Page 29 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
If anyone asked who the gorgeous lady in the silver dress was, they’d say, “Oh, that’s Marco Moretti’s daughter.”
He took pride in that, my father.
The gown I wore seemed to attract a lot of compliments and long gazes. They said it was elegant, refined, and classy. But to me, it felt more like armor. My hair was up—tied into a perfect bun—my diamond earrings were too heavy, and the smile I wore had long since started to ache.
My feet hurt in these high heels, and each step was almost unbearable. I hated the fact that tonight I was nothing but my father’s puppet, dancing to his tunes.
The venue was a rooftop that sat like a glittering crown atop one of Chicago’s most exclusive towers. Up here, the air was cold and thinner, with hints of lavender from potted plants lining the marble terrace. The view was magnificent:shimmering skyscrapers and amber lights that seemed to stretch endlessly.
Soft jazz wafted through the air from a live band playing at a corner. The clinking of glasses and the hum of conversations were softened by the classic tunes that added to the ambiance of the space.
Waiters and waitresses floated through the crowd like ghosts in black, expertly balancing champagne flutes and trays of hors d’oeuvres with practiced ease.
I’d had this plastic smile perched on my face for as long as I could remember, and my cheeks were starting to hurt. I’d lost count of how many politicians I’d shaken hands with tonight—those whose eyes lingered too long. Fuckin’ pervs.
I had to fake polite smiles with CEOs who I honestly believed saw me as a means to an end, not a person. Tonight, everything I did was to please the one who insisted I come along: my father. Every conversation was a performance, every compliment a transaction.
Tonight was all about business and crooked deals, cloaked in champagne, with networking conducted in the language of veiled threats and hollow promises.
These people, these societal elites…they were nothing but wolves in sheep’s clothing. Devils in suits. Their hypocrisy repulsed me in ways that I’d yet to name, and I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here.
Not long after, the venue quieted, and the guests began trickling toward the elevator. It was over, finally. Everyone was halfway through the awkward goodbyes when I shoved a glass of champagne down my throat, and I stepped away from the departing guests.
My heels clicked against the fine stone floor, my manicured fingers loosening the silver necklace around my throat. I was tempted to slip out of my stilettos and just continuethe rest of the journey on bare feet. It would be better than this torture.
The peaceful hallway, with its bright lights and artistic décor, created a sense of calm and beauty. My footsteps echoed as I moved, desperate to get the hell out of here. I was barely even halfway through the hallway when I heard someone clear their throat behind me.
“Going somewhere?” A familiar voice prompted me to stop in my tracks.
I rolled my eyes, then turned to face the speaker. “Yeah. Home. Night’s over, isn’t it?”
Franco’s lips twisted into a sly grin as he approached me with a hand in his pocket. His black tux gleamed in the lights, his hair styled neatly in a way that made him look almost…responsible.
“Funny because here I was thinking you hated ‘home,’” he said, air-quoting the word as he drew closer, footsteps slow and deliberate.
“Well, it turns out I’d rather be there than here,” I replied, expression blank.
“I can see that.” He chuckled, halting in front of me.
“What do you want, Franco?” I asked, wearing a stern expression, my arms crossed over my chest.
“Relax, princess, I just wanna talk,” he answered.
There it was again: that twisted smirk on his lips.
I glanced at my watch. “You have five minutes.”
“Damn, that’s how it is? Okay,” he murmured and cleared his throat. “Look, Ester….”
He usually called me “kid.”What changed?I wondered.
Franco continued, “I, uh…I have a proposal for you—a way out of your father’s shackles, out of the prison he’s kept you in.”
I squinted my eyes, my head tilting suspiciously.
“I know you want your freedom, and I sure as hell know you hate every last one of those suitors your father’s lined up for you,” he added, his voice dripping with confidence.
I was quiet for a while, watching him, a little curious to hear him out. “You have less than four minutes, Franco. Make it count.”
