Page 6 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I stop in front of the dealer, crouch slightly, elbows resting on my knees. His wrists are zip-tied behind his back, skin red where they cut in. He flinches when I reach for his chin and tilt it up. The eye that’s still open darts nervously between me and the others.
“You’ve been busy,” I say brightly. “Moving product across Bayview. No one gave you permission for that.”
He licks his split lip. “Wasn’t me. I was running for someone. I swear—”
I slap him, though not enough to hurt… just enough to interrupt the panic spiral and reset the fear.
“Let’s try again,” I say, and even I can hear the manic touch in my voice. “Who gave you the route?”
“I don’t know his name,” he blurts. “Just a number. Irish accent. Said I’d get double for keeping it quiet.”
Yuri scoffs behind me. “They always sell out quick when the math stops working.”
I stand. The air in the warehouse feels heavier now, thick with the rustle of decisions being made. I nod toward Arseni. “Pull his phone. Call history. Messages. I want that number.”
Arseni steps forward without hesitation, pulling gloves from his coat. The dealer starts to shake.
“Please,” he says. “I didn’t know it was your turf. I thought—”
“That was your first mistake,” I say, turning away. “Thinking.”
I head for the door, voice flat. “Get the number. Then make sure he doesn’t answer another one.”
Chapter Three - Esme
I turn to go, already picturing the long walk back, eager to leave. Then the first raindrop lands against my wrist.
A second hits the back of my neck. Then the sky opens all at once.
It comes down hard—cold and fast, soaking my hair, my shoulders, the fabric of my hoodie clinging to my spine. I curse under my breath and bolt across the narrow road, eyes scanning for cover.
There’s a warehouse just up the block. No sign, no lights, just an open loading dock with the door pulled halfway up. It’s probably condemned. I don’t care.
I dart toward it, rain pounding against my back, and slip under the shelter with a grateful exhale. The box of books stays behind, but I promise myself I’ll circle back for it.
Just as soon as this lets up.
Maybe it’s stupid given the voices I just heard, but the alternative is a twenty-minute walk back in the dark and soaking rain.
The warehouse is darker the deeper I go, the shadows stretching into the ribs of the building like an open mouth. I slip past the stack of crates, breath held tight, and step closer to the half-open sliding doors. From here, I can see a wide concrete floor lit by a single overhead bulb. It swings slightly, casting slow-moving shadows across the space.
There are four men inside.
One is on his knees.
His face is a mess: bruised, swollen, and slick with blood. His arms are pinned behind him, his whole body hunched likehe’s barely staying upright. I don’t move. I barely even blink. My pulse screams in my throat, but I can’t look away.
The other three men stand like statues. Two near the walls, keeping their distance, and the third directly in front of the man on the floor. He’s tall, sharp in posture and stillness, a coat hanging from his broad shoulders. In his hand, a gun.
I don’t even notice it at first. Not until the man tilts his head, just slightly, and raises the pistol with deliberate calm. My stomach drops. I can’t hear every word, but his voice cuts through the warehouse—low, hard, controlled. Russian?
The man on the ground pleads. I hear it in the shape of his body more than his voice. His head shakes once. Twice. Then the man with the gun says something final—something that sounds like a command—and fires.
The pop of the silenced shot is unnatural. Soft and wrong., but the result is the same.
The man on the floor jerks. Then collapses sideways, blood blooming across the concrete.
My hand flies to my mouth. My foot shifts, a sharp scuff against the floor.
