Page 20 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

I knew it was only a matter of time before I gave in to this temptation again—this urge to hold her, kiss her, and own every inch of her body.

These past few days had been different in more ways than I could count.

We’d gotten closer, bonded on so many levels, and that was how I knew I was in trouble.

It was almost like our connection was growing stronger by the day, and I could sense her gradually letting her guard down. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was starting to like it here. She was starting to adapt to her new reality.

Ever since Ester began loosening up a bit, somehow, the atmosphere here at the mansion had become a little less serious.

Lighter.

Better.

Jovial, even.

And for the first time in a long time, I heard laughter in my house—genuine belly laughs that echoed off the walls.

The maids seemed happier than I’d ever known them to be, including the guards.

I wasn’t sure what Ester was doing or how she was doing it, but the woman was gradually transforming my home into a place I barely recognized.

Just the other day, I heard her singing along with the chef in the kitchen. Like that wasn’t bad enough, the next thing I knew, a few other maids joined in, their voices creating a rather beautiful melody. It was music to my ears.

Those women had lived with me in this house—some for the past decade—but I had no idea they had such angelic voices.

Ester was turning my home into a circus, a scene straight out of a fuckin’ musical. I hadn’t seen this many smiley faces in the house in a really long time, and it was starting to piss me off.

Why the fuck was everyone so happy all the fuckin’ time? What kind of spirit did she bring into this house?

I did notice that everyone was better at what they did: the chef, the cleaners, the gardeners. They’d all improved these last few days. Did it have anything to do with their recent change in mood, their happier state of mind?

It still marveled me how she managed to change the atmosphere in the mansion to something less dark. Ester wasn’t the playful type. Yet somehow, she made the place feel more like a home than a house.

All of my staff respected her—adored her, even. Slowly, she snaked her way into their hearts, earned their love and respect, and now they treated her like a queen.

How did she manage to pull that off in such a short period of time?

Ester and I still fought over the littlest things, never saw eye to eye on anything. She called me controlling, and I called her stubborn and manipulative.

The more we had this constant banter, the closer we became, connected in more ways than one. The attraction I once felt for her had now doubled, and as fascinating as that was, it was still very much concerning.

Then it happened. The sex.

Hard.

Fast-paced.

Desperate.

Angry.

It was everything we shouldn’t have felt. Yet a great, mind-blowing experience that still lingered in my head, keeping me entertained and also distracted.

So distracted, in fact, that I almost forgot I was in another Bratva meeting, seated amongst the elites.

“We’ve confirmed it.” Oleg’s deep voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “Our man on the inside says Moretti’s men are tracing the girl’s last known movement.” His gaze shifted across our faces. “They suspect we’re behind the kidnapping.”

“Idiots,” Dmitry, an older man with grey hair and hollow eyes, chipped in, cold and arrogant. “They shouldn’t suspect us. They should know it was us, same way we knew they were the fuckers who killed Anton.”

A heavy haze of cigar smoke hung above the polished mahogany table that dominated the center of the room.

I sat at the head of the table, silent, legs crossed, fingers steepled under my chin. My glass sat untouched before me. Half vodka. Half melted ice.

“His men are moving,” Mikhail added, calmer. “No obvious aggression yet. Just strategic surveillance—watching our ports, trailing our drops, sniffing around. Quiet…but coordinated.”

“Sounds like Marco,” Maxim said, standing by the window, arms across his chest. “That’s how the bastard operates—strikes slowly like a poison.”

Oleg sighed. “Well, you can’t afford an open war. Not now anyway.” He looked at our faces. “Pakhan’s orders, remember?”

The men exchanged hidden glances in silence.

Dmitry added, his voice gravelly from years of smoke, “I want those bastards dead for what they did to Anton. But Pakhan Artem was right. Now isn’t the time to start an all-out war, especially not with the Feds sniffing around our docks.”

“So, what do you propose we do? Sit back and let them strike first?” One-eyed Viktor asked the old man.

“Moretti might be an animal, but even he knows better than to start a war with the Tarasovs now,” Dmitry replied.

“Your faith in the enemy is admirable,” Viktor said, leaning back in his chair, his voice low and even. “But you said it yourself, the man’s an animal, and there’s no telling what animals can do. Besides, you seem to rule out the fact that we have his daughter.”

“If he gave a rat’s ass about her and truly wanted to start a war to get her back, do you honestly think that animal wouldn’t have done so by now?” the old man asked him, striking a valid point.

For a second there, silence fell.

“I know how Moretti thinks,” Dmitry continued. “He doesn’t suspect us of kidnapping his daughter. He knows we’re behind it. He hasn’t attacked yet because he also knows it’s stupid to start a war with us.”

“Maybe,” Viktor said, “but he’s planning something, alright. And whatever it is, it’s not good. We shouldn’t sit back and let him have his way. We have to do something.”

“We give her back,” the old man said flatly.

“What?” Viktor objected, his face contorting into a frown. “That’s bullshit.”

A faint scowl settled on my face as well, offended by the old man’s suggestion. Ester was mine, and there was no way in hell I was going to give her back now. Not with the recent development.

The old man, Dmitry, said, “Giving her back will send a message. Diplomatic. Respectful. Say we found her, that we had nothing to do with it. Hell, make it a peace offering.”

Viktor’s frown deepened. “If I didn’t know better, Dmitry, I’d say you’re scared of that little puppy.”

“What you call fear, I call diplomacy,” he replied, composed as fuck.

“Dmitry’s right,” Oleg chipped in. “We can turn this around and de-escalate the situation. The girl’s worth more than a favor. We give her back. We name our price. Territory. A truce. Something that gives us the upper hand.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by murmurs and exchanged glances.

These men spoke of my Ester like she was a weapon or some bargaining chip. And I hated that. This woman was worth more to me than they realized.

It was time to let the cat out of the bag.

“She’s carrying my child,” I declared, bold and unapologetic. Not too loud. Not aggressive. Just clear.

Voices fell silent. Heads turned in my direction, shock flickering in their gazes.

“Can you repeat that?” Viktor said. “Because I thought I heard you say she’s carrying your child.”

I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “She is.”

The men looked at each other but said nothing until the old man broke the silence.

“Yulian, how do you know the child is yours?” he asked, still as calm and composed as he’d been since the beginning of this meeting.

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Dmitry,” I answered, locking eyes with him. “The child is mine. There’s no margin for error. Ester carries Bratva blood now; returning her to the Italians would be surrendering a future Bratva heir.”

Dmitry nodded, fingers drumming on the table’s surface. “This changes everything.”

“It sure does,” I answered, my tone leaving no room for further debate.

The men deliberated in hushed voices, as if their opinions mattered here. They were elite members of the inner circle, and I had maximum respect for everyone seated in this room. But this was my child we were talking about. I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass what they thought about my decision.

This was my life, my legacy.

The silence stretched, but different this time—thoughtful, calculating, tense. One by one, they nodded, realizing how this pregnancy had changed Ester’s worth.

“It is settled then. The girl remains under the Bratva’s protection. And you, Yulian, have our full support. We’ll do all we can to keep both mother and child safe,” the old man said.

I nodded.

“But you do realize that at this point, marriage is inevitable,” he added, watching me closely.

“It will not be easy,” Oleg said. “Marco will resist.”

“We’ll be ready when he does,” the old man concluded.

After the meeting was over and everyone had left the room, Dmitry walked up to me and said, “It’s true what they say: Love does make a man reckless.” He flashed a faint grin at me, patted my shoulder, and walked away.

Love?

I scoffed, brushing off the thought, even though deep down, it lingered. Maybe even a lot longer than it was supposed to.

I couldn’t fall for her.

No.

Whatever I felt for Ester was not love. Couldn’t have been. I was too cold for that shit. The old man was mistaken.