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

I glanced at the silver watch around my wrist. The night was almost over. Thank God.

Just a little while longer, and I’d be out of here. It was Dad’s idea to tag along, to showcase myself as his proud daughter. He’d personally bought the dress I had on tonight—a silver-gray gown, structured and uncomfortably fitted.

I could hardly breathe in this, considering how tightly it hugged me like a second skin. I was the center of attention tonight; all eyes were on me, and heads turned as I moved through the crowd of impeccably dressed men and women.

That was exactly what Dad wanted—for me to draw attention to myself. He didn’t give a shit how uncomfortable it made me feel. All he cared about was his daughter being seen. The more those powerful men drooled over me, the more my family name stuck in their heads.

If anyone asked who the gorgeous lady in the silver dress was, they’d say, “Oh, that’s Marco Moretti’s daughter.”

He took pride in that, my father.

The gown I wore seemed to attract a lot of compliments and long gazes. They said it was elegant, refined, and classy. But to me, it felt more like armor. My hair was up—tied into a perfect bun—my diamond earrings were too heavy, and the smile I wore had long since started to ache.

My feet hurt in these high heels, and each step was almost unbearable. I hated the fact that tonight I was nothing but my father’s puppet, dancing to his tunes.

The venue was a rooftop that sat like a glittering crown atop one of Chicago’s most exclusive towers.

Up here, the air was cold and thinner, with hints of lavender from potted plants lining the marble terrace.

The view was magnificent: shimmering skyscrapers and amber lights that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Soft jazz wafted through the air from a live band playing at a corner. The clinking of glasses and the hum of conversations were softened by the classic tunes that added to the ambiance of the space.

Waiters and waitresses floated through the crowd like ghosts in black, expertly balancing champagne flutes and trays of hors d’oeuvres with practiced ease.

I’d had this plastic smile perched on my face for as long as I could remember, and my cheeks were starting to hurt. I’d lost count of how many politicians I’d shaken hands with tonight—those whose eyes lingered too long. Fuckin’ pervs.

I had to fake polite smiles with CEOs who I honestly believed saw me as a means to an end, not a person. Tonight, everything I did was to please the one who insisted I come along: my father. Every conversation was a performance, every compliment a transaction.

Tonight was all about business and crooked deals, cloaked in champagne, with networking conducted in the language of veiled threats and hollow promises.

These people, these societal elites…they were nothing but wolves in sheep’s clothing. Devils in suits. Their hypocrisy repulsed me in ways that I’d yet to name, and I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here.

Not long after, the venue quieted, and the guests began trickling toward the elevator. It was over, finally. Everyone was halfway through the awkward goodbyes when I shoved a glass of champagne down my throat, and I stepped away from the departing guests.

My heels clicked against the fine stone floor, my manicured fingers loosening the silver necklace around my throat. I was tempted to slip out of my stilettos and just continue the rest of the journey on bare feet. It would be better than this torture.

The peaceful hallway, with its bright lights and artistic décor, created a sense of calm and beauty. My footsteps echoed as I moved, desperate to get the hell out of here. I was barely even halfway through the hallway when I heard someone clear their throat behind me.

“Going somewhere?” A familiar voice prompted me to stop in my tracks.

I rolled my eyes, then turned to face the speaker. “Yeah. Home. Night’s over, isn’t it?”

Franco’s lips twisted into a sly grin as he approached me with a hand in his pocket. His black tux gleamed in the lights, his hair styled neatly in a way that made him look almost…responsible.

“Funny because here I was thinking you hated ‘home,’” he said, air-quoting the word as he drew closer, footsteps slow and deliberate.

“Well, it turns out I’d rather be there than here,” I replied, expression blank.

“I can see that.” He chuckled, halting in front of me.

“What do you want, Franco?” I asked, wearing a stern expression, my arms crossed over my chest.

“Relax, princess, I just wanna talk,” he answered.

There it was again: that twisted smirk on his lips.

I glanced at my watch. “You have five minutes.”

“Damn, that’s how it is? Okay,” he murmured and cleared his throat. “Look, Ester….”

He usually called me “kid.” What changed? I wondered.

Franco continued, “I, uh…I have a proposal for you—a way out of your father’s shackles, out of the prison he’s kept you in.”

I squinted my eyes, my head tilting suspiciously.

“I know you want your freedom, and I sure as hell know you hate every last one of those suitors your father’s lined up for you,” he added, his voice dripping with confidence.

I was quiet for a while, watching him, a little curious to hear him out. “You have less than four minutes, Franco. Make it count.”

“Marry me,” he declared, bold and unapologetic.

Instinctively, my brows arched, a faint scowl settling on my face. “Excuse me?”

He looked me dead in the eye and tried explaining further, like what he said seconds ago wasn’t at all weird on so many levels. “Think about it; with me, you get to be your authentic self. You get the freedom you’ve always wanted—I can make that happen. As your husband, I’d never tie you down.”

I stared at him, in awe of his guts and how stupid he thought I was. The man was so confident that somehow, he’d win me over with his silver tongue. That was both ridiculous and disturbing at the same time, not to mention disgusting.

“We can have a contract if it makes you feel better, you know,” he continued, “that after, say…two years—or less—we both go our separate ways. Easy peasy. In the end, it’s a win-win; we both get what we want.”

“Right.” I nodded once, disbelief clouding my features. “And what is it you want, Franco?”

He hesitated, then answered, “What every man in our world wants. Power.”

I bit on the inside of my cheeks, eyes pinned on him.

“I wanna make a name for myself in the Mafia, and you want your freedom. So I figured, why not make it happen?” He paused, as if to let his words sink in.

“It’s basic quid pro quo, Ester. Something for something.

You give me what I want, and I give you what you want. We’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

“I see what’s happening here.” I scoffed, stepping in until we were eye to eye. “You wanna use me as a tool for your own personal gain. Cut a deal, pull some strings, and ride my back straight into the Mafia’s good graces.”

“No, that’s not it,” he said, but I wasn’t done.

“Oh, but it is,” I insisted. “You see, Franco, I’ve seen power-hungry men like you before—slick with charm, thinking the world owes them something. But I’m not your shortcut. I sure as hell am not your stepping stone.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

I leaned in, my voice cold as ice. “If you’re looking for a pawn, pick someone stupid.” And with that, I turned and walked away, leaving him to his anger and embarrassment.

It was freezing outside, and most of the guests—if not all of them—had left already. The streets appeared to be more deserted than usual, the lamps casting long, eerie shadows along the sidewalk.

My heels clicked against the pavement, my hands rubbing against my cold shoulders as I made my way to the parking lot. The driver was supposed to be waiting for me, but when I got to the car, I realized there was no one inside.

“Great,” I grumbled, scanning the surroundings for any sign of him.

All I saw was the quiet street. Nothing more.

I reached for my purse and withdrew my phone. I was about to dial his number when I heard movement in the bush behind me.

Maybe it was just the wind.

It wasn’t.

I heard it again, this time like someone had stepped on a twig. Slowly, I turned, observing the bush and the leaves rustling in the cool breeze. “Hello?” I called. “Anyone there?”

No answer.

Just silence.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me.

That thought barely settled in when a huge man stepped out of the bush like a predator from one of those Hollywood horror movies. Everything about him screamed danger, and when he approached me, the first thing that came to mind was: run.

I turned around but bumped into a larger man, my lithe frame slamming against his broad torso.

His hand snapped out, grasping my wrist with a firm grip.

I screamed, my foot flying to his groin.

The man groaned, reflexively letting go of my hand.

I took off without thinking twice, but the other guy moved like lightning for a man his size.

He seized my waist from behind, effortlessly lifting me off the ground.

My legs flailed in the air, my voice echoing into the night, screaming for help that never came. With every strength in me, I slammed the back of my head into my kidnapper’s face, his nose breaking with a sickening crack.

“Argh!” he groaned, forced to drop me, his voice thick with pain.

I bolted into the night but didn’t get far enough when something hit me in the neck. I winced, my hand flying to pick it out of my skin. The pesky little thing prickled.

A tranquilizer dart. That was what it looked like when I stared at it.

Merely seconds later, my knees quaked, and my legs turned to jelly. I slowed down, my gaze blurring, my head spinning, and soon, I dropped to the pavement. It felt like the world was swirling around me, and I could swear that I heard my heartbeat slowing down.

With a hazy vision, I saw two huge figures towering over me.

“Bitch broke my nose,” one of them said, his voice echoing in my head.

I tried to move, but my body was too weak, too numb. I closed my heavy eyes, and darkness swallowed me before I could even attempt to say a word.

***

When I finally woke up, my body ached, and a dull throb haunted the back of my head. I wasn’t sure where I was yet—my vision was still foggy. I was groggy, dizzy, with a ringing in my ear that was gradually fading second by second.

I lifted my hand, attempting to rub my throbbing temple, and that was when I realized the chains that held me bound. I was chained to the wall like an animal with shackles on my feet. The room was dimly lit—cement walls with no windows—and it reeked like piss in here.

One thing was certain: I’d been kidnapped.

But by whom?

Who had the spunk to kidnap Marco Moretti’s daughter? That was either bold or stupid. But whoever it was, I was in deep trouble.

Then, I heard the front door creak open.

My heart sank in my chest, and my pulse spiked as a figure stepped into the room, boots hitting the concrete. “Who are you and what do you want with me?” I asked, my eyes fixed on the figure lurking in the shadows.

Silence.

I steeled myself, gritting my teeth in preparation to act as tough as I could. “Show me your face,” I demanded.

“Bravery,” a familiar masculine voice replied. “That’s one thing I’ve always admired about you, Ester.”

Fuck, no.

My breath hitched in my throat as I realized exactly who that was. “Yulian?” His name fell from my lips.

He stepped out into the open, his face blank and unreadable. “Hello, Ester.”

I looked up at him, confused and unsure of how to feel. Should I be afraid, or relieved? Things could have gotten a lot worse if he weren’t my captor. Right?

But why did he look at me with so much hatred and anger in his eyes? Why did he look like a man who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me or even put a bullet in my head?

“Yulian, what’s going on? Why am I here? Why am I in chains?” I asked, fighting against the emotions brewing within me.

“Because you’re leverage,” he answered, cold and straight to the point.

“What?” My voice was barely above a whisper, shoulders slumping in dismay.

“Your father declared war when he took something valuable to me. It’s only fair that I take what’s valuable to him,” Yulian replied.

I couldn’t recognize the man in front of me; he wasn’t the man I met in New York. This one had the devil’s eyes and the face of a demon.

“So what, you kidnapped me to get even?” I asked, my heart breaking into a million tiny pieces. “You’re just as evil as he is…a thug dressed in a tailored suit. A monster.”

“You should’ve thought about that before spreading your legs for this monster back in NYC,” he said, his lips twisting into an evil smirk.

My face contorted into a frown. “Fuck you, Yulian,” I spat, my voice dripping with venom.

Without another word, he turned around and walked away, shutting the door behind him.

I buried my face in my palms: alone, furious, and afraid.

I hated Yulian for this. Hated my father for dragging me back into his world of chaos and violence.

And most importantly, I hated myself for how my heart jumped at the sight of Yulian, the same man who sent his goons after me and had me locked up in his fucking dungeon.

The man was worse than my father, and he’d just climbed his way up the list of men I loathed most in the world.