Page 53 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
None of them could. Shame and fear wouldn’t let them.
I swiped a palm over my mouth, pacing like a caged animal. It was a small gesture, but it barely masked the rage simmering beneath the surface. My jaw flexed, and my eyes burned. Red hot. “Three fuckin’ Italians broke into my house,” I began, voice dripping with venom, “kidnapped the mother of my unborn child, and no one saw them?”
They all trembled in terror, unsure of what I’d do next. They were right to be afraid because at this point, my rage made me unpredictable. I could gun down every last one of them, and what would be done about it? Absolutely nothing.
The air was heavy with tension, and the living room reeked of fear and guilt until I broke the silence.
“We’ll pick this up later,” I said, jaw tightening. “Gear up. We’re bringing her back where she belongs. And for all your sakes, nothing better happen to her…or that baby.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused, disappearing from my presence.
***
We moved like shadows in the night, ghosts in tailored black, sweeping through the Moretti estate with dangerous coordination. The infiltration was as quiet as it was ruthless. Silencers were clicked, throats slit with deadly precision.
Blood stained the velvet curtains and the marble floor as lifeless bodies dropped, motionless. I didn’t speak as I moved; I signaled with my hands and head, my face stony. My pistol was held up in front of me, my mind fixed solely on the mission: getting Ester the hell out of here.
Our invasion was silent but effective—swift—and in no time, we surrounded the whole building without raising any alarm. A good number of the Moretti men were slaughtered, the others captured at gunpoint.
I located Ester’s room in the east wing and burst the door open, but I was too late. The room was empty. The bed was made. No blood. No signs of struggle. Just empty.
Her scent lingered in the air, though—faint traces of her perfume clinging to the sheets. This only proved one thing: She was here not so long ago.
“Boss,” one of my men called from behind.
I turned, and there was an elderly woman, a maid, trembling before me.
“We found her wandering the hallway,” he said, his grip tightening on her arm.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” she begged, her eyes dropping to the ground, fear evident in her tone.
“Where is she?” I demanded, my voice cold yet calm, considering her age.
The woman gulped, shaking like a leaf. “Th-they…they took her…” she stuttered, too afraid to look at my face.
“Took her where?” I asked, a voice a low murmur.
“To a private clinic, for the…” she answered, voice cracking, “…the procedure.”
Procedure.
My jaw locked.
I didn’t need to be a genius to know that Marco was trying to get rid of my child.
My blood turned to ice. “Where is the clinic?”
***
The private clinic was silent, too silent.
However, the peace and quiet didn’t last as I came bursting in through the front door, my men flooding behind me like a wave of vengeance. Chaos erupted—guns blazing, bullets flying through the air.
The receptionist screamed, ducking behind the counter, hands over her ears. Blood stained the sterile walls as both sidesclashed in a fierce battle. Marco’s men fought back, but they were outnumbered, outgunned, and fucking outsmarted.
White corridors echoed with gunfire, wailing men, and screaming nurses. Blood sprayed across posters promising “Safe Care” and “Discreet Treatment.”
I moved like a storm, searching every room, every corner of this clinic for signs of my Ester. When I rounded a corner down the east hallway, I spotted the bastard, Marco, barking orders. He paused when he saw me, his eyes red with anger.
