Page 72 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
She looked so fragile. So beautiful. And I knew the second I set eyes on her that I’d burn the world for her. This baby, born from so much pain and agony, would definitely change me in ways never thought possible.
Sergei was right when he said the arrival of my daughter would make me feel things I hadn’t felt before—an emotional attachment that was beyond reason.
I’d kill for this child—hell, I’d lay down my life for her if it ever came to that. That was how much love I already felt for this tiny human being.
How’s it even possible to feel so much joy, love, and peace at the same time?
I watched this baby, something ancient and raw swelling within me. “She’s…” I began, unable to find the right word to describe her.
“Perfect,” Ester completed my statement.
“Like her mother,” I said, my voice low and even.
She lifted her eyes and held my gaze, a beautiful smile playing on her lips.
The baby squirmed, an adorable whimper escaping those tiny lips as her head settled against her mother’s chest. We both stared down at our daughter, the moment seeming to stretch forever.
It was silent.
Peaceful.
“I want to name her Maria,” Ester said, glancing at me.
Something shifted inside me, and my expression softened when I held her gaze. “After my sister?” I asked, whispering.
She nodded, her smile broadening.
I looked down at the innocent baby again, lips parted—no words, no sound. Just awe. When I reached out to touch her delicate skin, her tiny fingers closed around mine. My brows yanked up in surprise, a choked laugh escaping my mouth.
“Welcome to the world, my little angel,” I whispered to the baby, her soft whimpers melting my heart.
I felt it growing inside me—that raw and unfiltered feeling of love. Entirely real.
Chapter 27 – Ester
It had been almost eight weeks since Maria’s birth—eight weeks since she tore through my vagina with an unimaginable pain. Childbirth was one thing; raising an infant was an entirely different thing on its own. Not to mention the aches and the sores that still lingered from that fateful night.
These past two months hadn’t been easy for me—the trauma, the joy, the stress of taking care of an infant. But I wasn’t alone. Thank God.
Olga, the housekeeper, had been most helpful, and with her skillful hands and neat tricks, it was clear that this wasn’t the first baby she’d nurtured. The woman, in her sixties, was still lively and had made it her goal to relieve my stress.
Yulian wasn’t the kind of man who threw around words like “trust” because in his world, trust didn’t exist. It was for the weak and often got men like him in trouble or worse, killed. However, with Olga, it was different. He trusted her wholeheartedly.
For a housekeeper, she sure had a place in my husband’s heart, and that meant that I could trust her with my baby, too. Especially after finding out she was the nanny who nurtured baby Yulian forty years ago.
I was blown away the day she hinted at it. Baby Maria was crying and disturbing the whole house when Olga brought her to our bedroom to be breastfed. While I was at it, she looked at Yulian and said, “You used to make that same face when you were hungry as a baby.”
I was so shocked to hear her say that, and when I looked up at him, he dropped his eyes to the floor, a little embarrassed. He joked about Olga not spilling more than she should. Oh, butno, I wouldn’t have it. So, I asked for all the details about baby Yulian that she could remember.
Olga gladly obliged, as if she’d been waiting ages to tell his story. My husband had to leave the bedroom for the two to gossip in peace. Olga turned out to be the oldest steward at the mansion, the most loyal and trustworthy.
The woman had dedicated more than forty years of her life serving the Tarasov family—that kind of loyalty wasn’t easy to come by. She was the only one who knew my husband better than I did. At least for now, anyway.
When Olga was eighteen, her entire family was murdered when her village was raided by some Mafia men. It was Yulian’s father who found her under a bridge one evening, eating from the trash. According to Olga, she wasn’t sure what exactly touched the man’s heart, but he ordered his driver to pull over, and he stepped out of the car.
Yulian’s father saved her from the streets, clothed her, fed her, and gave her a roof over her head. When she was steady, he asked what happened, why she was eating from the trash, and she told about the men who killed her family.
It turned out that those fuckers were enemies of the Tarasovs, too. For her sake, Yulian’s father tracked down and killed every last member of that gang. He left none alive—wiped out the entire clan overnight. That was how powerful the man was.
