Page 1 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

Chapter 1 - Abram

The clinking of tableware and muted laughter tell me everyone’s having a wonderful meal, yet I push the overcooked steak around my plate. The rich aroma of garlic and herbs wafts up, but my appetite remains stubbornly absent.

"What's wrong, Brother? American food not agreeing with your delicate Russian palate?" Denis teases, elbowing me playfully.

I force a wan smile. "Just adjusting, that's all."

My eyes wander over the modern restaurant—all metal sculptures, white floors, and minimalistic walls. So different from home, where it’s all opulent wooden floors and crystal chandeliers. A pang of homesickness hits me unexpectedly.

"I miss the borscht," I admit softly. "And the pelmeni. Even the way the cold bites at your face when you step outside."

Our cousin Lev raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? You miss that icy hellscape?"

I shrug. "It's home. Or was."

"Well, you're in America now, Abram," Mark says, raising his glass. "Land of opportunity. And much better weather."

"True," I concede. "I am glad we came. Though it's strange—having an American mother but never setting foot here until now."

"Better late than never," Denis says.

I nod, gazing out the window at the twinkling city lights. So different from Moscow's snow-capped domes. But perhaps, in time, this too could feel like home.

The conversation takes an abrupt turn as Boris leans in, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Speaking of business, we've got a situation with that new guy in accounting. Seems he's been running his mouth to the wrong people."

Boris’s younger brother Damien’s eyes narrow. "Who?"

"Petrov," Boris spits. "Rookie mistake, but it could cost us big."

"We should teach him a lesson," Mark suggests, cracking his knuckles. "Remind him what happens to loose lips in our world."

I set down my fork, the metallic clink cutting through the tension. "Gentlemen, surely there's a more… civilized approach."

Lev scoffs. "Civilized? Since when do we care about that?"

"Since always," I counter, leaning back in my chair. "Violence is messy; it draws attention. Why not hit him where it truly hurts?" I pause, letting the idea simmer. "His wallet."

Denis tilts his head, intrigued. "Go on."

"A significant cut to his commissions," I explain. "It's clean, sends a message, and keeps our hands metaphorically clean."

Mark frowns. "But where's the fun in that?"

I smirk. "The fun, dear brother, is in watching him squirm, knowing exactly why his paycheck's lighter but unable to complain without admitting his own guilt."

A slow grin spreads across Denis’s face. "I like it. Devious, but elegant."

"That's our Abram," Boris chuckles. "Always finding an educated solution."

I raise my glass. "To creative problem-solving, gentlemen."

***

The next morning, sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows as I pad barefoot through my new home. The hardwood floors are cool beneath my feet, and the space echoes with possibility.

I pause in the living room, envisioning where each piece will go. "A Kandinsky there," I murmur, gesturing to a bare wall. "And perhaps a Chagall to complement it."

My fingers trail along the mantle, feeling for imperfections. Everything must be perfect, a reflection of refined taste that my brothers, for all their strengths, simply don't possess.

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