Page 86 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

She left without saying goodbye and without wanting to speak to me—she was totally fine with just…leaving.

My mind aches as I try to process this truth.

Clara is gone.

My heart begins to crack, deep fissures forming, pain shooting through my chest.

She left me without a care.

All of this was some fucking game to her? A waiting game until she could really get away? She took the first chance she got—

Fuck that.

She is mine.

How dare she fucking assume that I would let her just walk away like that. I didn’t give her permission. I didn’t agree to this.

I will get her again and she will be chained to my side.

I grab my car keys and rush out to the driveway.

Shaking my head, I take gulps of cold afternoon air, trying to clear my mind of the drugs Oleg used to take me down.

Fucking asshole. He will have to deal with me later.

The car growls to life and I rev a few times.

Then I’m off.

I’m racing towards the city. Towards Giorgio Vitali’s house. I don’t care what I have to do. I will get her back.

And this time—this time, I won’t be so lenient. I won’t be so kind.

She belongs to me.

I control where she goes and what she does.

The anger forms a thick layer of protection over my heart, blocking out the hurt. Blocking out the trauma of losing her. Anger is easier. It’s something I understand. Something I can work with.

I drive way to fast, but I don’t care. I don’t care if something happens to me. I feel dangerous and reckless.

I can’t believe she did that to me. Was it all fake? Was all of it some fucked up bullshit, biding her time until she can get away?

I will find her again, and I will get her back, and she will learn to love me.

A car swerves in front of me, and I shout angrily, dragging my steering wheel to he left to avoid a collision—and veer right off the road into a muddy ditch at the edge of the forest.

The other car is reversing up the road towards me, and I push my door open, the anger surging even worse than before. I want to smash this person’s face in.

It’s Oleg’s car.

It’s fucking Oleg, back to cause even more shit.

His car comes to a stop, blocking mine. Not that I can go anywhere right now—my tires are sucked into the mud.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I scream, slamming my fist against his window.

“Get the fuck in the car,” he snarls as the window drags open.

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