Page 21 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
The gentle buzz of conversations filled the air, mingling with the occasional clinking of glasses as guests moved about in their finest attire, men in tuxedos and women in elegant gowns.
Like frozen waterfalls, chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, their warm glow illuminating the grand ballroom. The walls were clean, adorned with a few paintings that must’ve cost a fortune. The marble floor was so polished they practically squeaked beneath patent shoes.
Waiters dressed in black and white moved through the crowd like shadows, carrying champagne trays with practiced ease. The aroma of fine wine, mixed with that of canapés, wafted through the air, tantalizing my senses.
The grand ballroom was exactly what I expected—too polished, too smug. Everyone in here had an ax to grind with at least a person or two. Yet they all graciously moved around with plastic smiles on their faces, like they wouldn’t stab each other in the back without thinking twice when the need arose.
Fuckin’ hypocrites!
These people were nothing but devils in suits—selfish pricks who cared about no one but themselves. I was no saint either. But at least I was no hypocrite. I didn’t pretend to like what I hated, didn’t pretend to be who I wasn’t just to exploit the poor like the politicians discussing in small groups across the hall.
Those greedy bastards were the worst of us—criminals and murderers disguised as public figures and fucking role models. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Those vipers were draining the economy from the inside out, bleeding it dry to satisfy their selfishness.
The likes of me were the devils the people knew, and a devil you could always trust to be bad. It was the “good guys” they ought to look out for—their own political leaders. Those snakes would sit back and watch the masses starve to death if that was what it took to stay in power.
Like I said, they’re the worst.
Then there are the so-called philanthropists and humanitarians.
The media darlings.
These were the people whose faces were splashed across billboards and news channels, talking about a better tomorrow, changing the world, feeding the poor, blah blah blah.
What a fuckin’ joke!
The public saw them as angels with friggin’ halos on their heads. They were regarded as saints: clean hands, warm smiles, promises wrapped in photo ops and big checks.
Oh, but I knew better.
I’d seen those ass-licking, backstabbing devils at private auctions, bidding on trafficked girls like they were vintage cars. I was well aware of how those sickos funneled donation money through corporations—millions raised for “clean water” that never even made it past the press release.
Funds raised to “feed the poor” somehow magically disappeared into thin air. Half their so-called outreach programs were nothing but fronts—money laundering schemes masked by crocodile tears and designer suits.
I take it back, I thought. These guys were the worst. They were crooks, guilty of every sin ever committed on the face of the earth. Yet, they were held up like gods while they pissed on the very crowd that raised them.
This whole event, this gala, was just a front—some diplomatic charity tied to “global youth rehabilitation,” whatever the fuck that meant. Underneath the polished exterior, it wasin fact a neutral ground where major crime families in the city showed up to wine and dine and close crooked deals.
Personally, I hated places like this; they reeked of hypocrisy. However, in this line of work, appearance was of the utmost importance. Besides, my business rivals were here tonight, and that was motivation enough for me.
Under the moon’s soft light, I stood at the edge of the second-floor balcony, cradling a glass of whiskey. From up here, I could see everyone and everything—every smirk, every nod, every subtle exchange going on below. The view was magnificent.
Maxim stood beside me, his watchful eyes scanning the place as if searching for any sign of trouble. We were, by the way, surrounded by enemies. Almost every family here tonight had a bone to pick with the Tarasovs. We were the one family that everyone hated but were too scared to do shit about it.
Our impact on the underground criminal world wasn’t one to be easily brushed under the rug. So, it didn’t matter how many of those dogs hated us; they needed us.
Maxim quietly muttered updates between sips of aged scotch while still glancing around like he was ready for anything. The man never really knew how to let his guard down, and that readiness had come in handy more times than once.
Maxim was still talking when something else caught my attention below. More specifically, someone. I recognized that subtle embroidery the second I saw it. It was a design of tailored Italian suits that marked Marco Moretti’s men.
When the mutt turned around, I saw his face.
Franco. The pig from New York.
But that wasn’t all. He had someone else with him, a lady in a red gown—his plus one, maybe. From where I stood, all I saw was her back, but that posture looked rather familiar, as did the tats on the woman’s arms.
Franco leaned in to whisper something in her ear, and when he pulled away, she turned around, her lips parting into the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen.
My heart stopped for a moment. My breath hitched.
