Page 25 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
“You have to.” She rose to her feet, reaching out to hold my hands. “Listen to me, I know exactly how you feel—”
“I doubt that, Laura,” I cut her off.
She insisted, “I do….” Her fingers squeezed against mine. “…more than you realize. But child, there are other ways to handle this. And right now, fighting your way out isn’t one of them.”
“So what? You just want me to sit back and pretend like he didn’t kill my mother, like I don’t hate his guts?” The words tumbled out of my mouth in a nervous rush, tears trickling down my cheeks.
Gently, Laura lifted her hand to my face and wiped my tears with her thumb. “I’m sorry, child. No one should have to experience what you did. But your father is…well…a beast.” She paused, looking into my eyes, sympathy clouding her gaze. “If you decide to be stubborn right now, there’s no telling what he would do.”
“You’re basically asking me to stand down,” I said, raising my brows in disbelief.
“For now, yes.”
I broke out of her hold and walked toward the window, gazing out at my freedom.
“Wisdom is knowing when to act and when to stand down,” she said from behind. “Be wise, child.”
Ever since that night, Laura had made it her personal mission to try and keep me in check. She knew my father better than anyone else, considering that she was the oldest maid in the mansion. That sweet soul had served the Moretti family long before I was even born.
She was right. My father was unstable, and if I was going to get my freedom, I would have to play smart.
The problem was that I was running out of time. My father didn’t ask Franco and those two idiots to come get me out of the goodness of his heart. No. He was up to something, and whatever it was, I was certain that I’d hate it.
After I’d freshened up and headed to the dining room, I heard my father barking orders in his office. The walls in the house were pretty thin, and from the hallway, I could already hear his muffled voice.
I stopped in my tracks, glancing back and forth to be sure no one was watching at the moment. Carefully, I glided toward the door to his office, eyes squinting as I tried to make out what he was yelling about. I let my curiosity push me until my ear was inches from the door.
Then, I heard him clearly.
“Those Russian pigs! I warned them!” His voice dripped with venom. “If it’s war they want—hell, if it’s blood they want, then so be it. We will raise hell and burn every last one of them alive!”
My heart skipped a beat, and my breath hitched. Father was talking about Yulian and his people, and he sounded so upset. Whatever the Russian had done must have poked the beast within. My father wasn’t human, not when he was mad. And now, he was really, really mad.
I couldn’t help but fear for Yulian. He might be a ruthless Mafia boss, but my father was not just a notorious monster; he was a mindless one. I hadn’t seen Yulian in action before, but I’d watched my father chop off a man’s head with a kitchen knife just to make a point.
In his rage, he’d struck his wife dead right in front of his fifteen-year-old daughter: me. Till now, I’d yet to recover from that. It was almost like he had a knack for killing the people I cared about.
I retreated from the door immediately before someone caught me eavesdropping.
***
Later that evening, Laura informed me that my father would like to have a word with me, that he was waiting in thegarden. This was the first time since I got here that he’d called for me. Specifically.
The few times we had passive conversations were over breakfast or dinner, and even then, fewer words were spoken. Nothing serious. He often passed his message to me through Laura or Franco.
As expected, Laura briefed me on what to say and what not to say around him, especially because he was still pissed about what happened with the Russians.
The garden was quiet, wrapped in the warm hush of early evening, a cool breeze rustling the leaves. Perfectly manicured hedges lined the stone path, and soft petals from the jacaranda trees littered the ground like fallen confetti.
The scent of jasmine and roses, blended with the chirping of birds, wafted through the air as the sun dipped across the horizon.
Dad sat on a weathered bench beneath an old oak tree, watching the sunset. His white hair gleamed in the sun’s yellow glow, his hazel eyes squinting against the breeze.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked without taking his eyes off the horizon.
The old man must have sensed my presence as soon as I walked into the garden.
I didn’t respond, just quietly stood behind him, struggling to keep my emotions in check.
