Page 9 of The Bratva's Forbidden Pregnancy

As I gazed at this man, I couldn’t help but be struck by his commanding presence, which exuded an air of confidence and power. He stood tall with an imposing frame that drew my attention like a magnet.

His dirty blond hair was perfectly styled, adding a hint of ruggedness to his chiseled features and strong jawline.

He was dressed in a long fur coat, an impeccably tailored suit underneath. A stick of cigar was clutched between his fingers.

The two men faced off against each other, and the atmosphere was so tense that everybody was silent while watching them. They looked like two wrestlers in a ring, about to start throwing punches.

I glanced outside the window and saw multiple black cars. Then, I spotted some men in black trench coats, all heavily armed, as they circled the house.

Okay, what exactly is going on here? Who are these guys, and why’s this incredibly attractive man looking like he’s about to hit my dad?

“Who are these men outside the house?” I asked my grandma, keeping my voice low as I rose to my feet.

She gripped my hand and whispered, “It’s the Bratva.”

Babushka said it like I was supposed to know what it meant, but I didn’t.

She looked up at me, and, seeing my confusion, added in simpler terms, “They are mafia.”

Mafia. That can’t be good.

And what in the world was my dad doing facing off against a man who seemed to be a mafia boss?

What the hell was really happening here?

The air was thick with tension until the man finally broke the silence and snickered. Dad did the same, and they both shook hands and then hugged like they were old buddies.

What the hell?

Well, it turned out that they were buddies, indeed. But why be so dramatic about it? They almost gave me a fucking heart attack.

I exhaled slowly.

At least there was nothing to worry about here.

“Wh—what’re you doing here?” Dad stuttered, surprise coloring his eyes.

“I was passing by the neighborhood, and I decided to say hello to my old friend,” the man said.

My dad squinted, and I could tell he was confused. “How did you know I was back in town?”

The man chuckled. “You know me, Paul. I have eyes everywhere,” he replied with a faint grin.

Those eyes…I recognized them. Those hazel brown eyes.

Fuck! It was him. It was really him. He was the same young man from the album, the one Babushka refused to tell me about, only this time, he was more mature…more handsome.

“Vlad, hi,” my mom greeted him with a warm smile.

It was fake, though. She was so good at pretending sometimes, but I knew her better than anyone else in this room—except for my dad, of course. Mom was faking her gladness to see this man, and was it just me, or did she seem rather worried at the sight of him?

“Natalie,” he muttered. “It’s good to see you again.”

She flashed that plastic grin again.

He walked over to me and my grandmother and then faced her, his head bowed in respect. “Privyet, Babushka,” he said, his voice low and calm.

Dang it! His voice was so sexy.

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