Page 30 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Anger rises in me like a tide, swift and unrelenting. “Enough,” I snap, my voice cutting through the room. “You’re overstepping.”

“I’m doing my job,” Vera counters, her tone calm but firm. “I’ve been with this family long enough to know what works and what doesn’t. You want her to stay, to raise your child without resentment? Then you need to earn more than just her obedience.”

Her words, bold and challenging, surprise me.

I take a step closer, the space between us shrinking. “You speak out of turn, Vera.”

“You know I’m right,” she replies evenly, her expression unyielding.

For a long moment, the room is silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. My hands clench into fists at my sides, the urge to dismiss her battling with the truth in her words.

Finally, I exhale sharply, turning away from her. “Leave,” I say coldly, my tone brooking no argument.

Vera nods, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll continue to watch over her,” she says before leaving. “Think about what I’ve said, Mr. Sharov. For her sake, and yours.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m left alone with the echo of her words.

I return to my desk, but the whiskey no longer holds any appeal. My mind churns, replaying Vera’s warning and the unsettling truth behind it.

Hannah’s fear doesn’t bother me—it’s expected, even necessary. The image Vera painted, of my child looking at me with the same wide-eyed terror, gnaws at me in a way I can’t shake.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as my thoughts spiral. Hannah is mine, in every sense of the word.

Vera’s right about one thing—if I want her to stay willingly, if I want her to raise this child without resentment festering between us, then fear alone won’t be enough.

The realization sits uncomfortably in my chest, heavy and unfamiliar. For years, I’ve ruled with power and control, taking what I want without apology. With her, things feel different.

Her defiance, her fire—it draws me in, even as it frustrates me. And the thought of losing her, of watching her retreat into herself, makes my grip on control feel precarious.

I drag a hand down my face, a low growl escaping my throat.

Vera’s words echo again, refusing to be silenced.A woman who isn’t happy won’t raise a happy child.

Chapter Eleven - Hannah

The knock on the door is loud and sharp, pulling me out of a restless sleep. My body stiffens as I sit up, my heart already racing. The past twenty-four hours have been a blur of fear, anger, and exhaustion, and now, dread twists in my stomach.

The door opens before I can respond, and Andrei steps inside, his expression as stoic as ever.

“Get up,” he says flatly. “Makar wants to see you.”

My throat tightens, and I glance at the locked window before swinging my legs off the bed. Running is pointless; I learned that the hard way.

“Fine,” I mutter, my voice hoarse.

Andrei waits silently as I pull on the sweater draped over the chair, the fabric offering little comfort against the chill that has settled deep in my bones. He leads me down the long hallways of the mansion, every step echoing ominously.

When we reach Makar’s office, Andrei opens the door and motions for me to enter. My stomach churns as I step inside, the sight of Makar behind the massive desk filling me with equal parts anger and unease.

He looks up from a document, his piercing blue eyes locking with mine. He sets the paper down deliberately, his movements calm, controlled.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of him.

“I’ll stand,” I reply, my voice sharper than I intend.

His eyebrow arches slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studies me.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, his tone cool and detached.

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