Page 47 of Bratva Baby

I force myself to sit on the sofa, counting my breaths. A swirl of nausea passes over me, and I fight the urge to retch. Stress, I tell myself. It has to be stress. I bury my face in my hands, wishing I could vanish into the cushions.

Time inches forward. Eventually, the exhaustion of worry pushes me to my room. I close the door and lean against it. My mind drifts to the calendar pinned to the wall, the one with scribbled notes about gatherings and deadlines.

I recall a note about my sister’s birthday, and next to it, an asterisk marking the date of my last cycle, and my stomach drops. It’s been… well, more than six weeks. Actually, closer to two months. The thought crossed my mind the other day, but I told myself I must be off by a week or two.

The anxiety spikes again, accompanied by another wave of nausea. My heart races. Could I be pregnant? The possibility sinks its claws into me, terrifying and strangely mesmerizing at the same time.

I lock myself in the bathroom and rummage through drawers for the box I stashed away months ago. My hand finally closes around it, pulling it out into the flickering overhead light. A pregnancy test. I never thought I’d need it since my marriage to Grigor was forced. Our passion was an unexpected outcome ofcircumstances. This test was stuffed into a gift bag given to me by a distant aunt on my wedding day. I scoffed at the time, but now…

Well, thank you, Aunt Linda.

I set the test on the sink and read the instructions carefully, ignoring the trembling in my fingers. I follow each step meticulously as my mind tangles with questions I’m not ready to answer.

Moments later, I place the test on a flat surface and step away, trying to keep calm. Every second feels like an eternity. I recall how I used to soothe Cecily when she was anxious, reminding her to breathe, to focus on something tangible. Now, I’m the one needing that reassurance, and there’s no one here to give it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, counting off the required time. The sense of dread grows. What if it’s positive? What if it’s negative? Both outcomes terrify me in different ways.

When I finally force myself to look, the result is clear. Positive.

My breath hitches. I stare at the test with my heart pounding so loudly I can hear it in my ears. A baby. Grigor’s child. The father of this innocent life might be walking into mortal peril as I stand here, discovering this news alone.

I slump against the bathroom wall as tears prickle at my eyes. A thousand thoughts race through my mind. I’ve always been maternal. Cecily was practically my responsibility from the time we were kids, with Father too busy scheming. Caring for a sibling is one thing, though. Having a child is a completely different reality.

What about Grigor? He’s never once mentioned wanting children. He lives in a violent world, one he navigates without a second thought. Does a child fit in that life? And how can I bring a baby into this war-torn existence, where men like my father and the Irish mob would use any weakness to strike?

My breath comes shorter, and panic claws at my chest. Grigor might see this child as a burden, or worse, a vulnerability. An asset or a liability. He’s always so strategic about everything. But recently, he’s shown me glimpses of something else, something more tender. Could he welcome a baby? Could he be the protective father figure I suspect he might be?

Doubt crushes me. I’ve lied to him, withheld crucial information. I’ve all but handed him to my father’s schemes. Why would he trust me enough to build a life with me and a child, especially now? The thought that he might reject me, or this baby, stings like salt in a wound.

I press a hand to my abdomen, and tears slip down my cheeks. I feel a swelling of protectiveness already, a fledgling connection to this tiny life inside me. Despite the heartbreak and fear, part of me wants this child. I want a chance at a family that isn’t built on lies and violence. But is that even possible with Grigor and me?

A sob tumbles out of my mouth, muffled by my hand. This might be the worst possible timing. My father is practically my husband’s mortal enemy. My father’s debt to the Irish looms, Grigor is embroiled in constant conflict, and I’m stuck in the crossfire with no clue how to protect myself—or this unborn child.

I imagine telling Grigor, seeing the look of shock or betrayal on his face. Or maybe he’d display that same eerie calm that warns of a storm. I picture him placing his hand on mystomach, a fleeting moment of warmth in this cold, dangerous life we share. And then I imagine him turning away, deciding it’s too much risk.

A wave of nausea hits me again, forcing me to kneel by the toilet. Tears drip onto the tile as I fight the urge to vomit. My mind whirls with the knowledge that I’m carrying a life that could become a target the minute anyone finds out.

I realize I can’t tell a soul. Not yet. Not until I figure out what this means for me, for my marriage, for the precarious state of affairs around us. If Father learns about this pregnancy, he’d see me as an even bigger bargaining chip. The Irish might exploit it if they suspect Grigor has a new weakness. Grigor himself… I can’t predict his reaction.

I stand slowly, wiping my face. My reflection in the bathroom mirror reveals reddened eyes and trembling lips. I look like someone I scarcely recognize. Someone cornered with no exit plan.

I fold the test in some tissue and hide it in the bottom of the trash can, then wash my hands, scrubbing until they ache. My thoughts roil with possibilities, none of them offering comfort.

Eventually, I return to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I climb onto the bed, sitting cross-legged, cradling my midsection as if I can shield the tiny life inside. My breath quivers. Grigor is out there, facing enemies on all sides, and I’m here, discovering I’m pregnant with his child.

I close my eyes, wanting to vanish under the blankets. But I can’t. My father’s manipulations, the Irish threat, Grigor’s precarious alliances—they’re all converging into a crisis I can’t pretend isn’t there. And now, there’s a child in the mix.

Sorrow hits me again, and I bury my face in my hands. I recall the day I tried to nurse Cecily’s fever, how I stayed by her side, singing lullabies. I remember the countless nights I spent cooking her meals when Father was away. I took on a guardian role with her. Can I do that for my own child while living in a world that thrives on bloodshed?

I sense the weight of my phone in my pocket, the device that’s tracked me and betrayed me at the same time. A war rages inside me: should I call Grigor, beg him to come home, confess everything? Or do I stay silent, let him handle the trap he’s walking into, and see if we can survive this crisis before I drop another bombshell in his lap?

I press my trembling lips together. No. Telling him now, while he’s on a mission, could distract him dangerously. If he’s stepping into an ambush, any slip of focus might cost him his life. I won’t do that to him.

So I wait. I wrap my arms around myself, and I stare at the door as though expecting him to burst through any second, wearing that weary smirk, telling me he outsmarted them all. Then I could run to him, confess my news, and maybe, just maybe, we could figure this out together.

But reality douses that hope. The harsh truth is that I lied to him for weeks. I aided my father’s side. I kept secrets that might have jeopardized his safety. He forgave me, or at least put aside his anger for the moment, but trust is fragile. Will he think this child is another manipulation? A ploy to keep him bound to me?

I shake my head and push the vicious thought aside. This child is real, and it deserves a chance. I can’t let cynicism taint that.

---