Page 2 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

I set the box down on the stoop and knock once, then again.

No answer.

I try the handle, half expecting it to be locked. It doesn’t budge. I lean back, glance up at the building like it might offer some explanation. Nothing moves. The whole street feels… off. Empty in a way that doesn’t feel normal, even for this part of town. There’s no wind, no cars passing by. The air’s still. Too still.

I knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

The silence stretches long enough that my heartbeat starts to pick up. I check over my shoulder, casually, like I’m not expecting to see anything at all. There’s no one behind me. No one down the street. Not even the hum of distant traffic.

I swallow and look back at the box. It’s too valuable to leave out here, but I don’t exactly want to stand around holding it either. There’s a flicker of doubt in my chest now, a slow crawl up my spine. I glance around again, more pointed this time.

Still no one.

It’s probably nothing. Probably just a late pickup, or maybe they forgot the appointment. I set the box down gently beside the door, pulling a receipt from the clipboard and scribbling a note across the back:Delivery attempted at 6:42 PM.

I tape it to the top, double check the address, then straighten up.

The street feels even quieter than it did five minutes ago. I can hear the sound of my own breathing, the soft rustle of my hoodie when I shift. There’s no logical reason for the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. But they do.

I tell myself it’s the area. I’m not from here. Maybe it’s just unfamiliar… but I still look behind me again.

The warehouse next door has a loading dock, half-collapsed stairs leading up to a row of shadowed windows. The alley between them is narrow and dark, trash bins lined like sentinels down the edge. Something drips from one, a slow, wet sound. I try not to focus on it.

I shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and start back the way I came.

Then I hear something, a low clatter. Metal on pavement. I freeze.

It came from behind the building.

For a split second, I think maybe someone’s finally shown up for the delivery. Maybe I just missed them. Maybe it’s—

Another sound. Footsteps this time. Then a voice, sharp and guttural, foreign. Russian, maybe? I only catch the rhythm, not the meaning. More footsteps follow. Heavy. Purposeful.

I step backward slowly, trying to keep my breath quiet.

Another voice. Lower this time. Calm, but with an edge like glass.

I back away faster, feet scraping against the concrete. My bag shifts against my hip. I flinch as it bumps the box, sending it rattling into the door.

Silence.

The kind that hums in my ears and makes me too aware of every breath I take. My fingers twitch at my sides, useless and uncertain. The voices have stopped. So have the footsteps. No one’s come around the corner. No one’s opened the door.

I wait one beat. Two.

Then the sounds return, fainter this time. Footsteps again, but moving away. A door slams somewhere in the distance, followed by the low, metallic grind of something heavy being dragged across concrete. Then… nothing. Quiet settles over the alley like a held breath.

I edge forward, just a little. Straining to hear. Should I call out?

I bite the inside of my cheek, eyes flicking toward the door again. It’s their delivery. They paid for it. I’ve come all this way. If they’re still back there—whoever they are—maybe they’re just busy. Maybe they didn’t hear me knock. Maybe I should announce myself, say I’m with Linden & Page and have their books.

I don’t.

Something about the silence feels too sharp, too… expectant. Like the building itself is listening, waiting. The voices hadn’t sounded friendly. Not even neutral. Just clipped, cold, transactional.

My instincts scream that I shouldn’t be here.