Page 25 of Pregnant By the Mafia Boss

Fear has a grip on her too, because her eyes widen as she discreetly tilts her head to the bulky guards parked right outside the door.“No,”she mouths back, covering her back and swiftly unlinking my finger from hers. “Enjoy your food tonight, ma’am. The chef tells me the fish is nice,” she says cordially, speaking louder than necessary, making it implicitly clear she’s not willing to assist me.

Fuck. I’m never getting out of here. Somebody—anybody…Help.

“Thanks,” I mumble pitifully as she quickly backs her trolley out of the room. The guards must sense something wrong as one of them steps inside the room, watching me like a hawk.

“Are you good?” he asks, his tone thick with a Russian accent.

“No,” I groan. “I’m not so good. My stomach hurts, and I think the toilet here might be blocked. I need to go to another one,” I pitch, hoping the guard is stupid enough to buy my fake story.

He sneers, tapping the side of his hip where his gun sits comfortably in its holster. “No. The toilet works fine. Pee in the shower,” he remarks coldly, the guard’s combat boots crunching over the cold marble as he moves back to his post back outside the door. “Don’t call out again unless it’s an emergency, otherwise you’re going to be sorry,” he warns for good measure.

Bad move, and talk about being doomed.Maybe it’s the baby brain or sheer panic stopping me from coming up with agood plan, and even if I am cloaked in fear, the rumble in my stomach tells me, I still have to eat.For my baby’s sake.I peek under the silver cloches, excepting slop, but I’m surprised by the high quality of food served to me.

Looks can be deceiving….Picking up the fork, suspicion makes me hesitate as I stall, listen closely to the men outside, seeking clues, but they’re speaking in Russian, the language barrier fucking me up.

What if he’s poisoning me for payback purposes?I plop back down to the dining table, my logical reasoning coming online.

You’re carrying his baby. He’s not going to poison you.

Spiraling thoughts rock me, but still I take the gamble, devouring the tender chicken breast drenched in white sauce in front of me, along with the creamy mashed potatoes and asparagus. God.I hate that food from the enemy tastes so damn good, but the pangs of hunger can’t be staved off as I finish my food fast, justifying it by keeping my baby alive.

I throw myself back into the horrors of my present, rubbing my cold arms, staring down at the faint purple and blue bruises from rough handling covering my upper arms.

Shaking off the bad memories, I resolve to sit cross-legged on the cold, tile floor, biting my tongue to keep from crying. Running my fingers through my messed-up hair, I feel around for sore spots or any lumps unaccounted for. There are none—other than a broken spirit.

My teeth grind and clang together as I tire myself out, laying down on the marble tile for the next couple of hours.

When will this end? He can’t keep me here like this!I let my chest rise and fall as I think about my unquenchable need for revenge on Ruslan for his keeping me locked up.

Will anybody find me in time? Surely my mother and my friends are searching for me already, right? Are the Bratva gonna kill me?

My chest grows tighter as an imaginary hand grips my throat. I can’t breathe. I get up again pacing around the room, the realization hitting that there’s no escape from this sterile hell house.

A faint knock at the door minutes later, ends my mental prison, and I stalk towards it—every time, hoping it’s Ruslan, so I can sort out a way to reason with him, but no, it’s a woman with a severe blonde hairstyle, and high cheekbones.

“Ms. Anderson,” she greets cordially, promptly stepping inside the door. “My name’s Anastasia, and I’ve come to collect a sample of your blood. I’ll need to take rounds of it for testing purposes.”

“What’s this about?” I snap, bewildered for a moment, until I catch on to Ruslan’s plan. The baby. This is about the baby.

The woman spares no reaction to my outburst, directing me to the closest chair instead, unveiling a blood pressure cuff, and performing her duties clinically. Her icy blue eyes cut into mine when she finally answers.

“It’s about taking a blood sample for various purposes. Ruslan has requested this. Remain still as I retrieve the samples.” I’m tempted to snatch the needle out of her hand and stab her with it, but I sit still, not wanting to rock the boat. Yet.

“Okay.” It only a few minutes for her to retrieve the sample, and then I’m back to square one, pacing around the large space, flicking the TV on and off, trying to work out what Ruslan’s going to do to me.

Nothing works, and I find myself curling up on the large couch, falling sleep. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep on the couch, but when I rise—my eyes are fuzzy as I stare at the wall clock, noting the time. Midnight.

It’s two days on and midnight. Still Ruslan hasn’t come to see me or tell me my fate, but just as new thoughts of slowly fading away in this place plague me, the door clicks open.

Clawing at the couch, my heartrate shoots through the roof as the light flicks on, a large, bearded man standing in its doorway. It’s Ruslan and he’s holding papers in his hand, and a satisfied smirk on his generous mouth.

Licking my dry lips, I adjust to the light, my arms shaky as I sit upright. It’s the pregnancy confirmation reports. It can be nothing else he has in his hands.

He wanted to prove he was the father. Now he knows.

“Fiona Anderson,” he drawls, his heady cologne swirling around the room and taking up space.

“Ruslan-I-don’t-know-your-last-name,” I retort smartly, not wanting him to know how frightened I truly am.

---