Page 2 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

New York. The Big Apple. The City that Never Sleeps—a land of opportunity, or so they say. A place where anyone can become anything.

I’d never loved it here. Not even once. It was too loud, too fast, and too full of people who talked big and walked like gods until they were cornered in an alley with a gun to their ribs.

The constant wail of sirens, the rumble of the subway, and the cacophony of car horns all created a symphony of chaos. Not the kind that suited my personality.

We’d just landed at the airport, and I already couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here. My lieutenant, Maxim, could tell that I was itching to leave. And although he didn’t say a word, that crooked smirk on his lips betrayed his amusement. The son of a gun was clearly enjoying my discomfort.

Good news was, I wouldn’t be here for long. Once my business here was concluded, I’d be flying back to Chicago, back to the city I was all too familiar with. Here, I was an alien with no intentions of mingling with the locals—none whatsoever.

Word on the street was that the fucking Italians were at it again, meddling with Bratva affairs, interfering with our shipments, bleeding profits from our territory like leeches. They were trespassing. Again. Operating on our turf like they owned the damn streets.

It was my job to set things straight—to take care of those greedy bastards and remind them of who the fuck ran this city. The Italians just wouldn’t stay in their lane. Those arrogant sons of bitches were natural-born troublemakers. But this time, they’d met their match.

Their actions had forced my hand, compelling me to go to the one city I hated the most. Now, they had my attention; they had the full dose of it.

I stepped off my private jet and into the cold wind that carried the scent of the Hudson and rot.

Above, the sky was the same steel gray as my mood, my expression blank, unreadable.

Clad in a dark trench coat, I headed toward the black SUV waiting across the jet.

A few of my men flanked me, forming a semicircle around me to keep me safe.

One of them grabbed the back door handle and yanked it open. I stepped inside, and he closed it firmly behind me. Maxim Reznik sat on the other side, flipping through the pages of a file with narrowing eyes.

The driver started the engine and set the vehicle in motion.

Maxim sighed softly and raised his head, handing me the file. “Here.”

“What’s this?” I asked, accepting it.

He adjusted his black blazer. “Update on the minor sabotage.”

My brows arched. “Minor?”

“It’s low level,” he answered. “Nothing flashy.”

My gaze shifted to the file in my hand, studying every detail.

Maxim continued, “Cargo held up at ports, trucks delayed. Some Customs guy suddenly gets hard to reach.” He paused, watching me before adding, “Like I said, minor. But it’s deliberate. Moretti’s fingerprints are all over it.”

My jaw tightened, a pang of vexation stirring within me as I looked out the window.

Marco Moretti: the ruthless Italian Mafia boss who thought he could cross us and live. The man was way in over his head, thinking he could stir up trouble with the Bratva—start a fire and not get burned.

His fierceness was well known throughout the underground criminal world. He had a reputation for always getting what he wanted, doing as he pleased, and never being challenged.

The arrogant son of a bitch clearly underestimated the situation. He was testing our limits, probably checking to see if our organization was as untouchable as people claimed, if our rep was more than just talk.

He had no idea what he was getting into, and he wouldn’t know what hit him until it was too late.

The city rolled past outside my window—glittering glass, rusted corners, old ghosts painted over neon and greed. The sidewalk was abuzz with pedestrians, a sea of strangers surging to and fro, their footsteps clicking together in a rhythmic dance.

Bags and briefcases swung through the crowded air, shoulders brushing against shoulders as the collective hum of conversations filled the streets. Drivers blared their horns, cursing, yelling, some sticking their heads out their windows, visibly agitated.

All that shouting, all that noise, now had my head pounding. How the hell did the people in this city handle this much loudness?

The driver pulled up outside Obsidian Lounge, one of the Bratva’s newer fronts—clean on paper, dirty underneath. It was the kind of place where shady deals were sealed between vodka shots and bottle service.

The building was sleek and packed, the bass from inside thumping faintly against the sidewalk.

“What’re we doing here, Maxim?” I asked, fingers digging into my temple. “I have no interest in clubbing tonight.”

“You hate the noise, I know,” he said, facing me.

“Then what are we doing here?”

“This place is one of our own, Boss,” he answered. “I thought you might wanna check it out.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t think that I’d need to cool off in a hotel first?”

“There’s a five-star hotel a few clicks from here. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to drop by and handle some internal affairs,” he said, his voice low and even.

I heaved a sigh, rubbing my eyes. “Alright. You handle it.”

He nodded, opened the door, and stepped outside.

“Hey, Max,” I called.

He stopped and turned around.

“Ten minutes. That’s how much time you have,” I said with finality, leaving no room for debate.

Maxim knew better than to argue. He just walked away in silence until he disappeared into the building.

I let out a soft sigh, fingers massaging my temple as I glanced out the window.

A neon sign cast a gaudy glow on the sidewalk, a queue of revelers snaking around the block.

Their flashy outfits and eager faces caught in the lights, their laughs and chatter mingling with the thumping bass that pulsed through the walls.

“Kids,” I murmured under my breath, recalling the times I used to be into places like this, too.

That was a long time ago, before the weight of the Bratva fell on my shoulders.

While I sat there in silence, waiting for Maxim to return, my eyes scanned the streets outside until something caught my attention.

A warm, dim, and golden light illuminated the interior of what seemed to be a tattoo studio.

The window flashed with ink arts: bleeding roses, red dragons, black skulls, coiled serpents.

The intricate designs and details of the artist’s work were hard to ignore. My interest was piqued, and without knowing why, I found myself drawn to the studio. The car door clicked open, and I stepped out into the cool night air, bathed in the moon’s ethereal glow.

The pavement reverberated beneath my feet with each scuffing step I took toward the studio. I didn’t stop until I was already standing at the entrance, staring up at the sign, “Ink Ritual” gleaming in fancy fonts and lights.

I pushed the door open, it creaked, and I stepped inside, enveloped by the sudden peace and quiet that wrapped around me like a shroud.

Finally, some serenity.

The dimly lit interior was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something older: ink, pain maybe. It was almost therapeutic in here, quiet and peaceful as opposed to the noise outside.

A young receptionist behind a desk across from me raised his head and met my gaze. His breath caught in his throat, a glint of unease flashing in his eyes. He rose to his feet—almost reflexively—and cleared his throat. “Evening. Walk-in?”

I nodded once.

“Please, take a seat.” He gestured to the worn-out couch by the window. “The artist will be out shortly.”

I paced slowly, drinking in the intriguing artwork. My eyes shifted across the pieces, frame by frame. Some of it was violent, chaotic—like something ripped right out of someone’s nightmares. But there was also control—intent. Clean lines.

Honestly, whoever did these pieces had a steady hand and an even darker mind.

Beneath the scent of ink and antiseptic, I smelled something else—something better. Feminine. I took my eyes off the walls, my gaze settling on the lithe figure stepping out of the inner room.

A young girl, no older than twenty-three, approached me, her boots clicking against the floor. She was dressed in black pants and a tank top that exposed her flat tummy. Her hair, black with streaks of electric purple, swayed as she moved, catching in the dim lights.

Her stormy gray eyes were fixed on me with an unreadable expression that had me intrigued. Ink curled over her arms, her collarbone, and vanished beneath her tank top. She looked at me, cold as ice, as if already mapping out my pressure points.

Her full lips, painted a shade of red, caught my eye, and I couldn’t help the faint smirk spreading across my face. I wasn’t the kind to notice women so easily. But there was something about this one that I just couldn’t place my finger on, something that made me pause.

My breath hitched the moment I saw her, and it was like time itself stood still so I could revel in her presence.

Perhaps it was her sharpness that pulled me in like steel to a magnet. Or it was the way she stared, like she could see through me. Or perhaps, it was just the fact that I wanted to stay here a little longer, to enjoy the peace and quiet this place offered.

I was so carried away that I didn’t realize she was already standing before me. At least not until she spoke. “You the walk-in?”

I blinked back to reality, watching her closely, replaying the sound of her voice in my head, low but edged with bite.

I nodded.

“Okay, good.” She gestured toward the chair. “Let’s get started, shall we?”