Page 29 of Sexting My Bratva Boss (Mafia Silver Foxes #1)

Audrey

I t’s been six weeks since the night everything changed. Six weeks since Sal's body was found in a shipping container off the Brooklyn docks, his face almost unrecognizable. No suspects, no witnesses or leads. The cops didn’t bother tracking me down; I was just an ex-girlfriend.

Or maybe Martynov Global Holdings requested a favor. Maybe there’s no question, for the NYPD, who did it, and they know pursuit is pointless.

It’s been six weeks since I saw Konstantin Martynov. Since I felt his hands on my waist, his voice in my ear, the heat of his gaze burning through me like truth.

I rest my palm against the swell of my belly as I lie on the couch, staring at the ceiling of my new apartment.

It’s nice—bigger than the one on Magnolia, newly renovated, and quiet.

There’s a washer-dryer in the unit and a doorman downstairs who always offers to carry my groceries.

A second-floor walk-up would’ve been cheaper, but the salary Konstantin left me with before he disappeared makes it hard to justify anything less.

Plus, I can’t imagine a walk-up when my feet and lower back hurt as much as they do.

Guilt makes me shift uncomfortably on the couch. The apartment is comfortable, better than anything I could’ve asked for… and I didn’t ask for it. For the money that purchased it.

The money that feels like hush money.

A job came quickly after that—a remote contract role for a private medical office upstate. I review their books, clean up their billing, and make sure no one's double-charging for root canals. It's work I can do in my sleep.

And sometimes, I do, because I’m exhausted.

It’s hard to tell if the exhaustion is physical or mental or both.

Both would make sense; it feels like I’ve tripled in size the last few weeks, and every single time I see Chrissy she exclaims, “How are you even bigger!? ” Some days it’s hard not to take that as an insult, but most days I’m just happy that baby and I are safe and healthy.

This is the life I thought I wanted—safe, quiet, clean. No blood smears, no threats, no staying up at night wondering if he’s okay.

And yet, I’m lonelier than I’ve ever been.

Konstantin hasn’t called. Not once. Not even a text. There was only a message, hand-delivered three days after we were released from the hospital. One of his men showed up on my doorstep, tall, scarred, and soft-spoken, holding a single white envelope.

The note inside was simple and direct. No one will ever touch you again.

My fingers itch with the desire to go get it, where I tucked it away in my nightstand. I’ve read it so often that the thick cardstock is already worn at the fold-over.

Aside from that note, I haven’t heard from Konstantin at all. Pregnancy hormones have me swinging wildly back and forth between Doesn’t he care about us at all? and Fuck him! I don’t need him! We don’t need him!

And that’s true, but… I miss him so much it makes my throat ache.

Realistically, I can’t be upset with him. This is exactly what I asked for—to be safe.

The baby shifts under my hand and I exhale slowly, sitting up. My back cracks from the hours spent curled into this couch like a shell. I pull on a hoodie, tug my hair into a loose braid, and decide to walk to the library.

Maybe if I’m surrounded by books, I’ll remember what it’s like to be someone else for a little while.

The library is half-full, the way it always is in early afternoon—students dozing over textbooks, retirees flipping through cookbooks, the occasional couple tucked into the fiction section like they’re starring in their own meet-cute.

I drift toward the familiar stacks, trailing my fingers over the shelves without reading the spines.

It’s more muscle memory than anything. You’d think with so much time now, working remote and not feeling up to going out, I’d be able to read.

But my brain feels fuzzy and unfocused most days, on top of the exhaustion.

Emil appears from between two shelves, the small re-shelving cart behind him.

“Audrey!” His blue eyes, crinkled at the corners, scan me quickly. “It’s been a few weeks, darling. How are you? How’s the baby?”

“Good,” I answer with a tired smile, automatically resting a hand on top of my belly.

“You’re glowing,” he insists, making me laugh.

He says it every time I’ve seen him, and I try to make it to the library once a week.

That first week—only days out of the hospital—was nerve-wracking.

I wasn’t sure how Emil would feel about my situation…

not that I explained who the baby daddy was, but it was embarrassing enough that he wasn’t in my life.

Emil took it all in stride. I shouldn’t have worried so much. He’d only hugged me, tears in his eyes, and whispered, “Raena would be so happy.”

Then we were both in tears, because thinking of my Nana did that a lot—especially when I felt so unmoored without her, so unsure of whether or not she’d approve.

Emil pulls me into a one-armed hug, gentle and fast, stepping back quickly when he realizes how much larger I’ve gotten since the last time he saw me.

He studies me with warm eyes. “Your Nana would be so thrilled. I mean that. You know how much she loved babies. She used to knit those tiny socks for strangers.”

“I still have three pairs.” They’d been in her dresser, the last set half-finished.

He laughs. “Of course you do. God, she’d be so proud of you. Doing this on your own. Brave girl.”

Something twists in my chest.

“How are you? I’ll be on lunch soon—do you want to step out, get something at the little food truck on the corner?” His enthusiasm is infectious, and I know I can at least look forward to the baby having a grandfather figure in his future.

“No, thank you though. I’m just trying to get out of the house today; I’m pretty beat.

” The exhaustion is catching up to me again.

If I sit down in any of the armchairs scattered across the library, I’ll probably pass out for hours.

“I’m happy I got to see you though. Would you like to come over for dinner soon? ”

He nods, and we plan for a day and time. Just before I turn around, Emil says my name again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded note. “I saw a poem yesterday that made me think of you. It’s short.”

I take it, try not to tear up. “Thanks, Emil.”

“Be careful, Audrey. Call me if you need anything.”

The offer makes me feel just a little less alone.

The apartment is too quiet when I get home.

The couch still holds the imprint of where I sat this morning. The kitchen smells like tea and toast. I set Emil’s poem on the counter, telling myself I’ll read it later. Maybe.

There’s a knock at the door just before five. I startle. For a moment, my heart kicks like it’s him. Like he’s finally here. Then it plummets in fear. PTSD will do that to you. Even with Sal dead, it still feels like someone’s out to get me.

But it’s onlyChrissy, juggling takeout and a grocery bag.

“Hey, I brought soup and ice cream,” she says, brushing past me into the kitchen. “Also, you need more bread. And whatever weird pregnancy juice you keep drinking.”

“Coconut water.”

“That.”

She dumps everything onto the counter, tosses her coat over the back of a chair, and fixes me with a look. “You haven’t been answering your texts.”

“Sorry, my stomach has been off. And I’ve been tired.”

“Hence the soup,” she brandishes the container, raising her brows. “You’ve been hiding.”

I sigh. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just…” She pauses, pouring the soup into a bowl. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re miserable.”

I sit slowly. The baby gives a little kick, as if to agree with her.

Chrissy leans her elbows on the counter. “When was the last time you talked to him?”

“I haven’t.”

She blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… he hasn’t called. I haven’t seen him since the hospital. Since that night.” My voice cracks, and I look away. “He sent a message. That was it.”

Chrissy stares at me. “You’re telling me you’re carrying this man’s baby, and he hasn’t even checked in?”

Okay, so maybe I hadn’t told Chrissy everything… “Chris, I… I told him I didn’t want to do this anymore.”

She snorts. “It’s a little late for that.”

“ With him, ” I clarify, rolling my eyes.

She’s quiet for a long moment. “You told Konstantin Martynov, the man who you basically had a contract with to fuck you pregnant, that you didn’t want to raise a baby with him?”

God, it sounds bad when she says it like that. “…Yes.”

“And you didn’t feel like that was an important thing to explain. This whole time I thought he’d just dumped you, Audrey, and the baby.”

Shame tears through me like a fire, feeding the nausea. I push the bowl of soup away. “I know, I know, it’s just… it was easier to let Konstantin be the villain.”

“Mmm. A man like him, it usually is, right?” Chrissy’s eyes are sharp, a reprimand. Letting her, or anyone, think that he’s some loser who walks away from his child was wrong. Especially when I literally asked for it.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you everything.” Taking a deep breath, I explain that night in the hospital. “I just couldn’t see a way forward then. A way for me and the baby, or Konstantin, to be safe.”

She softens. “Audrey… I’ve never seen you like this. You loved him.”

I nod.

“And he loved you.”

I look down.

“He still does,” she adds. “Men like that… they don’t know how to let go. He’s only keeping his distance because you told him to, which proves just how much he’s obsessed with you. Because you told him it was the only option.”

Tears sting my eyes. “What if it is?”

“Then that’s your decision. But if it’s not—if what you want is to fight for this—then fight for it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Then find him.”

There’s a problem, though—a man like Konstantin Martynov could find anyone. He has the resources, the manpower, the resolve.

I’m just a woman in love.

It’s almost dark when the cab pulls up outside thetownhouse. “Can you wait?” I ask the driver, who glances in the mirror before nodding. He doesn’t seem to recognize, or care, where we are. Which is a good thing.

Stepping out of the car, I tilt my head back and look up. The windows are black. The driveway is empty. The house looks like it’s sleeping.

I step up to the front door and knock.

Nothing.

No guards materializing out of the darkness, no security system clicking and humming to life. I try the buzzer anyway. Wait. Knock again.

Still nothing.

He’s gone.

I’m halfway back down the steps when a familiar voice murmurs behind me.

“You’re persistent.”

I spin, nearly losing my balance despite being in flats.

Olenastands on the sidewalk, dressed in slate gray, a cigarette between her fingers and a look of thinly veiled amusement on her face.

“How long have you been watching me?” I ask, catching my breath.

“Long enough to see you pout like a petulant child.” Then her features twist from amusement to something sour. “Longer. A few weeks now.”

That information sinks in. I’m tempted to ask if that was Konstantin’s idea—or hers. But Olena isn’t the kind of woman to chat, to give all her secrets away, so I ask the most important question instead: “Do you know where he is?”

She smirks. “You’re not very subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

Olena’s eyes drift to my belly, then back to my face. “You look healthy.”

“Thanks.”

“And foolish.”

“Also, thanks.”

She takes a long drag on the cigarette, then flicks the ash to the side. “He’s not here.”

“I gathered.”

“He doesn’t want to be found.”

“I don’t care.”

That catches her off guard. Just for a second. She does a double-take. “You’re ballsy,” she says finally. “I’ll give you that.”

“Where is he, Olena?”

“Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because he made me swear I wouldn’t.”

I deflate, shoulders sagging, and fight the pressure building between my eyes. Crying on the street, in front of a woman who is basically an assassin, and doesn’t want me anywhere near her boss, would not be a good move.

“So, he’s really done with me then.” The cab’s brake lights go off, and the car inches forward a bit. The driver has finally noticed me talking to a tall, impassive, bald woman standing in the shadows. Now he’s nervous. I move to turn away, then pause. “Can you just tell me if he’s okay?”

Olena looks at me for a long time.

“No,” she says quietly. “But he’s alive. And he’s trying.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Behind her, the streetlight flickers on.

“I just need to talk to him,” I whisper. “Please.”

She takes one last drag, then crushes the cigarette beneath her heel.

“If he wants to find you,” she says, turning away, “he will.”

Then she disappears into the dark.

And I’m left standing on the steps of an empty house, more certain than ever of one thing—I’m not done fighting.