Page 49 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
“If he gave a rat’s ass about her and truly wanted to start a war to get her back, do you honestly think that animal wouldn’t have done so by now?” the old man asked him, striking a valid point.
For a second there, silence fell.
“I know how Moretti thinks,” Dmitry continued. “He doesn’t suspect us of kidnapping his daughter. He knows we’re behind it. He hasn’t attacked yet because he also knows it’s stupid to start a war with us.”
“Maybe,” Viktor said, “but he’s planning something, alright. And whatever it is, it’s not good. We shouldn’t sit back and let him have his way. We have to do something.”
“We give her back,” the old man said flatly.
“What?” Viktor objected, his face contorting into a frown. “That’s bullshit.”
A faint scowl settled on my face as well, offended by the old man’s suggestion. Ester was mine, and there was no way in hell I was going to give her back now. Not with the recent development.
The old man, Dmitry, said, “Giving her back will send a message. Diplomatic. Respectful. Say we found her, that we had nothing to do with it. Hell, make it a peace offering.”
Viktor’s frown deepened. “If I didn’t know better, Dmitry, I’d say you’re scared of that little puppy.”
“What you call fear, I call diplomacy,” he replied, composed as fuck.
“Dmitry’s right,” Oleg chipped in. “We can turn this around and de-escalate the situation. The girl’s worth more than a favor. We give her back. We name our price. Territory. A truce. Something that gives us the upper hand.”
There was a moment of silence, followed by murmurs and exchanged glances.
These men spoke of my Ester like she was a weapon or some bargaining chip. And I hated that. This woman was worth more to me than they realized.
It was time to let the cat out of the bag.
“She’s carrying my child,” I declared, bold and unapologetic. Not too loud. Not aggressive. Just clear.
Voices fell silent. Heads turned in my direction, shock flickering in their gazes.
“Can you repeat that?” Viktor said. “Because I thought I heard you say she’s carrying your child.”
I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “She is.”
The men looked at each other but said nothing until the old man broke the silence.
“Yulian, how do you know the child is yours?” he asked, still as calm and composed as he’d been since the beginning of this meeting.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Dmitry,” I answered, locking eyes with him. “The child is mine. There’s no margin for error. Ester carries Bratva blood now; returning her to the Italians would be surrendering a future Bratva heir.”
Dmitry nodded, fingers drumming on the table’s surface. “This changes everything.”
“It sure does,” I answered, my tone leaving no room for further debate.
The men deliberated in hushed voices, as if their opinions mattered here. They were elite members of the inner circle, and I had maximum respect for everyone seated in this room. But this was my child we were talking about. I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass what they thought about my decision.
This was my life, my legacy.
The silence stretched, but different this time—thoughtful, calculating, tense. One by one, they nodded, realizing how this pregnancy had changed Ester’s worth.
“It is settled then. The girl remains under the Bratva’s protection. And you, Yulian, have our full support. We’ll do all we can to keep both mother and child safe,” the old man said.
I nodded.
“But you do realize that at this point, marriage is inevitable,” he added, watching me closely.
“It will not be easy,” Oleg said. “Marco will resist.”
