Page 90 of Pregnant Bratva Wife
Outside, rain pounded on the pavement. I barely noticed as I slid into my car and peeled away from the curb.
Giving her space clearly wasn’t working. Maybe what she needed was a gesture—something to show her how sorry I was, how much I wanted her back.
I walked into Cartier like a man possessed and left with a classic diamond tennis bracelet, which I happened to know was all the rage those days. I stopped by a bakery she loved for her favorite pistachio cream puffs. I bought her a goddamn vintage record player just because she mentioned once that she and Megan used to dance around the kitchen to Sinatra.
It was a pathetic plan. I knew that. But I was running out of ideas, and the thought of losing her completely was worse than the thought of taking a bullet.
I’d take that bullet any day if it meant she’d just talk to me.
I drove to Beatrice’s, and only when I reached my sister’s door with hands full of gifts, I hesitated.
What if Autumn slammed it in my face?
What if she wouldn’t even see me?
I knocked anyway.
Beatrice opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of me, loaded with shopping bags. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I need to see her,” I said simply.
My sister crossed her arms. “Did I call and tell you she was ready for that?”
“No, but—”
“Then why are you here? And what’s all this?”
I looked down at the bags, suddenly feeling stupid. “I wanted to... I don’t know. Show her I’m sorry.”
Beatrice’s expression softened marginally. “With... stuff?”
“I don’t know how else to do this,” I admitted.
She sighed heavily, then stepped back. “Fine. Come in. But if she throws you out, I won’t stop her.”
The apartment was quiet as I walked in. Then I heard her—Autumn’s voice from the kitchen, soft and clear. My heart raced just at the sound of it.
“Bea? Who was at the—”
She stopped short when she saw me. Her face went pale and then flushed. She was wearing sweatpants and one of my t-shirts—one she must have accidentally packed when she left. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.
She looked tired. Beautiful. Mine—even though she wasn’t anymore.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice flat.
I set the bags down on the floor between us, feeling more awkward by the second. “I wanted to see you. To bring you... these.”
Autumn stared at the pile of shopping bags, then back at me. God, she looked angry. Hurt. Like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
“You think you can buy me back?” she asked quietly.
“No,” I said quickly. “That’s not—”
“Because that’s what this looks like.” She gestured at the bags. “You manipulated me once with money. Are you trying again?”
I flinched. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what is this, Federico?” Her voice rose slightly. “What exactly do you think a bunch of expensive presents will accomplish?”
