Page 10 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
“You’re not gonna give up, are you?” I raised a brow, watching the determination flickering in his eyes.
“Not by a long shot,” he answered, still holding my gaze.
I drew a deep, long breath, giving in with a wry smile. “You strike a hard bargain.”
“What can I say? Iam, after all, a businessman,” he said, mirroring my grin.
“Really, what kind of business?” I pushed a little bit more.
“Go out with me, and I just might tell you all about it,” came his response.
I shook my head, eyes dropping to the floor. My lips pursed, and my heart raced like a galloping horse. Then, after giving it a thought, I lifted my eyes and met his gaze. “Fine. When and where?”
A self-satisfied smirk flashed across his face.
Chapter 4 – Yulian
The vehicle pulled up outside the warehouse, tires screeching to a halt under the awning. My blood was already boiling with rage, my face contorted into a frown. We’d received intel that one of the Bratva drop points had been hit last night.
Those Italian savages were behind this attack—it was clear as day. Marco Moretti was starting to bite more than he could chew, and one of these days, the idiot would choke to death. Literally.
It was one thing to interfere with our business and pull some low-level stunts to get my attention. Spilling the blood of my men, on my turf…that was an entirely different thing altogether, and there was no way in hell I was going to let this slide.
The car door opened, and I stepped out, flanked by my heavily armed men, their watchful eyes scanning the environment. They accompanied me into the warehouse, our footsteps thumping against the hard concrete.
It was a mess inside—bullet holes in the walls, two dead bodies sprawled over the floor, blood pooling beneath them. The dead guys were our own, as was the burned cargo in the warehouse. The whole place was stripped bare—charred crates, shattered pallets.
Scorch marks licked up the walls like black tongues. Every single merchandise was torched, burned beyond recognition.
“Ivan and Nik,” Max murmured, his voice laced with fury, eyes darting to the two lifeless bodies. “They were loyal.”
“And now they’re dead,” I said, clenching my jaw, fingers curling into fists. “For what, a fuckin’ warning?”
“Those fucking bastards just declared war,” Maxim said, his expression darkening.
I turned to face him, struggling to keep my rage in check. “Summon every Bratva elite in New York City. We have a war to plan.”
He nodded, his eyes blazing red.
***
The air was heavy with the scent of whiskey and several pricey colognes. Smoke wove around serious-faced men seated poised at the long mahogany table that filled the dimly lit room.
The tension was palpable, heavy enough to bring the fuckin’ roof down.
I sat in my chair, eyes shifting across the high-ranking Bratva officials gathered here today. My fingers drummed absently on the table as I listened to my younger brother, Egor, laying out the situation.
His black hair caught in the light, those piercing dark eyes shining as he spoke, his voice deep and venomous. “The hit happened around two. Drop point on 31st. Those sneaky bastards moved fast—in and out. Torched everything. Ganked two of our guys. Shot them in the back like fuckin’ cowards.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I said, meeting his gaze, voice low and even.
“Moretti’s street rats,” he said, revealing a file he slid across to me. “One of them has a snake tattoo on his neck. You might remember the son of a bitch.”
I picked up the file and opened it, my gaze settling on the photo of a young Italian crook—green eyes, buzz cut, and some ratty facial hair. My expression darkened, jaw tightening. “Franco.”
“Yep. The gutless bastard from the dock fight last year,” he answered, leaning back in his chair.
An elderly elite chipped in, shifting his attention to me. “I thought he died, alongside everyone on his crew.”
