Page 55 of Bratva Baby

His eyes blaze. “They destroyed my alliances, undermined my business, cost me precious deals. They never respected me as an equal. I owe them for that.”

My shoulders slump. “Your pride is going to kill you, Father. This baby—your grandchild—it’s innocent in all this. Won’t you at least consider—”

“Stop,” he growls, standing so swiftly his chair topples back. “Don’t lecture me about innocence. You’re the one who got into bed with that Bratva beast. You’re no daughter of mine.”

My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. “What?”

He points a trembling finger at the door. “Leave. If you care so much about that man and his spawn, don’t come back here. You made your choice.”

Tears burn my eyes. I fight the urge to argue, to plead, but I see the finality in his gaze. “Father, please—”

“Get out,” he snarls. “Before I call my men and have you thrown out.”

Stunned into silence, I nod and back toward the door. Part of me wants to shout that he’ll regret this, that he’s throwing away his chance to know his own flesh and blood, but the words die on my lips.

By the time I reach the hallway, tears are slipping down my cheeks. A guard stands there with his eyes averted, likely having overheard every angry word. He doesn’t meet my gaze as I pass.

Once I’m outside, a wave of anguish floods me. My father has disowned me completely. He doesn’t care about my child, about me, about anything but his grudge. I force myself to leave his estate, half-expecting him to fire a shot at my back. But no one stops me. No one says a word.

By the time I get home, I’m drained. My face is blotchy from crying, and all I want is to hide in my room. But the moment I step into the foyer, Galina informs me that Grigor is waiting for me in the living room. She gives me a small, sympathetic smile, like she already guesses I’ve had a hard time.

I find Grigor standing near the fireplace, staring into the flames. He turns when he hears me approach. “You’re back. How did it go?”

I press my lips together, debating what to say. Finally, I shrug. “He disowned me. Called me a traitor. He doesn’t care about the baby.”

Anger crosses Grigor’s face. “He said that?”

“Yes,” I confirm as tears threaten again. “He told me to leave. Said I’m not his daughter anymore.”

Something in Grigor’s posture softens. He crosses the room, placing a cautious hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. Despite everything, you hoped he’d care, right?”

“He’s still my father, even if he hates me.”

“It doesn’t matter. He won’t hurt you, or this child.”

I attempt a weak smile, though my heart aches. “I know. You’ve already promised not to kill him as long as he stays away, so… I guess that’s all we can do.”

He looks at me for a moment, conflict churning behind his eyes. Then he glances around, as if making sure no one else is listening. “Come with me,” he says suddenly, guiding me down the hall.

We reach a side door leading to the garage, where a sleek black car is waiting. My brows knit. “What’s going on?”

He opens the passenger door and steps back. “Get in. I’m taking you out.”

I stare at him, confused. “Now? I’m a mess. I’m not—”

“I said get in, Seraphina. Indulge me.”

Part of me wants to protest, but I don’t have the energy. Maybe a change of scenery is exactly what I need. I slip into the car, and he closes the door behind me. When he climbs behind the wheel, he casts me a sidelong glance with the hint of a grin twitching at his lips. It’s so unlike the usual stern scowl that I can’t help but wonder what he has planned.

Thirty minutes later, we arrive at an upscale restaurant in one of the nicer parts of the city. Everything about it screams luxury—the curved valet ramp, the glittering chandeliers visible through the tall windows, and the doorman who greets us with a polished smile. Grigor hands over the car keys, ignoring the curious look the valet shoots him.

I tug self-consciously at my clothes, wishing I’d dressed better. But Grigor just offers me his arm and leads me inside like we do this all the time. The hostess recognizes him instantly, and she stammers about a private table. He nods, and within minutes, we’re seated in an elegant booth, half-shielded from the rest of the diners.

A polite waiter hands us menus before rattling off specials. I catch only half of it. My mind is still reeling from the day’s events. My father’s rejection, the baby, everything swirling through my head. Grigor studies the menu, then glances at me.

“See anything you like?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I’m not that hungry.”

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