Page 5 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
Maxim continued, “Cargo held up at ports, trucks delayed. Some Customs guy suddenly gets hard to reach.” He paused, watching me before adding, “Like I said, minor. But it’s deliberate. Moretti’s fingerprints are all over it.”
My jaw tightened, a pang of vexation stirring within me as I looked out the window.
Marco Moretti: the ruthless Italian Mafia boss who thought he could cross us and live. The man was way in over hishead, thinking he could stir up trouble with the Bratva—start a fire and not get burned.
His fierceness was well known throughout the underground criminal world. He had a reputation for always getting what he wanted, doing as he pleased, and never being challenged.
The arrogant son of a bitch clearly underestimated the situation. He was testing our limits, probably checking to see if our organization was as untouchable as people claimed, if our rep was more than just talk.
He had no idea what he was getting into, and he wouldn’t know what hit him until it was too late.
The city rolled past outside my window—glittering glass, rusted corners, old ghosts painted over neon and greed. The sidewalk was abuzz with pedestrians, a sea of strangers surging to and fro, their footsteps clicking together in a rhythmic dance.
Bags and briefcases swung through the crowded air, shoulders brushing against shoulders as the collective hum of conversations filled the streets. Drivers blared their horns, cursing, yelling, some sticking their heads out their windows, visibly agitated.
All that shouting, all that noise, now had my head pounding. How the hell did the people in this city handle this much loudness?
The driver pulled up outside Obsidian Lounge, one of the Bratva’s newer fronts—clean on paper, dirty underneath. It was the kind of place where shady deals were sealed between vodka shots and bottle service.
The building was sleek and packed, the bass from inside thumping faintly against the sidewalk.
“What’re we doing here, Maxim?” I asked, fingers digging into my temple. “I have no interest in clubbing tonight.”
“You hate the noise, I know,” he said, facing me.
“Then what are we doing here?”
“This place is one of our own, Boss,” he answered. “I thought you might wanna check it out.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t think that I’d need to cool off in a hotel first?”
“There’s a five-star hotel a few clicks from here. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to drop by and handle some internal affairs,” he said, his voice low and even.
I heaved a sigh, rubbing my eyes. “Alright. You handle it.”
He nodded, opened the door, and stepped outside.
“Hey, Max,” I called.
He stopped and turned around.
“Ten minutes. That’s how much time you have,” I said with finality, leaving no room for debate.
Maxim knew better than to argue. He just walked away in silence until he disappeared into the building.
I let out a soft sigh, fingers massaging my temple as I glanced out the window. A neon sign cast a gaudy glow on the sidewalk, a queue of revelers snaking around the block. Their flashy outfits and eager faces caught in the lights, their laughs and chatter mingling with the thumping bass that pulsed through the walls.
“Kids,” I murmured under my breath, recalling the times I used to be into places like this, too.
That was a long time ago, before the weight of the Bratva fell on my shoulders.
While I sat there in silence, waiting for Maxim to return, my eyes scanned the streets outside until something caught my attention. A warm, dim, and golden light illuminated the interior of what seemed to be a tattoo studio. The window flashed with ink arts: bleeding roses, red dragons, black skulls, coiled serpents.
The intricate designs and details of the artist’s work were hard to ignore. My interest was piqued, and without knowing why, I found myself drawn to the studio. The car door clicked open, and I stepped out into the cool night air, bathed in the moon’s ethereal glow.
The pavement reverberated beneath my feet with each scuffing step I took toward the studio. I didn’t stop until I was already standing at the entrance, staring up at the sign, “Ink Ritual” gleaming in fancy fonts and lights.
I pushed the door open, it creaked, and I stepped inside, enveloped by the sudden peace and quiet that wrapped around me like a shroud.
