Page 66 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
He doesn’t breathe.
“You failed. The woman carrying my child walked out the fucking gates while you stood there scratching your arse. That’s not a mistake. That’s an insult.”
Arseni swallows. Loud in the silence.
“You hesitated,” I say. “When my men hesitate, others bleed.”
He stands suddenly. “Please, Boss—I can fix this.”
“You’re right,” I say, stepping around to face him.
Then I slam my fist into his stomach. The air rushes from his lungs with a sick gasp, and he drops hard to his knees.
“See, Arseni? That’s called a consequence. You don’t get those in training videos.”
I don’t stop.
My foot comes down across his ribs, then again. The sound of cartilage giving way is sharp. Wet.
He coughs once. Tries to rise.
I kick him back down.
He shouldn’t have let her leave. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off her. He shouldn’t have needed me to clean up his failure.
I crouch, take his face in my hand, and tilt it up toward mine.
Blood slips from his nose. His eyes are wide. Terrified.
“She was crying,” I say softly. “When I found her. She was cold, and she was afraid.
He doesn’t speak.
“There is nothing in this world I wouldn’t burn to the ground for her.”
Still silence.
“Get him out of here,” I tell Yuri. “Drag him out. Patch him up—he can try out the new mop rotation at the warehouse. Tell him the first guy who catches him slacking gets a bonus. And you”—I point at Yuri, smirking—“you’re only safe because you bring me coffee strong enough to wake the dead.”
Yuri hauls Arseni out without a word.
The door swings shut behind them, and I’m alone.
I don’t sit. I stay standing, watching the fire crackle in the grate across the room. It throws light against the tiled floor, the orange reflections warping as they shift across the dark polish. The heat doesn’t reach me.
A long time passes before the door opens again.
Yuri steps in. Closes it behind him. Shakes rain off his shoulders like a dog and runs a hand through his hair.
“Warehouse,” he says shortly. “Took it like a man.”
“Good.”
“He’ll last a week before someone knocks his teeth out.”
“If he’s lucky.”
Yuri doesn’t argue. He crosses to the small bar in the corner and pours himself a glass of water. No whiskey tonight. That tells me more than anything.
