Page 81 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

His voice drops to a low whisper. “When this baby is out of you, Esme, I’m going to fuck you until you forget how to speak.”

Heat flushes through me so fast I nearly sway.

He pulls back, smug. “Now,” he adds, calm as ever, “go sit down before I remind you what else I’ll do.”

“You’re the worst,” I mutter, turning back toward the chair.

“I’m the one keeping you healthy,” he says, already placing a pillow behind me. “You’ll thank me later.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m already flushed, already aching, already counting the weeks.

Chapter Twenty-Two - Kion

The room smells like tension and sweat.

Three captains, one underboss, and a bitter councilman sit scattered around the long oak table like vultures circling a carcass—each one louder than the last. Their voices clash, full of old grudges and new threats. I don’t interrupt. Not yet.

I lounge at the head of the table, one leg stretched long beneath, one arm curled over the back of my chair. My jaw is locked. I sip nothing. Eat nothing. I let them snap at each other until they wear themselves thin. Like dogs fighting for scraps.

I look bored—deliberately so. Every now and then, I flash a slow grin just to watch the captains flinch. Let them stew. It’s good for them.

The longer they argue, the more they forget who owns the table they’re gathered around.

Let them. They need the reminder.

Volkov slams his hand down, silver rings clinking against wood. “You think I’d risk another fucking shipment after the last two got hit? That was your side, Ardal!”

Ardal throws his hands up. “My side doesn’t need your shit product, Volkov. Maybe if you’d controlled your dock rats—”

“You watch your mouth.”

Yuri shifts beside me. He’s been silent until now, one arm draped over the back of his chair, but I can tell by the tilt of his head that he’s about to say something final. Arseni, leaning against the wall, remains a shadow—sharp, quiet, listening to everything.

I hold up a hand.

The room stills instantly.

“Enough,” I say.

That one word is enough to drop the temperature by ten degrees.

They fall silent. Not because they respect me.

They fear me.

I sit up slowly and place both hands flat on the table. Let the sound echo. Let the weight of the moment settle into their bones.

“You’re clawing at each other like this is some market brawl. I see grown men, but I hear barking.”

No one responds.

“You want answers? Bring me evidence. Not theories. Not pride. Facts. Or I will split the territory down the center and give your share to someone who still remembers how to follow an order.”

Silence.

Then—

The door creaks open.