Page 22 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
Ester?
She was different now, all glowed up and sophisticated as opposed to the simple girl I met in the tattoo studio back in New York. Her hair—black with streaks of purple—was styled into a neat bun, her stormy gray eyes sparkling like diamonds.
I straightened, my grip tightening around my glass, my gaze pinned on her.
She looked stunning in that crimson dress with a daring slit that hugged her figure perfectly. My eyes scanned her lithe shape, taking in her curves and contours. I knew she was beautiful the last time we met, but this…this was on an entirely new level.
For a long second, I stared at her, trying to figure out if it was really Ester Sharpe I was looking at or some lookalike.
Maxim must have traced my gaze to the woman standing beside Franco, smiling and chatting with some guests. “That’s Marco’s daughter. Ester Moretti.”
My blood ran cold immediately, a scowl settling on my face. She lied about her last name. Why? Did she sleep with me on purpose? Did she know who I was back then?
No. It was highly unlikely. I found her, and not the other way around, so there’s no way she could’ve possibly targeted me on purpose.
So that was, what, some insane coincidence?
Fate’s timing couldn’t have been more impeccable. She raised her head while talking with her associates, and in a fraction of a second, our eyes locked. I watched her expression darken a bit, a faint scowl replacing her smile.
Was that anger I saw in her eyes?
“…Boss?” Maxim called, as if he’d already tried getting my attention a few times before.
“Keep Franco busy for me, will you?” I said without taking my eyes off her. “I need a minute with the girl.”
I tilted my head to the side, watching her closely. She stiffened. I glanced toward the garden to her right, and she traced my eyes. Without a word, I picked up my pace and walked away from the balcony. I headed downstairs and strode out of the building. She caught sight of me from where she stood, and I watched her throat wobble.
I lifted my glass, shoving what was left of the whisky down my throat. With a fluid motion, I set my empty glass on a waitress’s tray and headed toward the garden.
She smiled at her friends, excused herself, and then followed after me.
Once I had her alone, surrounded by manicured hedgerows and sweet fragranced flowers, I stepped out into the open, a hand in my pocket.
She must have sensed my presence behind her, and she turned around to face me. Her expression was blank, dark. But still beautiful.
Her skin shimmered under the moon’s soft glow, her hair catching in the overhead lights. She looked taller, thanks to those beautiful heels beneath her feet.
“Moretti?” I began, reflexively grazing my thumb over my nose. “Really?”
“You’re one to judge,” she said, her tone low and even.
“You told me your name was Ester Sharpe. Why’d you lie?” I pressed on, my gaze unwavering.
“Probably the same reason you didn’t tell me your last name,” she answered, bold and unapologetic. “Besides, I owe you no explanation.”
I chuckled, taking a step forward. “Then why are you here…alone with me?” The slight pause came when I paused in front of her.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be here with you,” she said, anger flashing in her eyes.
She tried to walk past me, but I stood in her way, unwilling to let her go just yet. “Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast.”
“Move, Yulian,” she said, her voice laced with warning, like if I refused, she’d make me.
Guts. Impressive.
“Aren’t you the least curious to know who I am—to know my full name?” I asked, wearing a cocky grin.
She hesitated, staring into my eyes, as if contemplating whether or not she wanted to find out the truth.
