Page 22 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

“What do you mean she’s gone?” I barked, eyes blazing with fury. “Gone where?”

“I’ve searched everywhere, sir,” the maid said, trembling before me, her voice breaking under the weight of her fear. “She’s not in the mansion.”

“Maxim!” I bellowed, hurrying downstairs, my voice echoing off the walls. “Maxim!”

“Boss,” he answered, standing in the living room, alarmed and on guard.

“Gather all the men. I want an explanation for how Ester vanished without a trace in a house full of guards!” I yelled, furious, deep creases lining my forehead.

His expression darkened, brows furrowing as he left my presence, barking orders into his walkie-talkie. Soon, I was surrounded by the incompetent idiots who let her slip through their fingers. With how furious I was, putting a bullet in their heads seemed like the best move at the time.

Maxim cleared his throat and stepped forward, bracing himself like he knew what he was about to spill would have me raising hell. “She didn’t leave on her own accord, Boss.” He paused, holding his breath. “She was kidnapped.”

My face was red with anger, my blood boiling as I glared at him, my fingers curling at my sides. But this wasn’t his fault. He was with me when it happened. It was theirs, these lazy ass, good-for-nothing pricks. I’d come back to them later—punish them for this costly mistake.

But for now, I had a more pressing concern: finding Ester.

“Who took her?” I asked Maxim, gritting my teeth.

“The surveillance camera captured Franco and two others leaving the building with her…unconscious.” The slight pause came when he lowered his head, unable to stand the intensity of my gaze.

None of them could. Shame and fear wouldn’t let them.

I swiped a palm over my mouth, pacing like a caged animal.

It was a small gesture, but it barely masked the rage simmering beneath the surface.

My jaw flexed, and my eyes burned. Red hot.

“Three fuckin’ Italians broke into my house,” I began, voice dripping with venom, “kidnapped the mother of my unborn child, and no one saw them?”

They all trembled in terror, unsure of what I’d do next. They were right to be afraid because at this point, my rage made me unpredictable. I could gun down every last one of them, and what would be done about it? Absolutely nothing.

The air was heavy with tension, and the living room reeked of fear and guilt until I broke the silence.

“We’ll pick this up later,” I said, jaw tightening. “Gear up. We’re bringing her back where she belongs. And for all your sakes, nothing better happen to her…or that baby.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused, disappearing from my presence.

***

We moved like shadows in the night, ghosts in tailored black, sweeping through the Moretti estate with dangerous coordination. The infiltration was as quiet as it was ruthless. Silencers were clicked, throats slit with deadly precision.

Blood stained the velvet curtains and the marble floor as lifeless bodies dropped, motionless. I didn’t speak as I moved; I signaled with my hands and head, my face stony. My pistol was held up in front of me, my mind fixed solely on the mission: getting Ester the hell out of here.

Our invasion was silent but effective—swift—and in no time, we surrounded the whole building without raising any alarm. A good number of the Moretti men were slaughtered, the others captured at gunpoint.

I located Ester’s room in the east wing and burst the door open, but I was too late. The room was empty. The bed was made. No blood. No signs of struggle. Just empty.

Her scent lingered in the air, though—faint traces of her perfume clinging to the sheets. This only proved one thing: She was here not so long ago.

“Boss,” one of my men called from behind.

I turned, and there was an elderly woman, a maid, trembling before me.

“We found her wandering the hallway,” he said, his grip tightening on her arm.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” she begged, her eyes dropping to the ground, fear evident in her tone.

“Where is she?” I demanded, my voice cold yet calm, considering her age.

The woman gulped, shaking like a leaf. “Th-they…they took her…” she stuttered, too afraid to look at my face.

“Took her where?” I asked, a voice a low murmur.

“To a private clinic, for the…” she answered, voice cracking, “…the procedure.”

Procedure.

My jaw locked.

I didn’t need to be a genius to know that Marco was trying to get rid of my child.

My blood turned to ice. “Where is the clinic?”

***

The private clinic was silent, too silent.

However, the peace and quiet didn’t last as I came bursting in through the front door, my men flooding behind me like a wave of vengeance. Chaos erupted—guns blazing, bullets flying through the air.

The receptionist screamed, ducking behind the counter, hands over her ears. Blood stained the sterile walls as both sides clashed in a fierce battle. Marco’s men fought back, but they were outnumbered, outgunned, and fucking outsmarted.

White corridors echoed with gunfire, wailing men, and screaming nurses. Blood sprayed across posters promising “Safe Care” and “Discreet Treatment.”

I moved like a storm, searching every room, every corner of this clinic for signs of my Ester. When I rounded a corner down the east hallway, I spotted the bastard, Marco, barking orders. He paused when he saw me, his eyes red with anger.

He was furious.

Good.

So was I.

I charged in, three bullets tearing through his men before they could even lift their weapons. Marco ducked, taking cover behind a stretcher, two others covering him like a human shield.

Relentlessly, I fired, knocking one down with a bullet to the chest. He fell over the stretcher and landed on his neck, the sickening crack echoing off the clinic walls.

The other one vanished with Marco before I could reload my weapon.

Someone speared into my side with lightning speed, their strength knocking me off the linoleum floor. My pistol clanked away.

“You never should have taken her, Yulian. She was never yours to take!” the man yelled, his familiar voice filled with rage.

I rose to my feet, and there he was, standing with a bear’s broad stance, fingers curled into fists.

Franco.

“Where is she?” I demanded, ignoring the fury in his eyes.

His lips curled into a self-satisfied grin. “You’re too late.”

Franco roared like a beast, charging at me with dangerous swings. I deflected his advances, retaliating with bone-cracking punches and kicks. Our deep grunts filled the air as we exchanged fists, elbows, and kicks.

This was no ordinary fight with Franco. It was personal. I saw it in his eyes, the hatred and anger, like I stole something from him, not just the Morettis.

He fought dirty, like a mindless beast. “She was supposed to be mine!” he barked, grabbing a scalpel off a rolling chair, and with it, he slashed my arm. “Mine! And you put her in a family way!”

I pulled back, glancing at the cut in my flesh, his claims accentuating my rage. How dare he even think of being with her? My brows furrowed, and my scowl deepened. I snarled, slamming the bastard into the wall.

He broke free in seconds, swinging again.

Too slow.

I trapped his hand and snapped his elbow like a fucking twig.

He cried out, dropping the scalpel.

With quick reflexes, I grabbed it midair, jabbed it into his thigh first, and then with a precise swing, I slit his throat.

Both hands flew to his neck as if to prevent the blood from gushing out like water from a fountain.

He choked on his own blood, then dropped to his knees, life draining from his wide eyes.

“I don’t share what’s mine,” I said, my voice low and venomous.

He fell face down, blood pooling beneath him.

I turned around and stormed toward the surgical room, boots crunching glass, blood trailing in my wake.

Luckily, I got there just in time to stop the procedure.

Ester was struggling against two nurses. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, tears streaking down her cheeks. Her legs kicked weakly, bound by straps. “I said no—get off me!”

The doctor’s hand trembled over her, the anesthesia mask inches from her face.

That’s when I came barging in, gun in the air. “Everybody, out!” I bellowed, sending two shots into the air.

Doctors and nurses alike scattered like roaches, screaming, heads lowered, hands in the air.

Ester jerked her head toward me, gasping. “Yulian?” Shock flickered in her gaze and in her cracked voice. “You…you came…you found me….”

“Of course, I did. I’ll always come. I’ll always find you,” I replied, already at her side, unstrapping her limbs, ripping cords from her arms. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Is the baby…?”

Once free, she wasted no time throwing her hands around me, her face pressing against the side of my neck. “We’re fine. Thank you. Thank you so much,” she whispered amidst sobs. Her body trembled like a live wire, heart racing against mine.

“Shhh.” I held her tighter than I ever had, my hand cradling the back of her head. I placed my other hand protectively on her belly as if to be sure the baby was okay. “I swear to God, I’ll never let anyone hurt you again. Both of you.”

“I was so scared, Yulian,” she sobbed, holding me tighter. “I thought I was going to lose our baby.”

Our baby? That sounded nice. It had a ring to it.

I pressed a kiss on her forehead. “No one will ever get close enough to try this again. Not on my watch. I promise,” I assured her, voice low and fierce.

She lifted her head and met my gaze, her expression so soft it melted my heart. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if anything had happened to her or the baby. It would have rained hell and brimstone here in Chicago.

I wiped her tears with my thumbs, my lips curling into a smile of relief.

I carried her in my arms, bridal style, her hands around my neck, head resting against my chest. As my men stormed through the hallway behind us, clearing what was left of the enemy, I carried Ester out of the chaos—the blood-soaked clinic.

She’d see enough death and violence for one day. She deserved hours of rest and a good night’s sleep.