Page 3 of The Bratva's Forbidden Pregnancy

“Now, get back to work!” he hollered at them.

He left them and walked over to me.

Sebastian was huge, standing almost as tall as I was. His face was a canvas of tattoos telling stories of his past. The scar cutting across his face stood out, a testament to his loyalty to the brotherhood. He’d gotten that during a brutal clash with a rival organization, and with that single act of selflessness, he’d gained a fraction of my trust.

He halted before me in a pair of black jeans and a black turtleneck shirt that hugged his body. His gray eyes were devoid of any emotion, his head was completely bald, and his face was so rigid and covered in ink. To an average man, Sebastian looked like a demon from hell with all those rings on his face.

With a slight nod, he greeted, “Pakhan.” Around his fingers, he rolled an unsheathed dagger with dangerous precision. He’d always been good with knives, and whenever he hurled it, he never missed.

“How long until we get these to New York?” I asked, my voice low and even.

“Seven, maybe ten hours,” he replied, his thick, raucous tone laced with the Russian accent, “depending on the weather.”

“Good.” I nodded, taking another drag on my cigar.

Being a member of the New York Russian Bratva, I could have been working in the United States, but I preferred to operate from my home country, where I’d spent most of my life. My cultural heritage meant a great deal to me, which was why I loved to operate from here. It was the connection to my roots that I cherished deeply. Plus, I wasn’t exactly fond of the Americans.

I heard a car pull over behind me, and soon, the engine died down. The door unlocked, and someone stepped out of the vehicle, slamming it shut. I turned to the newcomer as he walked up to me.

It was Simon Olegov, the only man I completely trusted in this business. He was my most loyal soldier, and he’d been working for me since he was eighteen.

It’s been that long, eh? Two fucking decades of unwavering loyalty.

The man had my respect.

Trust was a strong word to throw around in this business, given the nature of our work. But Simon was my right-hand man, and I trusted him with my life. It had taken a long time to let him in, though—to fully trust him, and for good reason—but eventually, I learned to do so. Besides, he worked so hard to earn it. A few years ago, he took a bullet for me; it wasn’t the first time he’d done that, but this recent act was different because the bullet had missed his heart by an inch. He was more than willing to die for me.

As he stopped in front of me, his black buzz cut shimmered in the overhead lights, and the tattoos on his neck were visible through the collar of his black shirt. Simon was a sucker for tats, and almost his entire body was covered in ink. He was so close to me, and one might say I considered him my best friend. Simon was the only one who truly knew me inside and out.

He wasn’t so tall, nor was he heavily built like Sebastian, but the man was just as dangerous, maybe even worse than Sebastian. Once, I’d watched him kill five guys three times bigger than him in less than sixty seconds with nothing but a broken table leg he’d used as a makeshift weapon. In hand-to-hand combat, Simon always used his average size to his advantage; he was fast and strategic in his thinking.

“Pakhan, there’s something I want you to see,” he said, flashing me a cocky grin with his eyes crinkling at the corners. Simon set the pace, leading me to the rear of his car. “Trust me, you’re gonna love this.” He chuckled, popping the trunk open.

I was certain that I would. Whenever Simon came to me like this, whatever he had was always something worth my time.

I looked into the trunk, and there was a man tied—hands and feet—with his mouth taped, but as he saw me, he almost lost it, immediately turning into a crackhead. He was struggling, his speech muffled, but that didn't stop him. His eyes were wide with fear, and his breathing was heavy.

Peering closely, I realized who the man was, and in that instant, I frowned. It was Denis.

I saw in his eyes that he knew I was pissed, and that alone had him squirming in the trunk.

Simon shot a glance at me, awaiting my instructions.

“Get him out,” I said.

Without hesitation, Simon hurled him up with a rough jerk and slammed him to the snow-covered ground.

Denis was a member of the Wolkov Bratva who had committed a grievous offense; he’d killed another member of the brotherhood. It was an act of betrayal.

I stepped forward as Denis continued to struggle with the zip ties that had him bound. He was trying to speak, to plead, but his lips were still sealed.

Simon whistled, catching the attention of the other men, and soon, they gathered to watch.

I pulled out my gun and aimed at Denis’ head while his hands were thrown up in front of him in fear.

“Let this be a lesson to every one of you,” I said to my men, and within the next second, I squeezed the trigger.

Denis’ head fell back with a hole in it, his blood splattering on the snow.

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