Page 54 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I want to believe that. Want to pretend that we’re still just two women having a quiet coffee in a quiet corner of the city,but I can’t anymore. Not when the air outside feels off, like the temperature has dropped but no one else seems to notice.
I shift my chair, subtly angling myself further from the window.
“You want to go for a walk?” Talia offers. “Get some air? I don’t have to be anywhere.”
I shake my head. “No. I should probably get back.”
She nods slowly, like she doesn’t want to push, but she knows something’s wrong. “Okay. I can call you a car?”
“No, I’ve got one waiting.” I lie too easily now. The words slip off my tongue like silk.
When I stand, I clock the black sedan again. Still there. Engine running. The man who got in? He’s still sitting. Still hasn’t moved.
Talia hugs me tight at the door. “Text me when you get home, okay? Or wherever you’re staying. I mean it.”
“I will.”
I don’t tell her that home doesn’t feel like home. That even within the fortress of Kion’s estate, I’ve never been more aware of how fragile I am now. How much more I have to lose.
I step outside. The chill air bites at my skin, even through my coat.
The man from earlier is gone, but the car remains.
I don’t run. I don’t even pick up my pace. But my entire body is wired tight as I head down the street and round the corner. My breath hitches as soon as I’m out of view.
I call Yuri from the burner in my pocket.
“Talk,” he says immediately.
“Are your guys watching me?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Always. Problem?”
“There’s a black sedan on Third and Highland. Tinted windows. Two men I don’t recognize. One was on foot before he got in. I’ve had eyes on me since I arrived.”
“License plate?”
I didn’t catch it. I grit my teeth. “No.”
“I’ll handle it.”
With that, Yuri hangs up.
I lower the phone and stare down the sidewalk, but I don’t go back to the café. I don’t wait around for the sedan to move. Instead, I turn the corner and start walking fast.
I don’t have a plan. I just need space. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere they won’t expect me to go.
I keep my head down, crossing into a narrower street lined with tall buildings and rusted fire escapes. My boots echo off the concrete. I glance back once—twice—but no one follows. At least, not visibly.
I turn again, ducking into a narrow alley that smells faintly of damp brick and engine oil. The chill air wraps around me like a second skin. There’s a locked metal gate partway down, but I slip through the open gap beside a dumpster and hunch behind it, crouching low.
I finally stop moving, but the silence swells around me. For a moment, I think I’ve made a mistake. This was stupid. I’m alone. Hidden, yes—but alone.
The silence? It’s not comforting. It’s suffocating.
Every sound is too loud. Every creak of a distant pipe, every soft rustle of leaves or brush of wind, it all feels sharper than it should. Like the city is holding its breath.
My breathing starts to pick up.
