Page 2 of The Bratva's Forbidden Pregnancy

I scoffed and shook my head, withholding my response.

The poor attendant was still towering over my parents in silence as they deliberated over the menu like it was a life-or-death decision. I pinched the bridge of my nose and rolled my eyes when their inane questions started pouring in.

“Will the chicken be organic?” Dad peered at the attendant over the rim of his glasses.

“Also, can they substitute the sauce?” Mom chipped in. “I don’t think I want it, and I’m pretty sure my husband doesn’t either….”

The attendant was about to respond when I returned my gaze outside the window and slowly drifted back to my thoughts as their chatter, with time, became indistinct.

This was really happening. I was indeed going to Russia to connect with my heritage, as Dad had said. Like I said, I didn’t approve of this trip and had concluded that nothing fun or great would come out of it. But I had to go because Dad really wanted me to.

It’s good to know your roots, to know where you come from, his voice echoed in my head, and I let out a soft sigh, gently rubbing my tired eyes. Maybe this was a good thing; if only I could see past my anger.

I’d spent most of my life in the United States, and to be honest, I was clueless about my Russian heritage—never having really cared to learn about it because I didn’t feel the need to. But he was probably right; understanding my heritage was important.

Plus, a change of environment just might be good for me, like Mom had suggested earlier before we boarded the plane.

We would only be there for a couple of days, maybe weeks—God! I hope it was a couple of days. I was already missing New York City.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” his voice cut through the air, forcing me out of my thoughts. “We’ll be arriving in St. Petersburg in approximately twenty minutes. Thank you, and I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

Wait. We’re here, already?

I poured myself another glass of champagne and drained it in one swift motion.

“Look alive, baby,” Dad said to me.

I turned to look at him, and he added, “We're in Russia now.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as a smile played on his lips.

I gulped and mustered a faint grin despite the dryness in my throat.

Here goes nothing.

Chapter 2 – Vlad

The winter cold was harsh tonight, and the wind was whistling in my ears as snowflakes fell like tiny razors on the seaport. It was freezing out here, but my long black fur coat kept me warm.

The headlights of the exotic cars parked behind me cast beams that illuminated the night, shining on my men as they worked, loading smuggled drugs onto the ships. I stood there in silence, overseeing the operation.

The port was bustling at this time of night when others were cozy in their homes with their families. But I was out here in the snow with my men, taking care of my business.

St. Petersburg, being a major port city in Russia, offered access to the Baltic Sea and international connections, making it an ideal location for my kind of activities: smuggling and trafficking.

I was bathed in the warm beams behind me as I scanned the environment meticulously, my eyes catching every slight movement, including those in the shadows.

I drew from the cigar stick wedged between my gloved fingers, savoring the smoke before slowly exhaling it.

“Hey, careful with that!” one of my men said, warning three others to my right, prompting my eyes to shift in their direction.

He walked over there, and I could tell he was scolding them for being reckless with my merchandise. They looked terrified of him, and their hands were shaking.

I did see how sloppy they were while loading the ship assigned to them. Clearly, they were new recruits, and peering closely, I realized they were younger than most of the men working for me. They lacked experience from the looks of things, and that explained why they trembled when Sebastian spoke. In time, though, they would toughen up.

Sebastian, one of my loyal soldiers, was still yelling at them and demonstrating with his hands, his movements accentuating his anger. His English was rusty, so he switched to Russian, intensifying his threats.

“Gruz stoit deneg, a vasha oshibka stoit vam same. Ponimaete?” he said, meaning, “The cargo is worth money, and your mistake will cost you your life. Understand?”

In unison, they nodded, fear-stricken.

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