Page 18 of Knocked Up by the Bratva

Serge shoves at me again, this time with more force, and I stumble back a step. His fists ball at his sides, and I can see the anger brewing in his eyes now, cutting through the drunken haze. “You think you’re better than me, Timur? You think because you wear that fucking suit and boss everyone around, you’re invincible?”

I don’t back down, stepping right back into his space. “I don’t think I’m better. I know I am. Because I don’t let my emotions control me. I don’t spiral into self-pity like you.”

Serge’s fist swings toward my face, and I barely manage to dodge it. The punch lands awkwardly on my shoulder, and I retaliate immediately, slamming my fist into his gut. He doublesover, gasping for breath, but before I can land another hit, Oleg’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Enough!” Oleg shouts, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me back. “Both of you, enough!”

Serge stumbles, clutching his stomach, and spits on the ground, glaring at me through hooded eyes. “Fuck you, Timur.”

I lunge toward him again, but Oleg steps between us, his massive frame keeping me from reaching Serge. “I said enough,” he growls, looking between us with disappointment. “You’re brothers, for fuck’s sake.”

The bar door creaks open, and the bartender—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a nervous expression—steps outside. His eyes flicker between us, clearly assessing the damage before speaking up.

“Uh, I think it’s best if you all leave. Now.”

I can see the fear in his eyes, even though he’s trying to be firm. He knows who we are. This bar has been under Bratva protection for years. It’s practically ours without the paperwork, but we don’t need it on record. It’s our spot, and everyone in this neighborhood knows not to fuck with us. Still, the bartender is too scared to say more than what’s necessary. He doesn’t want this fight inside his place, and honestly, neither do I.

Oleg turns to him with a stiff nod. “We’re leaving.”

I shrug off Oleg’s grip and straighten my jacket, fixing Serge with one last hard stare. “Get your shit together, Serge. Before I do it for you.”

Serge wipes at his mouth, looking down at the ground as if avoiding my gaze. I know he’s still angry, but he’s got nothing left to say. Not here. Not now.

We turn to leave, but not before I catch the bartender’s relieved sigh. I don’t need to remind him who we are, but hisexpression alone tells me he won’t forget this encounter any time soon. He knows better than to push too hard.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my temper. Oleg walks beside me, his silence heavy, but I know he’s waiting for me to say something. Finally, I glance at him.

“Take Serge home. Make sure he stays there this time,” I mutter, my voice still tight with frustration.

Oleg gives a curt nod. “I’ll handle it.”

I watch as he heads toward Serge, who’s still lingering by the bar, leaning heavily against the brick wall. Oleg slings Serge’s arm over his shoulder and helps him toward the car.

As I turn to leave, Oleg’s voice stops me. “Timur.”

I pause, glancing over my shoulder. Oleg’s eyes meet mine, serious but calm. “Serge isn’t the only one struggling. You need to watch yourself too.”

I bristle at his words, but I don’t respond. Oleg’s one of the few people who can talk to me like that without consequences, but that doesn’t mean I like hearing it. Especially not tonight.

I shove my hands into my pockets and walk toward my own car, my thoughts still racing. Serge is slipping, spiraling out of control, and it’s going to catch up to him if he doesn’t stop. Worse, if our rivals see this weakness in him, they’ll exploit it.

It’s not just Serge I’m worried about. His words, though slurred and drunk, struck a nerve. What’s the point of all this power if it can’t fix anything?

I grit my teeth, pushing those thoughts aside as I climb into my car. I have more important things to deal with right now.

As I drive, my thoughts inevitably drift back to her. Jennifer. The woman who slipped through my fingers like smoke after that night. No one walks away from me, not withouta damn good reason. Yet, she did. No explanations, no second glance, just gone. For some reason, it’s been gnawing at me ever since.

I clench the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking under my grip. I don’t feel anything for anyone—haven’t for a long time. Emotions are just a liability in my world. They get people killed, weaken the strongest men. With her, it’s different. It’s like her rejection has only made me want her more, like she’s some kind of unsolvable puzzle. It makes no sense, and that only pisses me off more.

She’s different from the others, that’s for sure. Not like the women who throw themselves at me because of my power or money, hoping to snag a piece of my life for themselves. Jennifer didn’t seem to care about any of that, or maybe she was just good at pretending she didn’t. Either way, she walked away. I should’ve forgotten about her the minute she left, but here I am, weeks later, still thinking about her.

She had the audacity to act like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing. That’s what makes her so damn frustrating. It’s like she’s rejecting me, and I’m not used to being rejected. By anyone.

A sharp breath escapes me as I force my mind to focus on the road. I have bigger problems to handle. Serge is still spiraling, and I’ve got a Mafia empire to run. I shouldn’t be wasting my time thinking about some intern who probably wants nothing to do with me. No matter how hard I try, she keeps creeping back into my mind.

I shake my head, as if that could clear away the thoughts of her. It doesn’t. Her face, her body, her fucking attitude—it’s all stuck there, like some kind of infection I can’t shake.

My phone buzzes in the center console, interrupting my thoughts. I grab it, glancing at the screen. It’s Oleg.

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