Page 4 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I go on. “Preferably, no wife at all. I want men who don’t need their daughters to do their bargaining for them, and I want this meeting to end before I start imagining how good you might look with a bullet in your eye.”
He goes pale.
Beside him, Ivan speaks for the first time. “We’ll take it under advisement.”
I nod once. “Do that.”
Yuri gathers his papers with stiff fingers. I can feel the anger coming off him in waves. Let him stew in it. Maybe he’ll do something stupid. Maybe I’ll get to finally shut him up properly. Either way, it’s not my problem right now.
The others filter out. The room empties. Only Arseni remains, still leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.
“You’re making friends again,” he says.
I blow out a breath of smoke, rolling my eyes. I know he hates it when I put the spotlight on myself. “I’m charming like that.”
He glances at the folder Yuri left behind. “Want me to burn that?”
“No. Leave it.” I tap ash again. “I want to know what kind of idiot thought I’d say yes to any of this.”
Arseni rises and stretches, cracking his knuckles. “We’ve got real problems, and they’re worried about arranging your fucking wedding.”
“They want control. That’s what this is.”
“You already scare them, and now you’re unpredictable. Makes them sweat.”
“Good.”
He moves toward the door, pauses. “You heading out later?”
“Warehouse meet.”
“Need backup?”
“Sure.”
Arseni gives a short nod. “Don’t get blood on your new jacket.”
I smirk. “No promises.”
He leaves. I’m alone again.
The room is quiet now. Peaceful, even, but the smoke still hangs heavy, and the taste of bad politics sits bitter on my tongue. I lean back, close my eyes, and let the silence press in. I need something cleaner. Simpler. Something I can solve with bullets.
The moment I step into the corridor, the air shifts.
Yuri and Arseni are already waiting—posture straight, hands folded in front of them like obedient dogs, but I know better. They’re good at what they do, and even better at hiding it. Arseni’s the first to move, handing me a slim black folder without a word. No label, just a silver paperclip holding it together.
I take it, flip it open.
Three pages. A face I don’t recognize. Light hair, busted nose, too much confidence in a jaw that’s been broken more than once. Name’s Pavel Orlov. Local dealer. Small-time operator who moves product across the river and keeps his head down. Used to work our side. Now there’s whispers he’s been getting his shipments from the Irish.
I turn the page. Meeting scheduled tonight. No location listed, just a note in Arseni’s handwriting: “Moving through Bayview district. Cargo route possible handoff.”
It’s not much, but it’s enough.
It’s not the traitor we’re hunting. Not the bastard bleeding us from the inside. But it’s a thread. Maybe even a breadcrumb. And I’ve followed smaller trails to bloodier ends.
I snap the folder closed and pass it back. “I’ll handle it.”
