Page 4 of Dark Desires (Chicago Bratva #1)

ISABELLA

Nine weeks later…

H is touch ignites a trail of heat that pools between my thighs.

Our breath mingles, ragged and desperate.

His lips crash against mine.

"You're mine tonight. You’re mine every night.”

His voice is a low growl that sends shivers straight to my core. The taste of him floods my senses.

"Ready to feel how much I want you?"

“Show me, Alexei. Make me forget everything but how you make me feel."

His cock brushes against my inner thigh, a cruel tease. Then he drives into me, filling me to the hilt, each thrust a stroke of raw pleasure that obliterates every thought in my head.

He pushes deeper and deeper, his dick sliding in and out of me, stretching me wide. God, he’s so thick, so hot inside me.

“You like the way I feel, baby?”

“Yes.”

He leans down, whispering into my ear.

“The way I’m going to make you come, devotchka… you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”

I don’t speak, just wrap my legs around Alexei and pull him close. His silky black hair hangs down both sides of his face, those electric blue eyes locked on mine. He pumps again and again, that lean, powerful body flexing with each thrust.

I’m getting close, so damn close.

My eyes fly open as I’m jolted awake, my stomach in knots.

I dash to the bathroom, barely making it in time to hurl. This has been my charming new routine: random bouts of nausea, morning, noon, and night.

Deep down, I’m freaking out that I might be pregnant.

Unless my body is playing tricks on me, I’m in a load of trouble.

With shaky hands, I pull out a stash of pregnancy tests from under the sink—a shoplifted souvenir from my last heavily chaperoned trip to the store. I hate to steal, but what else was I supposed to do? Buy pregnancy tests with my bodyguards hovering ten feet away?

I follow the instructions and wait the never-ending two minutes.

When I look down at the test on the counter, the floor drops out from under me.

This can’t be real. It can’t be happening.

I’m pregnant—with the child of a man whose last name I don’t even know.

A man who branded me with his touch, then vanished like smoke.

A ghost I’ll likely never see again.

I think back to that night. We were so hot and heavy that contraception wasn’t even an afterthought.

Reckless. Blind. Dangerous. A single night that rewrote my entire life.

And then the image hits me: Dad seeing my stomach swell, his eyes narrowing, demanding answers I can’t give.

The shame. The fury. The ruin.

It’s enough to make me sick all over again.

I hop into the shower, hoping the steam might help me think—or better yet, make me disappear.

No such luck. Instead, I’m haunted by flashbacks of Alexei—his laugh, his hands, that night.

As the water pelts down on me, I feel his touch again: his hands gripping my hips, dragging me closer, his lips finding that sweet spot on my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

His eyes, heavy with desire, locking on mine like I was the only thing in his world.

His movements against me so sure, so right, my heart pounds just remembering.

I think about the way he took me from behind, driving into me without mercy.

My hand slides down my belly to between my thighs. Maybe a little release would help distract me, if only for a while.

Leaning against the cold tiles, I shut my eyes, letting the fantasy take over. There’s Alexei, kissing my body, worshiping every curve like he’s trying to memorize me.

I imagine him parting my thighs, the hunger in his eyes as he takes in the sight of me. He licks his lips before going down, devouring me with his tongue.

The steam thickens. I moan, touching myself, chasing the fantasy of him consuming me.

Then I stop. With a frustrated groan, I drop my hand.

No amount of hot water can wash away the truth: I’m pregnant. That little detail makes it impossible to get lost in any fantasy, no matter how filthy.

I step out of the shower and dry off, shoving the test and box deep into the trash where no one can see them.

Pulling on jeans and an oversized sweater, reality sinks in. I’m terrified.

I step out of my room for breakfast, though food is the last thing I want. I’m so lost in my head I nearly run smack into Stephania in the hallway.

“Hey, morning,” she chirps, polished as ever in designer jeans and perfect hair.

Morning, cuz. What’s got you so stressed out?”

She purses her lips. “You don’t remember? Today’s the day I meet the guy your father wants me to marry.”

Realization crashes over me. I’ve been so wrapped up in my baby-mama drama I forgot about my cousin’s big day.

“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s this morning?”

“Brunch,” she says. “Downtown. Heavily chaperoned, thankfully. But still.”

I sigh, leaning back against the wall.

"Can you believe this? It’s like we're in some mafia romance novel or something. Anyway, what do you even know about this guy?”

"Just that he’s Bratva. The Ivanov Bratva, I think. Uncle Domenico says he’s not a full-blooded Ivanov, though. And that’s the extent of my fairy-tale prince dossier."

We head downstairs, the topic shifting to something less medieval.

"And how’s it going with Omar? You know, the guy you actually like?" I nudge her as I speak, hoping to steer us toward normalcy—or whatever version of normal we can get around here.

Her face lights up at the mention of her secret love.

"Omar’s amazing. But with all this," she gestures vaguely, encompassing the looming portraits and probably the lurking bodyguards, "I’m supposed to marry someone else."

"I don't know, Steph. Just tell my father you’re in love and you don’t want this marriage of convenience, especially since it’s not convenient for you.”

“True love isn’t for girls like us. It’s for normal people.”

Part of me thinks she’s right. All the same, I take her hand and give it a squeeze.

"We'll figure this out. We always do, right?"

My attempt at reassurance is totally flimsy, but she offers a small smile in response.

Fairytales don’t belong to girls like us—ours come with bodyguards and bloodstained contracts.

I slip into the warm night, chandeliers spilling gold light through floor-to-ceiling windows.

My hand grips the cool brass handle.

Don’t puke on the marble.

My father lost his mind rushing this marriage. Tonight is Stephania’s rehearsal dinner, and it all feels so rushed and calculated.

I want it to be her fairytale.

But I know better.

The private dining room is a cathedral of crime disguised as elegance.

One long table stretches the length of the space, draped in white linen, glittering with crystal, heavy with gold flatware. Roses trail the center, candles throwing soft light across polished faces and sharper eyes.

Every chair holds someone who could ruin me with a single look. Every stare feels close enough to peel my skin.

And money. God, the money.

The Ivanovs fronted this dinner like they’ll front the entire wedding. A quiet flex that screams: we own this city. And maybe, you.

Mario is glued to my shoulder, shadow and reluctant friend. “Everything alright, Miss Mancini?”

“Define ‘alright.’” I flash a grin. “If I knock over one of those candelabras, do they bill me or just have me whacked?”

“Both seems efficient,” he deadpans.

I laugh—too loud, too brittle. Then champagne wafts by, sharp and yeasty, and my stomach rolls in betrayal.

Not here. Not now.

I blink hard. Crystal. Linen. Roses. Pretend I’m steady.

“Isa!”

Stephania waves from the head of the table, emerald dress poured over her curves like paint. She smiles bright, but her eyes flick from face to face, already drowning.

I thread through the stares, the cold blue eyes of Bratva men, Slavic cheekbones carved like knives.

“You came,” Steph breathes, relief ghosting her features.

“Please. I wasn’t about to let you have all this free food without me.”

She snorts. “You look amazing, Isa.”

I lean closer. “How are you really?”

“Overwhelmed.”

“One thing’s for certain. You’ll be the most beautiful Bratva bride.”

Her smile wobbles, then falls. “It’s not about me. It’s about Dad, your dad, the family. All of it.”

I swallow. Because I get it.

Too well. She’s being sold for power.

“At least tell me he’s hot,” I say, clinging to humor.

Her cheeks bloom pink. “Yeah. Super hot. Intimidating, but… yeah.”

Steph’s smile stiffens. Her gaze leaps past my shoulder, posture snapping hostess-straight. “Okay,” she whispers. “He’s here.”

I turn too fast, nearly body-checking a waiter.

And then I see him.

Alexei. We shared only first names. No phone numbers. No promises.

The next morning I got nervous about the repercussions of my family finding out.

About one of my father’s henchmen finding us so I did the only thing I could.

I ran.

Now my body reacts before my brain.

He’s not just handsome like I remembered—he’s unreal. Cut from the kind of stone that built empires. Ink snakes up his throat, teases from under his cuffs, hints of violence dressed in tailored black. His jaw is a hard line.

His mouth is sinful even at rest. And those eyes—icy, electric—find me like a sniper scope.

His arm is locked around Stephania’s waist, mid-smile, casual for everyone else but like a brand against my cousin’s skin. Heat and bile flip through me.

The man who dragged me out of an alley. The man who ruined me with a single, violent night. The man who got me pregnant.

Now I know his real identity. Alexei Plushenko. The Bratva prince—killer crowned in blood.

I had vanished the next morning like Cinderella — no goodbye, no explanation.

And now he’s here. With her.

The room shrinks to a tunnel.

Heat flares everywhere. I remember the brutal stretch, the way he stole my virginity like it was his right.

His mouth at my ear: You’re mine tonight. The ache, the shatter, the way he stamped himself into me so deep I’ve been carrying him ever since.

His gaze collides with mine—and that’s when I see it.

Not just recognition.

Not just shock. But anger.

I can see from the look in his eyes one thing is perfectly clear: he never forgave me.

Not for running. Not for daring to forget him.

He masks it instantly, Bratva cool as stone, but I saw it. That flash of betrayal. Fury that his Cinderella vanished into the night without a word. Fury that I left his bed, his arms, without giving him the control he’s used to having over everything.

Steph beams beneath his touch, oblivious.

He shifts his hand on her waist like nothing’s wrong, like he isn’t burning me alive with a single look.

But I see it again—that tiny crack in his armor. The way his jaw tightens as I stumble back, the way his gaze follows me even as he stays rooted at her side.

He’s furious.

He’s aching.

Smile, Isabella. Don’t ruin the treaty.

Don’t collapse in front of killers in cufflinks.

Champagne bubbles hiss too close, caviar tang sharp in my throat. My stomach clenches.

“Isa? You okay?” Steph’s voice filters through the haze.

“Totally fine,” I chirp, brittle. “This place has the world’s best air conditioning and yet I’m sweating. Must be the caviar fumes.”

I fan myself with my clutch, forcing a laugh. Then I stumble back, muttering, “Be right back.”

My heels clatter down marble until I find a quiet corner. I press my spine to the cool wall, lungs dragging for air.

Stephania’s happiness. Dad’s alliances. My secret.

And Alexei.

Back in my life.

With his arm around my cousin.

Angry that I left him.

The man who once claimed me.

The man who can never know my secret.