Page 1 of A Baby for the BRATVA Boss
Sophia
Christmas is four weeks away. Usually, I’d be hunting down the decorations and planning how to dress the house. I’d be ordering a tree, planning what to eat, organizing festive treats.
But this year… This year there’s no escaping the reality of our situation. There’s no hiding it behind garlands and twinkle lights and big wrapped boxes that are actually empty.
My father sits at the dining table with his head in his hands, the last of the firelight throwing cracks of gold across the bottles, the papers, the shaking of his fingers. The silence feels thick. The kind that comes when you already know how the story ends.
I should be angry. I used to be. But after enough nights like this, watching him gamble with everything we had, everything my mother left behind, I’ve run out of anger. Now there’s only the steady, dull ache of waiting for the next knock on the door.
When it finally comes, it’s too calm. Three short knocks. No hurry. No fear of being turned away.
My father flinches so hard his glass tips over. He looks at me like he wants to tell me to hide, but there’s nowhere left to go.
“I’ll answer it,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t stop me. Maybe he can’t.
Cold air spills in when I open the door. Snowflakes drift through the porch light and melt against my skin. A man standsthere, dark and still, the world bending around the weight of his presence.
“Miss Akimova,” he says. His voice is deep, smooth, expensive. He holds out his hand for me to shake and I take it out of courtesy. It engulfs mine, and I swallow the surprise I feel at the rough warmth of it. “We need to talk.”
I know who he is before he says another word. You don’t grow up in this city without hearing the name Yury Dubovich whispered like both a warning and a plea. Pakhan of the Dubovich Bratva. The man people owe everything to when they’ve already lost it all. He is taller than I remember, his shoulders broad in the tailored wool coat that fits him perfectly.
He steps inside without asking, snow still clinging to his coat. Two men follow, closing the door behind them. My father scrambles to his feet, but Yury doesn’t even glance at him. His eyes find me instead, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping out something only he understands.
I try not to move. Try not to show how much my pulse has changed under his scrutiny, because why should it.
“Mr. Dubovich,” my father starts, voice cracking. “If you’d just give me one more week—”
“One more week,” the darkly calm man repeats, quiet but sharp enough to cut. “You said that last time.”
“I can fix this,” my father pleads, words tumbling now. “I just need—”
Dubovich looks at him then. Just one look. And it’s enough to silence him.
The air in the room changes. Colder. Cleaner. Then he turns back to me.
“Are you aware of what your father owes?” he asks simply.
My father’s hand twitches toward me. “Please, Yury. Sophia has nothing to do with this.”
“She has everything to do with it,” he says, barely containing his fury if the tightness in his neck is anything to go by. He grits his teeth. “You tried to exploit my weakness without realizing your own.”
The words land like a verdict. I stare at him, waiting for the meaning to settle, for someone to say it’s a mistake. But it isn’t. It’s simple math. It’s pure power. It’s the world catching up.
I look between them. My father looks sick. Small. Maybe he really did offer me, in some drunken attempt to buy himself time. It wouldn’t even surprise me anymore.
“What happens if I say no?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
His expression softens only slightly when his eyes swing back to me. “Then I take the debt another way. Either way, it ends tonight.”
For a moment, the only sound is the clock ticking on the mantel. The same one that’s been in our family for generations. My mother used to wind it every morning.
I think about her. About how she’d tell me to be brave. About how she’d tell me that fear is just proof that something matters.
“If I go with you,” I say finally, “you’ll leave him alive.”
Dubovich inclines his head, a single controlled nod. “He will be left in peace. His debt is paid.”
