Page 9 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

Two Months Later

The gentle buzz of conversations filled the air, mingling with the occasional clinking of glasses as guests moved about in their finest attire, men in tuxedos and women in elegant gowns.

Like frozen waterfalls, chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, their warm glow illuminating the grand ballroom. The walls were clean, adorned with a few paintings that must’ve cost a fortune. The marble floor was so polished they practically squeaked beneath patent shoes.

Waiters dressed in black and white moved through the crowd like shadows, carrying champagne trays with practiced ease. The aroma of fine wine, mixed with that of canapés, wafted through the air, tantalizing my senses.

The grand ballroom was exactly what I expected—too polished, too smug.

Everyone in here had an ax to grind with at least a person or two.

Yet they all graciously moved around with plastic smiles on their faces, like they wouldn’t stab each other in the back without thinking twice when the need arose.

Fuckin’ hypocrites!

These people were nothing but devils in suits—selfish pricks who cared about no one but themselves.

I was no saint either. But at least I was no hypocrite.

I didn’t pretend to like what I hated, didn’t pretend to be who I wasn’t just to exploit the poor like the politicians discussing in small groups across the hall.

Those greedy bastards were the worst of us—criminals and murderers disguised as public figures and fucking role models. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Those vipers were draining the economy from the inside out, bleeding it dry to satisfy their selfishness.

The likes of me were the devils the people knew, and a devil you could always trust to be bad. It was the “good guys” they ought to look out for—their own political leaders. Those snakes would sit back and watch the masses starve to death if that was what it took to stay in power.

Like I said, they’re the worst.

Then there are the so-called philanthropists and humanitarians.

The media darlings.

These were the people whose faces were splashed across billboards and news channels, talking about a better tomorrow, changing the world, feeding the poor, blah blah blah.

What a fuckin’ joke!

The public saw them as angels with friggin’ halos on their heads. They were regarded as saints: clean hands, warm smiles, promises wrapped in photo ops and big checks.

Oh, but I knew better.

I’d seen those ass-licking, backstabbing devils at private auctions, bidding on trafficked girls like they were vintage cars. I was well aware of how those sickos funneled donation money through corporations—millions raised for “clean water” that never even made it past the press release.

Funds raised to “feed the poor” somehow magically disappeared into thin air. Half their so-called outreach programs were nothing but fronts—money laundering schemes masked by crocodile tears and designer suits.

I take it back , I thought. These guys were the worst. They were crooks, guilty of every sin ever committed on the face of the earth. Yet, they were held up like gods while they pissed on the very crowd that raised them.

This whole event, this gala, was just a front—some diplomatic charity tied to “global youth rehabilitation,” whatever the fuck that meant. Underneath the polished exterior, it was in fact a neutral ground where major crime families in the city showed up to wine and dine and close crooked deals.

Personally, I hated places like this; they reeked of hypocrisy. However, in this line of work, appearance was of the utmost importance. Besides, my business rivals were here tonight, and that was motivation enough for me.

Under the moon’s soft light, I stood at the edge of the second-floor balcony, cradling a glass of whiskey. From up here, I could see everyone and everything—every smirk, every nod, every subtle exchange going on below. The view was magnificent.

Maxim stood beside me, his watchful eyes scanning the place as if searching for any sign of trouble. We were, by the way, surrounded by enemies. Almost every family here tonight had a bone to pick with the Tarasovs. We were the one family that everyone hated but were too scared to do shit about it.

Our impact on the underground criminal world wasn’t one to be easily brushed under the rug. So, it didn’t matter how many of those dogs hated us; they needed us.

Maxim quietly muttered updates between sips of aged scotch while still glancing around like he was ready for anything. The man never really knew how to let his guard down, and that readiness had come in handy more times than once.

Maxim was still talking when something else caught my attention below. More specifically, someone. I recognized that subtle embroidery the second I saw it. It was a design of tailored Italian suits that marked Marco Moretti’s men.

When the mutt turned around, I saw his face.

Franco. The pig from New York.

But that wasn’t all. He had someone else with him, a lady in a red gown—his plus one, maybe. From where I stood, all I saw was her back, but that posture looked rather familiar, as did the tats on the woman’s arms.

Franco leaned in to whisper something in her ear, and when he pulled away, she turned around, her lips parting into the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen.

My heart stopped for a moment. My breath hitched.

Ester?

She was different now, all glowed up and sophisticated as opposed to the simple girl I met in the tattoo studio back in New York. Her hair—black with streaks of purple—was styled into a neat bun, her stormy gray eyes sparkling like diamonds.

I straightened, my grip tightening around my glass, my gaze pinned on her.

She looked stunning in that crimson dress with a daring slit that hugged her figure perfectly. My eyes scanned her lithe shape, taking in her curves and contours. I knew she was beautiful the last time we met, but this…this was on an entirely new level.

For a long second, I stared at her, trying to figure out if it was really Ester Sharpe I was looking at or some lookalike.

Maxim must have traced my gaze to the woman standing beside Franco, smiling and chatting with some guests. “That’s Marco’s daughter. Ester Moretti.”

My blood ran cold immediately, a scowl settling on my face. She lied about her last name. Why? Did she sleep with me on purpose? Did she know who I was back then?

No. It was highly unlikely. I found her, and not the other way around, so there’s no way she could’ve possibly targeted me on purpose.

So that was, what, some insane coincidence?

Fate’s timing couldn’t have been more impeccable. She raised her head while talking with her associates, and in a fraction of a second, our eyes locked. I watched her expression darken a bit, a faint scowl replacing her smile.

Was that anger I saw in her eyes?

“…Boss?” Maxim called, as if he’d already tried getting my attention a few times before.

“Keep Franco busy for me, will you?” I said without taking my eyes off her. “I need a minute with the girl.”

I tilted my head to the side, watching her closely.

She stiffened. I glanced toward the garden to her right, and she traced my eyes.

Without a word, I picked up my pace and walked away from the balcony.

I headed downstairs and strode out of the building.

She caught sight of me from where she stood, and I watched her throat wobble.

I lifted my glass, shoving what was left of the whisky down my throat. With a fluid motion, I set my empty glass on a waitress’s tray and headed toward the garden.

She smiled at her friends, excused herself, and then followed after me.

Once I had her alone, surrounded by manicured hedgerows and sweet fragranced flowers, I stepped out into the open, a hand in my pocket.

She must have sensed my presence behind her, and she turned around to face me. Her expression was blank, dark. But still beautiful.

Her skin shimmered under the moon’s soft glow, her hair catching in the overhead lights. She looked taller, thanks to those beautiful heels beneath her feet.

“Moretti?” I began, reflexively grazing my thumb over my nose. “Really?”

“You’re one to judge,” she said, her tone low and even.

“You told me your name was Ester Sharpe. Why’d you lie?” I pressed on, my gaze unwavering.

“Probably the same reason you didn’t tell me your last name,” she answered, bold and unapologetic. “Besides, I owe you no explanation.”

I chuckled, taking a step forward. “Then why are you here…alone with me?” The slight pause came when I paused in front of her.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t be here with you,” she said, anger flashing in her eyes.

She tried to walk past me, but I stood in her way, unwilling to let her go just yet. “Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast.”

“Move, Yulian,” she said, her voice laced with warning, like if I refused, she’d make me.

Guts. Impressive.

“Aren’t you the least curious to know who I am—to know my full name?” I asked, wearing a cocky grin.

She hesitated, staring into my eyes, as if contemplating whether or not she wanted to find out the truth.

I was yet to understand why she looked at me with so much anger, as if I were the guy who played her.

“Tarasov,” I said, catching the glimpse of fear flickering in her eyes. “Yulian Tarasov. That’s my name.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and her breath caught in her throat. Her chest moved subtly, and she swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably.

I must admit, the shock and fear in her gaze, the way her face lost color, gave me some sort of comfort. My lips twisted into a self-satisfied grin as I watched her glance around as if hoping someone would swoop in and save her from this monster.

No one came.

Fascinating how my identity had her all rattled—scared to the bone like I wasn’t the same man she rode to cloud nine the other day. The same man whose name she moaned all night long.

Ester looked at me like I was the devil himself, like I was some mindless beast straight out of the pit of hell. And although I was already used to this kind of reaction from people, a part of me still hated that she looked at me like that.

She withdrew from me with slow steps, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The closer I got, the more she stepped back until she finally hit a wall.

Trapped.

I halted before her, eyes boring into hers. I was tempted to tell her not to be afraid of me, but what difference would it make?

“Not so brave now, are you?” I teased, then leaned in, my breath against her ear. “Your last name’s put a giant bullseye on your back, malyshka . Now, I’m tempted to take a shot, and trust me: When I shoot, I don’t miss.”

She swallowed hard, and her body stiffened like she’d just braced herself. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

I leaned closer to her face, her warm breath against my skin, my eyes fixed on hers. My gaze swept over her body, taking in every detail, every curve and contour.

The air was thick with tension, and with this close proximity, I could almost tell what was going on in her head. The same thing was going on in mine—images of our time together that fateful night in NYC.

“Do you still think about that night?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

She flinched when I ran the back of my hand along her arm, and I could’ve sworn that I heard a soft purr escape her lips.

She didn’t respond. She just stared into my eyes, struggling to control her breathing.

My presence had shattered her defense, keeping her on her toes, unsure of what would happen next. She was petrified and aroused at the same time—I could see it beneath the defiance that masked her emotions.

A crooked smirk lined the corner of my lips, and my gaze lingered on her body a while longer. “Red looks good on you, by the way,” I said softly, then stepped away from her.

She stood rooted in place, her back still pressed against the wall. A sigh of relief escaped her full, boldly red lips. Clearly, she’d been holding her breath.

I flashed another grin at her and then quietly stepped away, leaving her confused, shaken, and burning with questions.