drink from the decanter in the corner, slow, deliberate. The amber liquid glitters under the blue glow, smooth as honey, sharp as fire. I take a sip, let it burn down, and finally smile.
“They slipped. Or they wanted to be found. Either way…” I turn the glass in my hand, the ice clinking like distant chains. “They’re mine now.”
Ivan shifts, the men exchange glances. They all know what my smile means. The chase has begun.
In my mind, I see them already. The phantom behind the screen. Dragged into the light, stripped of their shadows. Their screams echoing off the warehouse walls, folding into the chorus of men who thought they could touch what belongs to me.
Crossing me has a cost. It won’t just be paid.
It will be carved into their flesh. Written in their blood. Indelible. Unforgettable.
Outside the office, orders ripple into the night. Men scatter, phones light up, the empire stirs like a beast pulled from sleep. Every piece shifts toward one singular goal.
Revenge.
