Page 28 of The Bratva Queens' Kings

Feelings. For all three of them. It's like juggling grenades, waiting for one to go off. The world I've built, this empire of shadows and power, thrives on certainty, on control. And yet, here I am, utterly at the mercy of my own heart.

Roman knew. They all knew. It's not like I was keeping it a secret that I was sleeping with them. And hell, for all I know, Roman might have his own distractions. But that's not the point, is it? The realization hits me like a gut punch in a street fight—I care about him. More than I thought. More than maybe I should.

A part of me wants to scream, to rail against the unfairness of it all. Can't I just have them all? Is it so impossible to want everyone I care about to stay close, to not have to choose one over the others? In the cutthroat world I navigate, where alliances shift like sand and power is the only currency that matters, the idea of wanting something as simple as to not be alone feels almost... naive.

I need to clear my head, to think. But every thought circles back to Roman, to Luca, to Grigori. To the future that suddenly seems so uncertain, so fragile.

I slump back into my chair, a mix of exhaustion and frustration weighing me down. That's when I feel it—a tiny flutter, like the softest of punches from within. My hand instinctively finds my stomach, and despite everything, a smile breaks through the storm clouds in my head. This little one, still unseen, already has a way of cutting through the chaos.

But the joy is fleeting. Roman's angry departure echoes in the silence of the room, and the warmth from the baby's kick turns cold. How will this child fit into our world, into this life we lead?

Doubt creeps in. Am I making a mistake, bringing a child into this mess? I've always known I wanted to be a mother, to give this child everything... just like my mother did for me, even when...

The memory hits like a sucker punch, dragging me back to a time I've tried so hard to bury.

I'm six again, hiding behind my mother's legs, her skirt a flimsy barrier between me and the monster that is my father. His voice is a thunderclap in our small kitchen, every word a lash that leaves invisible scars.

"You're useless, Maria!" he bellows, the veins on his neck bulging with each shout. My mother's back stiffens, but she shields me with her body, her voice steady but soft. "Don't do this in front of Lana, please."

He scoffs, a sound so full of contempt it chills me to the bone. "Oh, teaching the girl early what a failure her mother is, aren't I?"

I can feel her trembling. "Lana, go to your room," she whispers, but I'm frozen, my small world crumbling with each hateful word.

His hand moves then, quick as lightning, striking her across the face. She doesn't cry out. Instead, she straightens, her hand flying to her cheek, a red mark blooming like a vile flower. "That's enough, Marco. You're drunk. Go to bed."

But he's not done, his anger a beast that won't be caged. "You think you're better than me? You and this little brat?" His finger jabs in my direction, a threat unspoken but clear as day.

I remember looking up, seeing my mother's eyes glisten with unshed tears. In that moment, I saw a strength in her that I had never witnessed before. She was protecting me, shielding my innocence from the darkness that threatened to consume us both.

The memory fades, but the feelings linger, a ghost of fear and anger that I've carried all these years. My hand remains on my stomach, a pledge to this unborn child that history will not repeat itself. Not while I draw breath.

I won't let it. This child, my child, will grow up in a world of strength, not fear. They'll know love, not violence. And anyone who dares threaten that peace... well, they'll learn why Lana Petrov is a name that commands respect.

But first, I need to mend bridges, to heal the fractures within our tight-knit family. Starting with Roman. If this baby is to have a chance at a life free from the shadows of our past, it needs all of us.

Chapter 14

Luca

In the dimly lit backroom of what used to be an upscale, now thoroughly commandeered, Italian restaurant, I stand at the head of a makeshift table. Cash piles are neatly arranged.

My guys line up, a motley crew of hardened criminals and wide-eyed newbies, their expressions ranging from greedily eager to cautiously optimistic. They know the drill—line up, keep quiet, and wait your turn.

Paid gangsters are happy gangsters. It's payroll day, an event as regular as it is risky, and yet it's essential to keeping the wheels of our syndicate greased and running smoothly.

That's when she walks in—Lana. She's visibly tired, the weight of the world on her slender shoulders, yet she carries it with an ease that never ceases to amaze me. Her presence shifts the energy in the room instantly; men straighten up, eyes follow her every move, and a hush falls over the crowd. It's not just respect; it's admiration, fear, and desire all rolled into one.

After the paychecks are dealt with, I look at Lana. She's pacing, a frenetic energy about her that instantly draws my concern, cutting through the usual post-payroll lull.

"Lana, are you alright?" I ask, stepping closer, my tone more concerned than I'd usually allow it to show in such a public setting.

"Drink. I need a drink. A fucking cigarette," she mutters, more to herself than to me, her gaze darting around the room, not settling on any one thing, least of all me. It's clear as day—she's having withdrawals.

I understand immediately, the gravity of the situation pressing down with sudden weight. "Out," I command.

Once we're alone, I close the distance between us, stopping just short of reaching out to her. The space feels charged, thick with words unsaid and tension unspooled. "Lana, talk to me."

"It's Roman. He... he's not himself. Did you talk to him?" Lana's voice breaks through the tension, her words heavy with concern.

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