Page 36 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
Or did he?
The bastard should have already struck by now, but he hadn’t. He was either planning something more sinister, or he didn’t really give a shit about her. I had Maxim do a background check on the girl, and it turned out that Ester wasn’t exactly her father’s biggest fan. She ran away from home at fifteen and moved to NYC, where she started her life anew—away from her father’s world of violence.
Ester and Marco weren’t close enough to build the father-daughter bond I had hoped for. The bastard was so power hungry that he failed his own daughter. He was no father. He was an even bigger monster than I was.
Perhaps I was wrong.
Did I make her suffer for no reason?
Whatever the case, family was still family. One way or another, Ester must still be useful to him in some way. Marco might have been a real asshole for a father, but he was still a businessman. Maxim, my second-in-command, had found out from our man on the inside that Marco Moretti’s goons, led by Franco, had forced the poor girl back to the mansion.
Marco didn’t suddenly grow a heart. No. If he sent his men after his daughter out of the blue, then that only meant hehad a use for her. And whatever it was, I bet it was his own personal gain.
Father of the year!
Ester was, in fact, the victim here, and I shouldn’t have been too hard on her.
I sat in a corner of the hospital room, my feet tapping on the floor, somewhat nervous. My jaw clenched in annoyance at how concerned I was about her safety, about how much I cared. This wasn’t me, and I hated the man I was becoming around her—soft and gentle.
The EKG beeped steadily beside her bed, her lithe figure unmoving. Her chest was rising and falling with slow, even breaths. She looked small in the bed—weak and fragile. Her skin was pale, her lips cracked, a testament to how dehydrated and malnourished she was.
She looked like she was suffering from a terminal disease because of me.
Ester didn’t deserve to have gone through the hell I put her through. That should’ve been the bastard, Marco Moretti.
This pit in my stomach—this guilt, mixed with anger and confusion—was killing me slowly.
My eyes narrowed as I watched her sleep, hoping she was out of harm’s way. I hated hospitals—the silence, the vulnerability, and the smell of antiseptic solutions. I wouldn’t still be seated here, watching over her like a fuckin’ guardian angel, if she were someone else.
Yet, here I was, doing what I hated—waiting at a hospital—just to make sure she was okay.
Not so strong now, are you?I thought to myself, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
My lips twisted into a small grin, intrigued by her strength, her survival instinct, and that sharp tongue of hers. It was her weapon, and she sure knew how to use it. The girl was apain in my ass. She wouldn’t break, wouldn’t beg, and wouldn’t shed a fuckin’ tear.
She was different from other girls her age: stronger, smarter, more resilient. I guess running from home at fifteen and fending for yourself has a way of remolding and reshaping someone.
Ester was a survivor, a fighter, one who earned herself a title amongst my men,Tigrítsa smérti—Tigress of Death.
As I watched her in awe, I couldn’t help the pride brewing within me.
Most people would break under far less difficult situations, but not her. She showed no fear, refused to wallow in self-pity, or even beg for mercy. She channeled her pain into anger and held on to her pride, her dignity until the very end.
What a woman.
Ester stirred slowly, a faint groan escaping her lips as her hand darted to her forehead.
She was awake. At last.
Her fingers rubbed her forehead, then slid sideways to massage her temple. Ester’s eyes shifted in my direction, and her expression darkened, brows furrowing.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked, keeping a straight face.
“Like you care,” Ester answered, her groggy voice barely above a whisper. She groaned, sitting up with her back against the wall. “Where am I?”
“In a hospital,” I replied.
She swallowed, eyes scanning the room, a glint of confusion flickering in her gaze. She placed a hand on her belly and rubbed it slowly, her head tilting sideways like she was trying to recall something.
