Page 54 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
He was furious.
Good.
So was I.
I charged in, three bullets tearing through his men before they could even lift their weapons. Marco ducked, taking cover behind a stretcher, two others covering him like a human shield.
Relentlessly, I fired, knocking one down with a bullet to the chest. He fell over the stretcher and landed on his neck, the sickening crack echoing off the clinic walls.
The other one vanished with Marco before I could reload my weapon.
Someone speared into my side with lightning speed, their strength knocking me off the linoleum floor. My pistol clanked away.
“You never should have taken her, Yulian. She was never yours to take!” the man yelled, his familiar voice filled with rage.
I rose to my feet, and there he was, standing with a bear’s broad stance, fingers curled into fists.
Franco.
“Where is she?” I demanded, ignoring the fury in his eyes.
His lips curled into a self-satisfied grin. “You’re too late.”
Franco roared like a beast, charging at me with dangerous swings. I deflected his advances, retaliating with bone-crackingpunches and kicks. Our deep grunts filled the air as we exchanged fists, elbows, and kicks.
This was no ordinary fight with Franco. It was personal. I saw it in his eyes, the hatred and anger, like I stole something from him, not just the Morettis.
He fought dirty, like a mindless beast. “She was supposed to be mine!” he barked, grabbing a scalpel off a rolling chair, and with it, he slashed my arm. “Mine! And you put her in a family way!”
I pulled back, glancing at the cut in my flesh, his claims accentuating my rage. How dare he even think of being with her? My brows furrowed, and my scowl deepened. I snarled, slamming the bastard into the wall.
He broke free in seconds, swinging again.
Too slow.
I trapped his hand and snapped his elbow like a fucking twig.
He cried out, dropping the scalpel.
With quick reflexes, I grabbed it midair, jabbed it into his thigh first, and then with a precise swing, I slit his throat. Both hands flew to his neck as if to prevent the blood from gushing out like water from a fountain. He choked on his own blood, then dropped to his knees, life draining from his wide eyes.
“I don’t share what’s mine,” I said, my voice low and venomous.
He fell face down, blood pooling beneath him.
I turned around and stormed toward the surgical room, boots crunching glass, blood trailing in my wake.
Luckily, I got there just in time to stop the procedure.
Ester was struggling against two nurses. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, tears streaking down her cheeks. Her legs kicked weakly, bound by straps. “I said no—get off me!”
The doctor’s hand trembled over her, the anesthesia mask inches from her face.
That’s when I came barging in, gun in the air. “Everybody, out!” I bellowed, sending two shots into the air.
Doctors and nurses alike scattered like roaches, screaming, heads lowered, hands in the air.
Ester jerked her head toward me, gasping. “Yulian?” Shock flickered in her gaze and in her cracked voice. “You…you came…you found me….”
