Page 39 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

I move to the filing cabinet, rifling through folders. Business contracts, financial reports—nothing that could give me a lead.

My hand hovers over the last hope I have, a final drawer at the bottom of his desk. I yank it open, already making peace with disappointment, preparing myself to find nothing.

But then, my breath catches. I spot a folded piece of paper tucked beneath a stack of innocuous documents. Heart pounding, I carefully extract it, unfolding it with trembling fingers. An address is scrawled in Abram's distinctive handwriting—a location I don't recognize in a part of the city I've never visited. And right above it, two words.The hideout.

The hideout? Why ever would he need a hideout? My heart races as though I’m holding a loaded weapon I don’t want to test. I tell myself it could be an inn or a restaurant, but even as I do, it feels like a lie.

I clutch the paper tight in my trembling grip, my entire time with him flashing through my mind. He never told me what his family business is. He knows some of the most powerful people in the world. The media hounds him. And he has a hideout.

I know, deep in my gut, that this address is the key to finding Abram. But what will I discover when I get there? For a brief second, I wonder if I should stop this now and here. Just wait for him to return, in fear of what I might find once I reach this hideout.

But then again, a larger part of my heart struggles to know he’s safe.

Without a second thought, I follow my impulse. I pocket the paper and hurry out of the office. I slide behind the wheel of my car and press my foot to the pedal.

***

The city streets blur past as I drive, my mind a whirlwind of questions and fears. What if he's in trouble? What if he's hurt? Or what if he's deliberately keeping other secrets from me? Whyever would have a hideout? What could all this mean?

"No," I mutter, shaking my head. "He wouldn't do that. There has to be an explanation."

But as I navigate through unfamiliar neighborhoods, each turn taking me further from the glittering city I know, doubt creeps in. The Abram I love is gentle, protective. But there's always been an edge to him, a darkness I've sensed but never truly confronted.

"What am I walking into?" I wonder aloud, my voice small in the confines of the car.

The streets grow narrower, the buildings more dilapidated. This is a part of the city Abram would never let me visit alone. Yet here I am, driving into the unknown, chasing the man who's become my entire world.

"Please be okay," I whisper, a prayer to whoever might be listening. "Please let me find you."

The car slows as I approach the address, my heart pounding in sync with the idling engine. Before me looms a nondescript concrete building, its facade a patchwork of graffiti and peeling paint. Windows, dark and lifeless, stare back at me like hollow eyes. A chill runs down my spine.

"This can't be right," I murmur, double-checking the scrap of paper clutched in my trembling hand. But the numbers match.

I kill the engine, the sudden silence oppressive. There’s a weird vibe to this whole place that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. Across the street, a flickering streetlamp casts eerie shadows, transforming innocent trash cans into lurking figures.

Taking a deep breath, I step out of the car. The cool night air carries the faint scent of decay and something metallic. My heels click against the cracked pavement as I approach the building, each step echoing in the deserted street.

"Abram?" I call out softly, my voice barely above a whisper. No response.

I reach for the door handle, its cold metal biting into my palm. It turns with a rusty groan that seems to reverberatethrough the entire structure. Hesitating at the threshold, I peer into the inky blackness beyond.

What am I doing?I think to myself.There could be dangerous people here. This is insane.

But the thought of Abram, possibly in danger, propels me forward. I step inside, the darkness swallowing me whole. The musty air fills my lungs, carrying the scent of dust and something else—something coppery and unsettling.

As my eyes adjust to the gloom, vague shapes emerge—discarded furniture and piles of debris. Shadows dance at the edge of my vision, playing tricks on my mind.

I take another step, my shoe crunching on something. Glass? I can't tell in this darkness. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps as I strain to hear any sign of life.

And then a muffled thud echoes from somewhere deep within the building, followed by a choked cry that sends ice through my veins. My feet move of their own accord, drawn to the sound like a moth to flame.

As I round a corner, harsh light spills from a partially open door. The metallic scent grows stronger, mingling with sweat and fear. I edge closer, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Tell us what we want to know," a familiar voice growls—Abram's voice, but colder than I've ever heard it.

I peer through the crack, and the scene before me steals the breath from my lungs. Abram stands tall, his broad shoulders taut with tension. Beside him, Vladimir's wolfish grin gleams in the harsh fluorescent light. Between them, a man slumps in a chair, his face a mess of bruises and blood.

"I… I don't know anything else," the man sobs, his words slurred through swollen lips.

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