Page 14 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

Mark clears his throat, ever the peacemaker. "Abram, about the casino deal—"

My mind drifts. I see Zara's laughing face as I recount a joke.

"Abram?" Mark's voice breaks through. "Did you hear what I said?"

I blink, focusing on his concerned face. "Of course. Continue."

Vladimir chuckles softly, and I shoot him a warning glare.

But even though I say the words, my mind drifts back to Zara. The way her silken blonde hair felt beneath my fingertips, the intoxicating scent of her shampoo, the breathy moans that escaped her lips as I brought her to the pinnacle of pleasure…

"For fuck’s sake, Abram! Where’s your head at?" Denis's sharp voice cuts through my reverie, his annoyance palpable. "Are you even listening? We're discussing the expansion project, and you're off in your own world."

"Watch your tone," I growl at my younger sibling, but there's no real heat behind it. He's right, after all.

Mark intervenes smoothly. "Perhaps we should take a short break?"

“There’s no need,” I say through gritted teeth."Of course I'm listening. The expansion project is proceeding as planned. We've secured the necessary permits and contracts."

Vladimir leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "And what of the potential complications with undercutting our current businesses? Have you taken steps to mitigate that risk?"

I nod, grateful for the momentary distraction from the thoughts of Zara. "I have a meeting scheduled with Boris next week. We'll come to an understanding, one way or another."

As the meeting progresses, I find myself increasingly distracted, my thoughts constantly circling back to Zara. The thought of never seeing her again… impossible.

I have to make her understand that would be a mistake. I have to find her.

Mark shoots me a concerned glance, his brow furrowed. "Abram, are you sure you're alright? You seem…preoccupied."

I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the polished floor. "I have a personal matter to attend to.”

Mark's eyebrows shoot up. "Abram, we haven't even—"

“Vladimir, you'll handle the rest of the meeting,” I look at my second-in-command.

Without waiting for a response, I stride out of the boardroom, my heart pounding in my chest. I can feel my siblings' eyes on my back, their unspoken questions hanging in the air. I can practically hear Vladimir’s thoughts: 'Something, or someone?'

But I don’t care.

In the elevator, I loosen my tie, my heart racing. The need to see Zara, to touch her again, is overwhelming. It's consuming me, like a fever I can't shake.

As I slide into my Aston Martin, I punch the address of her gallery into the GPS. The engine roars to life, reflective of the urgency I feel.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, weaving through traffic. Red lights be damned, I'm making my own rules today.

My phone buzzes. Denis. I ignore it.

Another red light. I slam my hand on the steering wheel. "Fuck!"

A flash of Zara's innocent smile crosses my mind, a stark contrast to the darkness I know lurks all around me. She knows nothing of the Bratva. She’s just twenty-four, for god’s sake.

What am I doing? I’m everything she doesn’t need; she’s everything I shouldn't want.

But I do. God help me, I do.

The art gallery where Zara works looms into view, a stark white building that stands out amidst the gritty urban landscape. I screech to a halt, parking haphazardly, ignoring the angry honks behind me. My heart's pounding as I step out of the car.

Through the window, I catch a glimpse of her speaking to a colleague with fluid hand motions as she gestures to a blank space on a wall. Zara. My breath catches at the sight of her in that tight, knee-length blue skirt, her blazer clinging to her curves.

---