Page 46 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

"See that party over there? VIPs," I nod toward a small group occupying a prime table. "Their bill tonight will be hefty, but not as hefty as we’ll make it."

“Oh?” Zara's gaze follows mine, her expression unreadable. I press on, determined to lay it all bare for her.

"Tomorrow morning, my accountant will generate fake invoices for their tab. Caviar, champagne, the works. We'll register those sales in cash and deposit the funds, making the dirty money appear clean. It's a well-oiled machine."

I risk a glance at Zara, trying to gauge her reaction. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes. Curiosity? Revulsion? I can't quite tell.

“And your other legitimate businesses?” she asks quietly, not meeting my eyes.

“We have casinos, restaurants. We generate 30% of fake invoices, and that’s how we deposit cash from other businessesinto the bank. This helps us fund other legitimate operations,” I explain.

“And this cash,” she asks, her voice quivering. “Where does all that come from?”

Old habits die hard, and for a brief moment, I wonder if I should sugarcoat the truth. But that would be counter-productive. If I’m caught in one more commission or lie, that would be the end of us. So, I brave the truth—consequences be damned.

"Our main source of income is through selling illegal weapons, smuggling of contrabands, and protection money from businesses in areas we run," I confess, watching her closely for any sign of fear or disgust. Surprisingly, her expression remains neutral, although her grip on her purse tightens imperceptibly.

Zara takes a moment to process my words before meeting my gaze head-on. "It's a dangerous world you live in," she comments softly, her eyes searching mine.

"It is," I admit, unable to tear my gaze away from hers. But, she tears hers away from mine.

As we weave through the dining room, I lean close to whisper in her ear. "See that couple by the window? They just paid cash for a $100 bottle of wine. But $500 will show up in our official records."

“So this happens everywhere?” She shivers. I’m unsure whether it’s from my breath on her neck or my words.

I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. But I've promised honesty. "Yes. And the hotels. The casinos. It's all a front, Zara."

She's quiet for a long moment, processing. I fight the urge to fill the silence, to justify myself. This is her moment to decide if she can accept who I truly am.

Finally, she speaks. "Show me more."

Relief floods through me, followed quickly by desire. I want to pull her close, to kiss away the wariness in her eyes. But I restrain myself. I've been given a gift—her willingness to understand my world. I won't squander it.

"Of course," I reply, leading her deeper into the belly of the beast. "Whatever you want to see, it's yours."

Zara's eyes narrow as she surveys the elegant dining room. "Do the patrons know? That this is all…" she trails off, gesturing vaguely.

I shake my head, leaning in close. "No. The Zolotovs only recently acquired these establishments. My siblings and I manage them, but our ownership remains hidden." I let my gaze sweep across the room, taking in the unsuspecting diners. "To them, I'm just another wealthy businessman."

She raises an eyebrow. "And it’s worked so far? No one has ever had any doubts?”

"Yes," I nod, a hint of pride creeping into my voice. "We're very good at what we do, Zara."

Suddenly, a commotion erupts from the back of the restaurant. My body tenses instinctively, years of training kicking in. Zara's eyes widen in alarm.

"Stay here," I command, but she shakes her head stubbornly.

"No. I want to see."

My heart races. This could push her away for good, but I've promised transparency. "Fine. But stay behind me."

We rush to the back entrance. The scene that greets us makes my blood run cold. One of my employees is viciously beating a man on the ground—clearly, the intruder did something he shouldn’t have.

"Enough!" I roar, yanking my man off the prone figure. “What happened?” I ask.

“Boss,” he explains. “This man tried stealing a carton of the wine during shipment.”

The thief scrambles to his feet, terror etched on his face. In one fluid motion, I draw my gun and level it at his head.

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