Page 40 of Knocked Up by the Bratva

Jennifer swallows hard, her eyes darting between me and the baby. The fear on her face is unmistakable, but there’s something else now. A kind of resignation, like she’s about to give up the last piece of herself that she’s been hiding.

She hesitates for a moment, and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she says, “He’s your son.”

The room falls silent.

My son.

The words hang in the air like a weight, pressing down on me. I turn back to the crib, staring at the small boy lying there, his tiny chest rising and falling in time with the soft sounds of his breathing. My son.

A rush of conflicting emotions surges through me—anger, confusion, disbelief—but beneath all of that, there’s a strange sense of… pride? I push the thought away, refusing to let it take root. This child is a complication. An obstacle. I don’t have room for sentiment.

This changes everything.

I turn back to Jennifer, her tear-streaked face now contorted with desperation. She looks ready to collapse, her body trembling as she stares at me, waiting for my reaction. She must think I’ll kill her now, that her betrayal has sealed her fate. Maybe it has.

“How long?” I ask, my voice cold and measured. “How long have you been keeping this from me?”

Jennifer sobs, her knees nearly buckling as she tries to answer. “Since I left,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to bring him into your world. I thought… I thought it was safer this way.”

Safer? The thought ignites something dark inside me. She took my child, my blood, and kept him hidden from me. Ran from me, betrayed me, all while carrying my son. My hands clench into fists, and I force myself to take a breath, to not let the rage take over completely.

“I told you, Jennifer,” I say, stepping closer to her, my voice low and dangerous. “You belong to me, therefore so does he.”

Her eyes widen as I close the distance between us, towering over her as I speak. “You thought you could hide fromme, keep this secret?” I grab her arm roughly, pulling her toward me.

She tries to speak, to beg for mercy, but I cut her off with a growl. “Don’t even think about running again. Because this time, I’ll find you. There won’t be any more mercy.”

The sound of the baby crying breaks through the tense silence between us. My grip loosens slightly on Jennifer’s arm as the baby’s cries grow louder, more desperate. His small, innocent voice fills the room, and for a moment, the rage inside me softens, just a little.

Jennifer’s eyes dart toward the crib, her maternal instinct kicking in as she tugs against my hold. “Please,” she whispers, her voice trembling with urgency. “Let me go to him.”

I stare at her, my jaw clenched. For a brief second, I consider keeping her pinned here, making her feel the weight of her decisions. But the baby’s cries tug at something deep within me, something unfamiliar and unsettling. I release her arm.

“Go,” I say gruffly, stepping back. “You’re not leaving this room. They stay by the door.” I motion to my men, who stand silently by the entrance, their eyes sharp and watchful.

Jennifer rushes to the crib, scooping the baby into her arms with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the chaos and violence swirling around us. She cradles him against her chest, her face softening as she shushes him, trying to calm his cries. I watch her, my gaze hardening as I fight back the conflict raging inside me. She lied. She ran. But she’s the mother of my child, and that complicates everything.

“He’s scared,” Jennifer murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper as she strokes the baby’s head. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

I take a step closer, my eyes narrowing as I look down at the small bundle in her arms. His tiny fists clutch at her shirt, and the sight stirs something in me—something I can’t fully understand. This is my son. My blood. He has no idea what world he’s been born into, no idea of the violence and darkness that surrounds his existence. I know that now, more than ever, they both belong to me.

“You and the baby are coming back with me,” I say firmly, my voice leaving no room for argument.

Jennifer’s head snaps up, her eyes wide with defiance. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says, her voice shaky but resolute. “This is my life now. You can’t just waltz in here and—”

I cut her off with a harsh laugh. “You think you have a choice in this? You think after what you did, after keeping my son from me, that you get to decide?”

Her grip tightens around the baby, and I see the panic rise in her eyes. She’s afraid, but she’s also stubborn—something I both admire and despise in her.

“I’m not going back to New York,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I’ve built a life here. I have a job, I have—”

“You have one hour to pack your things,” I interrupt coldly, stepping closer until I’m towering over her again. “You won’t need to work. You’ll dedicate yourself to me and to our child. That’s your life now.”

She shakes her head, tears welling up in her eyes again as she cradles the baby tighter. “Timur, please. You can’t just—”

“One hour, Jennifer,” I repeat, my voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me ask again.”

She looks down at the baby in her arms, her expression torn between fear and resignation. I can see the wheels turningin her mind, the conflict in her eyes. She wants to fight back, but she knows she’s cornered. There’s no escape this time.

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