Page 11 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

He was just a kid in Bratva years—Anton. Loyal to the cause, fierce, and very smart. His loyalty and intelligence made Maxim put in a good word for him with me.

Maxim wasn’t the kind of man to be easily impressed, yet for some reason, he wouldn’t stop talking about the kid. He told me of Anton’s outstanding dedication and how the kid worked with a touch of excellence. The kind that was impressive enough to draw my attention.

At first, I thought he was just blowing smoke, but exaggerating a situation had never been Maxim’s way.

He reported things as they were, good or bad.

The fact that each time he briefed me on the men and the business, he always found a way to mention the Anton kid meant the boy was worth considering.

I started watching Anton closely, and the more I observed the kid, the more I saw every single quality Maxim claimed he had. One time, he chipped in with an idea to Maxim—a solution out of a sticky situation that would have cost the Bratva loyal men and some serious cash.

His brilliant idea earned him a place in my stone-cold heart. And from there on, Anton made it to the short list of people I actually gave a fuck about. Something about the kid was just different—his compassion and dedication to the course were remarkable.

Unlike the others, Anton was deliberate, slow to anger, and always thought outside the box. He believed it was possible to win a war without bloodshed. All it would take was a brilliant mind and a strategic plan.

Strange how that kid’s intelligence caught my attention in such a short time.

I’d always admired brilliant people—especially when they were younger.

Anton knew exactly what he wanted out of life; he knew where he was headed.

And most of the time, I saw my younger self in the kid—strong, smart, resilient, and determined to make a name for himself.

Anton had a great future and an even greater one by my side. I grew to like the kid, thinking of him as my own.

And that’s why his death hurt me like hell.

This cold morning, I woke up to even colder news that my boy was found dead, shot up in a drive-by outside one of our bars. I never thought the death of a foot soldier would take so much toll on me, disorient me like I lost my own flesh and blood. But it did.

And to make matters worse, Anton didn’t just die; the kid was murdered in cold blood. Why? To send a fuckin’ message. Everything surrounding Anton’s murder was orchestrated by one gang.

The Italians.

It was them.

All I wanted was revenge—to get back at Marco Moretti for what he’d done—and I wasn’t going to stop until I hit him where it hurt the most.

I summoned a meeting with the Bratva inner circle in the backroom of the Riverfront club, where the air was thick with the smell of smoke and whiskey. Angry men with sharp eyes and heavy hearts sat around me, discussing and planning our retaliation. Brothers—all of them—by blood or by bullet.

“Anton was a good kid,” Mikhail said, a scowl flashing across his features. “I only met the boy once, but his IQ….” He scoffed. “That’s something. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“What happened?” Pakhan Artem asked, seated at the end of the mahogany table that dominated the center of the room.

Maxim replied, “The kid was shot outside the Eden bar. Three rounds to the chest. One to the head.” He carefully slid a printed image of Anton’s dead body to the boss.

I clenched my jaw, fingers curling into fists as rage coursed through my veins. Anton’s death was worth going to war over. We shouldn’t be here wasting our time deliberating on what to do. We should strike now, raise hell, and burn Marco’s empire to the ground.

That’s exactly what I was thinking.

“Anyone see anything?” Artem asked, eyes narrowing on the image in his hand.

“Witnesses say black masks. Dark sedan. No plates,” Maxim replied.

“It’s them. It’s the fuckin’ Italians; we all know that,” Anatoli chipped in, his intense gaze shifting across our faces. “They’ve just declared war.” His eyes flickered to me. “The attack on Anton wasn’t random, Ian. They killed him to get to you.”

My fists tightened, my jaw clenched harder, and my eyes burned with rage.

“I say we kill those sons of bitches—every last one of them,” Mikhail said, his tone laced with venom.

Then the debate began.

Some were in support of retaliation, while others thought it was unwise.

“He was just a kid, for fuck’s sake!” Mikhail snapped, banging his fists on the table. “And those assholes killed him. Did you know that he was engaged, that his fiancée was pregnant?”

That was part of the reason I was so furious at his untimely death.

Anton had told me of his plans to settle down with his high school sweetheart. And although I thought having a wife at his young age would only distract him, I couldn’t help but admire his willingness to take on the responsibility of a family.

Like I said, the kid knew what he wanted out of life; he knew where he was headed.

The room fell silent for a moment until Pakhan Artem spoke, “I know you’re grieving.

Especially you, Ian.” His gaze flickered in my direction.

“But we cannot answer this with war. Not yet. We’d only be playing their game.

If you can set your grievances aside, you’ll see that acting on impulse is exactly what they want us to do. ”

I still hadn’t said a single word since the beginning of this meeting. I just sat there, planning my next move. Pakhan Artem was right.

They killed Anton so I’d get upset and react without thinking. Those spineless pigs must already have a plan in motion to counter our attacks should we decide to play their game.

Right now, a good number of us were pissed, and nothing good ever came from acting based on emotions—in our case, fury.

It was a fuckin’ trap.

Anton would never advise me to respond with war. No. He’d sit down and think of more subtle ways to cripple the enemy without moving a muscle.

Pakhan Artem continued, “For now, we hold. We wait—hit them when and where they least expect.”

And just like that, a lightbulb lit up in my head—an idea. The perfect one. While the others were discussing the Pakhan’s orders, I was busy cooking up something that would shake Marco Moretti’s empire.

Anton was like a son to me, and Marco took him. He started this fight; now I’d finish it. But first, I’d go after the one thing he valued that wasn’t already hidden behind bulletproof glass.

Ester.

A son for a daughter. It seemed fair.

I had no intentions of killing the girl, but I sure had a plan for her, a really good one.

That night, at the gala, I saw it in her eyes when I revealed my identity—absolute fear. She knew who I was and what I was capable of.

Marco poked the bear; he started this fire. And now, it was time he felt the heat.

***

Later that night, while in my office, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, Maxim joined me quietly. I watched the breathtaking view of the city outside—tall buildings with twinkling lights and the landscape bathed in the moon’s ethereal glow.

“Everything you asked for.” He handed me a manila folder.

I accepted it.

He continued, “Security rotations, perimeter cameras. Staff names, estate layout. It’s all in there. Her room’s on the east wing, top floor. Guarded by two lazy assholes.”

“Good,” I said, flipping through the details with the focus of a man already two steps ahead.

I was going to take her, Ester. And nothing was going to stand in my way. This was personal now, in ways I wasn’t ready to admit yet.

By the time the sun set tomorrow, Ester would no longer be Moretti’s daughter.

She’d be my little trophy.