Page 35 of Pregnant Bratva Wife
“The money bothers you.”
I looked back. “No. The secrets bother me. If you send any more money to my sister, you need to discuss it with me first.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.”
***
I barely slept that night. I tossed and turned, playing the conversation over and over. The way he’d looked at me when I asked if there was another motive. The caution in his eyes when he answered.
Federico Lebedev was a man of consequence. Every action had a purpose. Every decision was strategic.
So why me? Why really?
He wanted a wife with a clean image.
But what was the point of having one when he kept me from his world?
By morning, I’d made a decision.
If I were going to be his ‘perfect image’ wife, then I wasn’t going to be a passive participant.
We had made a deal, and I wasn’t going to freeload off it.
I found him in the kitchen, reading the paper while the chef prepared his breakfast. I slid into the chair across from him.
“I want a job.”
He looked up, one eyebrow raised. “A job.”
“Yes. If I’m going to be the perfect wife for you, then I need something to do besides lounging around all day.” I leaned forward. “I need to uphold my end of the bargain.”
He put aside his newspaper. Leaned forward. “I’m listening…”
“I don’t want to be a charity case. I want to contribute. To earn my keep.”
Federico tilted his head. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know yet. But whatever it is the other wives do socially, I need to do the same,” I met his gaze steadily. “I’m not going to be the desperate girl you rescued. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it as equals.”
“Equals,” he repeated slowly, as if trying the word on for size. Then he smiled—slow, genuine, maybe even proud. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”
Chapter 9 - Federico
The ballroom dripped with wealth: Glittering lights, champagne towers, white-gloved waiters, women drenched in diamonds, and a string quartet flown in from France.
The Rossi Foundation Gala was the event of the year in our world. Everyone who was anyone in the New York underworld attended the annual gala, making it impossible to avoid your enemies without seeming weak.
A neutral territory. One night a year, where we met our enemies and allies, yet none raised an allegation. None started or finished a war. One night a year, when we came together for the greater good, donating to causes close to the Rossi family and our hearts.
It was an old-money meets new-money scenario. Power meets influence. To an outsider, this was New York’s elite—people easily mistaken for tycoons, journalists, or politicians.
But we?
We were the seedy underground. The darkness that lingered in the city while it slept.
And for that night? We were innocent.
Our clothes, our grace, our polite conversations—I hoped it would be enough to keep Autumn fooled. I hoped she wouldn’t learn what I was, what I did.
