Page 60 of Pregnant Bratva Wife
The Bratva.
Now that I knew, I wished I were walking into a different night, with different people.
Keep your tongue tight tonight, Autumn,I told myself. I didn’t want to bring any more trouble to my door. These were violent men.
Caspian’s wife, Kate, met us at the door, pulling me into a hug as if we were old friends.
“I’m so glad you came,” she whispered in my ear. “We’ve been dying to meet you properly.”
I pulled back, surprised by her warmth—wasn’t she supposed to be a mob wife, not a hugger? But Kate was already turning to greet her brother-in-law, that warm smile turning even warmer.
She led us in, and I prepared myself for cold stares and—I don’t know, men cleaning guns?
What I found instead caught me completely off guard. Caspian rushed towards us, hurried us over to the bar.
“Drinks! You must have something—red?” He turned to me with a frown, inquiring.
I smiled, trying to politely decline. For some reason, I didn’t want to be getting drunk around the Bratva. “I’m good, really.”
His eyes widened slightly. “No? Okay, okay, whatdoyou like?” He was already pivoting, opening the wine cooler with a furrowed brow, scanning labels like it was a test he hadn’t studied for. “White? Rosé? Something sparkling? Sweet? Dry? We’ve got—hold on, I think there’s a Viognier somewhere… Please.” He turned to me. “You must have something!”
I opened my mouth to politely decline, but something about his face stopped me. That eager, slightly nervous energy—like if I said no, he’d somehow fail some invisible test.
“Actually…” I softened. “Sure.”
He grinned and muttered to himself as he rearranged bottles, clearly determined to findtheperfect glass, like making sure I had a drink in hand was the most important thing for him.
“Caspian, really, anything’s fine,” I called after him.
“No!” he insisted. “It’s your first time in our house!”
Beside me, Federico tried to tell Caspian he’d like a scotch. When Caspian ignored him, still hunting for a bottle I might like, Federico groaned and helped himself.
Finally, Caspian turned toward me with a flourish, holding a bottle of white wine. “This is one of my favorites from France. You must try it!”
At that moment, Elena swept in with a tall, well-dressed man I didn’t recognize. “Everyone,” she called out, eyes locked on her brother, “Caspian is doing the unthinkable.”
He paused mid-pour, dramatically scandalized. “How dare you?”
“He’s opening the 2009 Amarone I’ve been eyeing formonths,” she announced, hands on her hips.
“You’ve drunk yourself through my entire wine cabinet. It’s a wonder I managed to save this precious beauty fromyou,” Caspian replied, not missing a beat as he pulled the cork free with a clean pop.
I gasped a little. “No, Caspian, please, if it’s precious, don’t open it—”
“Too late!” he said triumphantly, already pouring the first glass out. “You said yes, and I only open the best for our guests.”
“You’re impossible,” Elena muttered, but there was no bite in her voice as Caspian was moving to hand her a glass.
The man beside her chuckled and leaned toward me. “Don’t mind them. This is foreplay for their sibling rivalry.” He extended a hand. “Gastone Ajello. Elena’s husband.”
I shook his hand, startled again. He was calm, charming in that polished Italian way, and seemed entirely unbothered by the growing volume of the wine-based bickering unfolding behind us.
Caspian handed me a glass as if it were a sacred offering. “Tell me if it’s too earthy. It opens up nicely.”
I took a sip. It was smooth, bold, and rich in a way that made me feel warmer with just one taste.
“It’s lovely, thank you,” I nodded.
