Page 2 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

“She’s young, barely twenty-one,” Yuri says, adjusting his cuffs. “A good girl. No drama. Her father’s been loyal to the Sharovs since before your time.”

“You want a wife?” I slouch lower in the chair, the edge of his grin sharp. “What for? So she can polish the silverware while the rest of us do real work? Send her in here if she can shoot straight. Otherwise, find another sap for your matchmaking.”

That shuts him up for half a beat.

I lean back in my chair, legs spread, elbows resting on the arms. The silence stretches just long enough to make the others in the room uncomfortable. They watch me, and I revel in the attention.

Yuri clears his throat, but doesn’t speak. He glances at Arseni, seated to my right, who just shrugs like he’s not interested in playing diplomat.

The other elders keep their mouths shut. Smart.

Yuri tries again. “Kion. It’s not only about what you need. This is about the family’s image. The girl’s father has reach. He controls three clubs in Brighton Beach, all clean fronts. This could strengthen our hold on the coast.”

I tap ash into the tray. “Then marry him .”

Someone snorts. Probably Denis. He’s always good for a laugh when it’s not aimed at him.

Yuri bristles. His face flushes a slow, mottled red that creeps up his neck. “This isn’t a joke. This is an opportunity.”

“No,” I say. “It’s a leash.”

There’s another silence. He’s not used to being shut down this quickly. Not by me. He wants to push—wants to say I’m unstable, unpredictable, that I act on impulse and violence. He wouldn’t be wrong, but he won’t say it here. Not in front of the others. Not with my gun still on the desk.

He looks down, fiddles with the corner of the folder in front of him. “You’d be doing the family a service. She doesn’t need to be involved in business.”

“Then she’s useless to me.”

“She’s docile. Modest. She’s never even been seen with another man.”

I blink at him. “I’m not shopping for a pet.”

Across the table, one of the younger captains coughs into his hand. Arseni chuckles under his breath, not bothering to hide it.

Yuri tries again. “Her name is Katerina. Her father—”

I cut him off with a wave of my hands, smile biting. “I don’t care.”

That finally does it. He slams his hand against the table, loud enough to make a paperweight jump. “You think this is all about you? You think you’re above making sacrifices for the good of the Bratva?”

I meet his gaze, dead on. “You think I’m not?”

The room freezes. He stares at me, nostrils flaring, jaw clenched tight enough I can hear his teeth grind.

But he doesn’t push further. He can’t. Not when I’ve already cleaned up three of his messes in the past six months alone.

Not when his own nephew went missing after he tried to skim profits off our ports.

He sits back down, slow. “Fine. Then what do you want?”

I finish my cigarette and crush it out in the tray, then light another. Let the silence build a little more before I answer.

“I want loyalty that doesn’t come dressed in lace. Someone pretty, but capable.” A pause, a wile grin. “If I have to have a wife, she can at least be useful and hot.”

Arseni makes a sound low in his throat, halfway between a laugh and a grunt.

I go on. “Preferably, no wife at all. I want men who don’t need their daughters to do their bargaining for them, and I want this meeting to end before I start imagining how good you might look with a bullet in your eye.”

He goes pale.

Beside him, Ivan speaks for the first time. “We’ll take it under advisement.”

I nod once. “Do that.”

Yuri gathers his papers with stiff fingers. I can feel the anger coming off him in waves. Let him stew in it. Maybe he’ll do something stupid. Maybe I’ll get to finally shut him up properly. Either way, it’s not my problem right now.

The others filter out. The room empties. Only Arseni remains, still leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

“You’re making friends again,” he says.

I blow out a breath of smoke, rolling my eyes. I know he hates it when I put the spotlight on myself. “I’m charming like that.”

He glances at the folder Yuri left behind. “Want me to burn that?”

“No. Leave it.” I tap ash again. “I want to know what kind of idiot thought I’d say yes to any of this.”

Arseni rises and stretches, cracking his knuckles. “We’ve got real problems, and they’re worried about arranging your fucking wedding.”

“They want control. That’s what this is.”

“You already scare them, and now you’re unpredictable. Makes them sweat.”

“Good.”

He moves toward the door, pauses. “You heading out later?”

“Warehouse meet.”

“Need backup?”

“Sure.”

Arseni gives a short nod. “Don’t get blood on your new jacket.”

I smirk. “No promises.”

He leaves. I’m alone again.

The room is quiet now. Peaceful, even, but the smoke still hangs heavy, and the taste of bad politics sits bitter on my tongue. I lean back, close my eyes, and let the silence press in. I need something cleaner. Simpler. Something I can solve with bullets.

The moment I step into the corridor, the air shifts.

Yuri and Arseni are already waiting—posture straight, hands folded in front of them like obedient dogs, but I know better.

They’re good at what they do, and even better at hiding it.

Arseni’s the first to move, handing me a slim black folder without a word.

No label, just a silver paperclip holding it together.

I take it, flip it open.

Three pages. A face I don’t recognize. Light hair, busted nose, too much confidence in a jaw that’s been broken more than once.

Name’s Pavel Orlov. Local dealer. Small-time operator who moves product across the river and keeps his head down.

Used to work our side. Now there’s whispers he’s been getting his shipments from the Irish.

I turn the page. Meeting scheduled tonight. No location listed, just a note in Arseni’s handwriting: “Moving through Bayview district. Cargo route possible handoff.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough.

It’s not the traitor we’re hunting. Not the bastard bleeding us from the inside. But it’s a thread. Maybe even a breadcrumb. And I’ve followed smaller trails to bloodier ends.

I snap the folder closed and pass it back. “I’ll handle it.”

Yuri blinks. “You want a team?”

“No.”

He hesitates. “You want a car?”

I look out the long window at the end of the hall. The glass is wet, streaked with the remnants of rain. Down below, the street’s gleaming—slick with water, lit by reflections of rusted red and cold fluorescent blue. It reminds me of something distant. Home, maybe. Before it all went to shit.

“I’ll walk.”

Neither of them questions it. Smart men.

I take the stairs down, footsteps echoing through the narrow shaft. No one follows.

Outside, the city breathes different. Heavy, damp air settles over my shoulders like a second coat. Steam rises from the grates along the curb. Tires hiss through puddles. The scent of rain and oil clings to everything. It’s cleaner than blood. Less honest, but cleaner.

I keep to the edges, slipping down side streets and alleys, hands in my coat pockets. My boots splash through shallow water, soaking the cuffs of my pants. I don’t care. There’s something about walking—about having the earth under your feet instead of behind glass—that makes everything sharper.

I think about the girl they tried to saddle me with.

Katerina. The name itself is soft. Delicate.

A man like her father wouldn’t raise a daughter with morals.

I know that type. Flashy suits, big rings, louder words.

He talks about tradition and loyalty, but he’s just another coward propping up his empire with perfume and overpriced vodka.

The kind of man who hides behind the softness of women because he’s too scared to bleed for himself.

He wants to trade her like currency. I want nothing to do with it.

I take a corner fast, cutting through a loading zone littered with broken pallets and wet cardboard. The warehouse district isn’t far. Rows of squat buildings and long alleys. Barbed wire fences and rusted roll-up doors. Old gang tags faded into brick, like ghosts of younger wars.

My mood’s getting worse.

I think about Yuri’s face when I told him no. About the twitch in his jaw, the way he looked at me like a dog too wild to keep on the leash. Maybe I am. Maybe they should’ve figured that out before they handed me a gun.

They talk about politics, marriage, legacy. I think about blood. About loyalty. About the men I’ve buried in shallow graves for breaking it.

I don’t want a wife. Not now, not when I still have debts to collect. Not when I’ve got a list of names carved into my memory, and most of them haven’t bled yet.

The rain’s left everything washed and shining, but it’s only skin deep. The dirt’s still underneath. Always is.

I slow near the overpass. A group of kids sprint by on the opposite side of the street, laughing, their feet slapping against the wet concrete.

None of them notice me. Good. I prefer it that way.

I pass a shuttered coffee stand and a flickering neon sign half spelled out in Cyrillic.

Familiar. Ghosts of old promises and long-dead deals echo here.

The warehouse comes into view.

Old brick, metal siding, blacked-out windows on the second floor. A loading dock stretches across the back, the doors half open. There’s a flicker of movement inside; two silhouettes shifting around a third, smaller form. On his knees. Good. They got him ready.

I head for the side door, pushing it open with my shoulder.

Inside, the air is colder. Smells like oil and blood and damp wood. My men are already in place—quiet, steady, watching me without speaking. One nods. The other doesn’t even blink. I trained them better than that.

The traitor’s not here yet, only the dealer. The possible link.

He’s cuffed, bruised. His lip’s split and one eye’s swelling. He still tries to smile when he sees me. It pisses me off.

I cross the room slowly, my footsteps echoing loud against the concrete. My hand brushes the grip of my pistol, but I don’t draw it.

Yuri speaks first. “You walk all the way here in that coat?” His voice is quiet, but the smirk’s there, tucked behind the edge of it.

I don’t look at him. “Didn’t want to smell like cheap air freshener.”

“You look like you crawled out of the river,” Arseni mutters, arms folded, leaning against the far wall. “We tailed you. Figured you’d get bored of playing ghost and want backup after all.”

“I didn’t.”

He shrugs. “We came anyway.”

I stop in front of the dealer, crouch slightly, elbows resting on my knees. His wrists are zip-tied behind his back, skin red where they cut in. He flinches when I reach for his chin and tilt it up. The eye that’s still open darts nervously between me and the others.

“You’ve been busy,” I say brightly. “Moving product across Bayview. No one gave you permission for that.”

He licks his split lip. “Wasn’t me. I was running for someone. I swear—”

I slap him, though not enough to hurt… just enough to interrupt the panic spiral and reset the fear.

“Let’s try again,” I say, and even I can hear the manic touch in my voice. “Who gave you the route?”

“I don’t know his name,” he blurts. “Just a number. Irish accent. Said I’d get double for keeping it quiet.”

Yuri scoffs behind me. “They always sell out quick when the math stops working.”

I stand. The air in the warehouse feels heavier now, thick with the rustle of decisions being made. I nod toward Arseni. “Pull his phone. Call history. Messages. I want that number.”

Arseni steps forward without hesitation, pulling gloves from his coat. The dealer starts to shake.

“Please,” he says. “I didn’t know it was your turf. I thought—”

“That was your first mistake,” I say, turning away. “Thinking.”

I head for the door, voice flat. “Get the number. Then make sure he doesn’t answer another one.”