Page 82 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
The air shifts like someone sucked the oxygen out of the room.
Every head turns.
Esme steps through, and the silence becomes something reverent.
She carries a tray. Polished silver. Six crystal glasses and a carafe of tea—black, steeped strong, no lemon. She moves with calm precision, one hand under the tray, the other steadying the handle. Her shoulders are straight. Her chin high. She does not glance around for permission. She does not pause to be acknowledged.
She’s showing now. Eight months in. Her belly curves beneath a soft beige sweater, sleeves pushed to her elbows, her leggings fitted and clean. Her hair is tied back in a smooth twist at the nape of her neck, her features composed and sharp.
She looks like she was born in power, and the men feel it.
Every one of them goes still. Even Ardal, who never shuts up. Even Volkov, whose fists were just clenched against the table.
She moves to the side of the room and sets the tray down without a word. Then she begins placing glasses. One in front of each man. No tremor in her hands. No falter in her gaze.
She places mine last.
She sets mine last. Our eyes meet. That’s all it takes—a silent dare, a quiet promise, and I have to fight the urge to laugh in front of the council.
I study the men without turning my head. They don’t know what to do, not one of them speaks, because Esme isn’t just the woman carrying my child.
She’s the woman who just walked into a room full of wolves and made them forget they had teeth.
“I overheard the argument,” she says calmly.
Her voice cuts through the silence with that quiet, pointed sharpness I know too well.
Every man turns.
She’s standing beside me now, not behind. She doesn’t wait to be introduced. Doesn’t falter when six pairs of eyes turn toward her like she’s stepped into the wrong room. She keeps her hands lightly folded over her stomach, protective but not weak, as if to sayI’m here because I choose to be.
“The logistics don’t add up,” she says. “You’re flooding the port with more product than your runners can handle. It’s inefficient, risky, and borderline reckless.”
Volkov opens his mouth to speak—but she keeps going.
She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.
“You’re paying for warehouse space you don’t use and losing money in delays you could have prevented if anyone was checking route timing against personnel coverage.”
Her tone is matter-of-fact. Like she’s explaining a bad invoice. Like this is a business class, not a Bratva meeting.
Arseni straightens against the wall, his eyes narrowing just slightly. Yuri leans forward with the hint of a grin.
The captains blink like they’ve been slapped.
She takes a step closer to the map projected behind the table, eyes scanning the pinpoints and transport lines without hesitation.
“You’ve got two missed opportunities right here.” She gestures—one hand still resting over her bump, the other lifting to point toward a crossroad highlighted in red. “You could be using the old textile yard route. It’s not patrolled the way the main lanes are, and the rail line still connects—assuming someone bothers to grease the yard supervisor.”
I say nothing. She’s already taken the room.
“This border point here?” She points again. “There’s no reason to keep pushing traffic through the western checkpoint when you could reroute east. The bribe is steeper, but so is the cost of having your men gunned down every third run.”
Her mouth twitches faintly. “Sometimes a fat envelope is cheaper than a funeral.”
There’s a pause. Then one of the captains—Turov, the youngest—clears his throat. “We looked at the eastern lane last quarter, but we assumed the pressure was permanent.”
Esme shrugs lightly. “Assumptions are expensive.”
