Page 2 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
“For someone who hates it here, you sure stick around like it’s home,” said Bobby, the tall guy from the front row, his voice soft and snarky.
“Who says I hate it here?” I asked, my lips curling into a small smile.
Bobby was one of the very few people at work who’d actually seen my soft expression. I wasn’t the laugh-at-every-joke type—didn’t do office bonding or make a lot of friends. But there were very few exceptions, like Bobby and Emily at the front desk.
Bobby scoffed, slinging his leather messenger bag over his shoulder. “You’re one mysterious woman, you know that, right?”
I stared at him in silence, my small retained. “Goodnight, Bob.”
He tapped my shoulder and said, “Have a good one,” then headed toward the elevator.
A few minutes later, I was done. I powered down my computer, grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair, and strode over to the elevator. Carl, the janitor, a wiry man in a faded cap and rubber gloves, was whistling a song while mopping the floor near the hallway when I passed.
“Goodnight, Ester,” he said, a charming smile playing on his lips.
“Night, Carl,” I replied, my tone mild and friendly as I stepped into the elevator.
He glanced over his shoulder, beaming just before the doors slid shut.
As the numbers dropped, I loosened the bun, shaking my hair like a cat shedding its disguise. I glimpsed a faint reflection of myself in the elevator wall—exhausted but still beautiful. My full lips curled into a mischievous grin. The worst part of the day was over. Now, it was time for the less formal job that allowed more freedom.
***
During the day, I worked at Colton and West. At night, I spent long hours at Ink Ritual, a tattoo studio owned by my friend, Lani. The building was tucked into a nightlife-heavy district near a Bratva-owned club, so I’d had to deal with those Russian knuckleheads more than once.
I didn’t mind the long hours—never did. I loved it here: the buzz of the needle, the smell of ink, the quiet focus it demanded. I felt alive when being creative with the needle, when etching stories into the skin of our clients who came in for the art.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside, breathing in the familiar scent of antiseptic and sandalwood incense. The gentle buzz of the needle in the backroom blended with the soft lo-fi music humming from the overhead speakers.
The walls were adorned with original art—some of mine and Lani’s—flanked by framed photos of satisfied clients, showcasing their tattoos.
I swapped my blazer for a faded tank top that revealed my sleeved arm covered in rich ink, flames and florals.
“Long day in finance hell?” Lani’s voice caught my attention at the front desk.
I lifted my head and met her gaze as she sat in a chair, legs crossed on the table. A crooked grin tugged at the corners of her lips, her hazel eyes fixed on me, a piercing needle twirling between her fingers like a baton.
I rolled my eyes, smoothing my hair backward. “Just the usual. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Lani chuckled, her short, spiky black hair shimmering in the lights. A small piercing sparkled on her nose, matched by another on her left eyebrow, both glinting whenever she moved. “You’re a damn unicorn, you know that? Stock market shark by day, ink goddess by night.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re impressed.” I laughed.
“Maybe I am,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “You work hard for a twenty-two-year-old.”
“Well, what can I say? A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
Lani’s lips pursed as if suppressing a grin.
We were halfway through sanitizing our station when a last-minute call came in; a client had cancelled, but a new walk-in was on the way. Lani was already dead on her feet by now, so I offered to stay and take the late-night slot.
“You sure?” she asked, skepticism coloring her eyes.
“Yeah. I got it. Just sit back,” I replied.
She hesitated for a moment, probably wondering why I always buried myself in work. I’d had a long day at Colton and West, yet here I was, keeping the fire burning.
“Sometimes, you make me feel like I don’t work hard enough,” she mumbled under her breath, striding over to the worn-out couch by the window.
