Page 78 of Ruthless Daddies

I nod, clutching the bag. “Thanks, Jenna. I just…I need to know.”

She gives me a worried look but doesn’t press.

I pull the box out of the bag, and make it to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

Minutes feel like hours as I wait for the test to process, the little screen on the stick taunting me with its silence.

When the result finally appears, my breath catches.

Pregnant.

I stare at the word, my chest tightening as a million emotions crash over me at once. Relief. Terror. Joy. Confusion.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, sinking onto the edge of the tub.

I’m pregnant. With whose child, I don’t know, but I am undeniably, unmistakably pregnant.

When I come out, Jenna is sitting on my bed.

“Well?” she asks.

I hesitate, my lips parting to answer, but before I can get a word out, the door opens and Marta steps in, as if she was waiting just outside.

Marta’s gaze hardens, and before I can react, her hand shoots out, grabbing the kit.

“A pregnancy test?” Marta hisses, her voice dripping with disdain. “You’re pregnant?”

I swallow hard, my throat tightening. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, it’s exactly what I think,” she snaps.

“Marta, it’s none of your business,” I say, my voice shaking.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, little girl. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

I glance at Jenna, who looks like she’s ready to jump in, but I shake my head slightly. This is my mess to handle.

“I’ll handle it,” I say.

Marta scoffs, tossing the kit back at me. “You’d better,” she says, her tone laced with warning. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

30

IVAN

The air inside the warehouse is thick with the scent of oil and steel, mingling with the faint tang of mildew from the damp walls. It’s not the most pleasant place to hold a meeting, but it’s one of the few places we can talk freely without fear of prying ears.

Nikolai leans against a rusted metal table, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the men gathered before us. Dmitri is pacing near the corner, his expression dark, the tension radiating off him in waves.

I stand in the center, my hands clasped behind my back, taking in the scene with a calm that I don’t feel. The warehouse feels too quiet, the men too nervous. Something about it doesn’t sit right.

“Three men,” I say finally, breaking the silence. “Dead in Staten Island. Hit-and-run.”

One of the men, a younger recruit named Yuri, shifts uncomfortably. I focus on him, watching the way his gaze flicks to the ground.

“You all worked with them,” I continue, my voice steady but firm. “You knew them. Loyal, hardworking men. And now they’re gone because Vadim wants to send a message.”

The mention of Vadim’s name sends a ripple of unease through the group.

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