Page 17 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

KATYA

T wo full days have crawled by, yet the doctor’s words keep spinning on an endless loop in my head.

I’m pregnant. I. Am. Pregnant. A baby is already taking shape inside me, and in nine months I’ll be the one to bring it into the world.

It’s the hardest, most gut-punching news I’ve ever received, even worse than the day my father announced I would marry Isaac.

I stare out the window of our bedroom with one knee drawn to my chest, a throw blanket slung loosely around my shoulders, and a pit in my stomach that hasn’t eased since I woke up.

Three weeks pregnant. That’s what the doctor said, which means that sometime shortly after our wedding, maybe even on the night itself, my body made a decision without consulting me.

Now I’m sitting in the mansion of a man I barely knew a month ago, wearing his ring, carrying his child, and trying not to lose my grip on reality.

It feels as if I boarded a train already hurtling too fast and never checked where it was headed.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers tremble as I scroll through my contacts and land on the one person I can call without falling apart.

Evie.

She picks up on the second ring, her voice at once warm and wary.

“Hey, mama,” she teases. “I was wondering when you were going to call me.”

I close my eyes and sink deeper into the window seat.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

Her voice stays gentle. “You don’t have to. I can already guess. You’re spiraling.”

I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “Is it that obvious?”

“I think you’re forgetting how well I know you.”

A weak, humorless laugh slips out.

“I’m pregnant, Evie,” I say, because even though she already knows, I need to hear the words myself.

“You were pregnant two days ago, too,” she points out, ever the sarcastic bitch.

“Yeah, but now it’s real,” I say, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “I’ve had time to actually think about it, which was a huge mistake, by the way.”

“What are you thinking?”

I hesitate. The truth is tangled, messy, and hard to voice.

“I didn’t plan this. Any of it. Not the marriage. Not the baby. And now it’s all happening so fast, and I feel like I can’t breathe. Like I’m supposed to be excited or grateful or something. But all I can think is, this wasn’t part of my life plan.”

Evie doesn’t answer right away. I hear her shifting, maybe settling on the couch, maybe pouring coffee, giving me room to fall apart.

“And what was your plan?” she finally asks, her voice gentle.

“To open a gallery. To travel. To build a life that was mine. I spent so long trying to avoid this exact situation, and now here I am, pregnant with a Bratva heir.”

I say it like it’s some kind of punchline, but it doesn’t land. It just hangs there, bitter and bruised and undeniably real.

Evie exhales softly. “Okay. But is it the baby that’s scaring you? Or is it the timing?”

I fall silent.

Because the truth is, it’s not the baby. Not really. It’s everything else.

“I’m not angry about the baby,” I say after a long pause. “I just don’t know how to do this. I never grew up dreaming of motherhood, never pictured myself with a family. And now I’m married to the most powerful man I’ve ever met, carrying a child fated to inherit an empire I never asked to join.”

“That’s a lot,” she says quietly. “What are you going to do?”

I let her question settle. Some women might have choices, where they could end the pregnancy and move on as if nothing happened, but that’s not an option for me. This baby is the heir to the Bratva. As Isaac’s wife, my duty is to have our child and raise it.

However, even if duty weren’t part of it, I don’t think I could end the pregnancy. It’s only three weeks along, yet I already feel attached in some raw, primal way. I’m still terrified, but I know I’m having this baby, and I want it.

“I just need everything to slow down for a second. I feel swept up in someone else’s life, reacting to each wave instead of choosing the tide.”

“You didn’t choose the circumstances,” Evie says. “But you’re choosing what you do now.”

“I don’t want to give up my dreams.”

“Then don’t.”

“I’m not sure they fit in this life.”

She’s quiet again, and I can practically hear her thinking.

“I think you’re underestimating how much control you still have,” she says finally. “Yes, it’s complicated. Yes, the timing is crazy. But you’re still you. And from what I’ve seen, Isaac doesn’t want to erase that. He just wants to be a part of it.”

I glance around our room and see the quiet ways he’s already done that. There’s the stack of my art books on the dresser, the second pillow he keeps fluffed for me even when I forget, or the patient way he listens when I ramble about things that have nothing to do with our arrangement.

I think of the studio he built for me, the way he knelt in that hospital room and vowed to protect us, the fear in his eyes when he first walked in and saw me.

“He’s not who I expected,” I admit.

“No,” she agrees. “He’s much better. And hotter.”

Even in her serious moments, she can’t resist a quip.

“I’m scared,” I admit. “Evie, I’m so, so scared.”

“I know, sweetie,” she says, patient as ever. “But you aren’t alone. You have Isaac, you have me. You even have your dad, complicated as that is. You have support.”

“I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.”

I huff softly, my emotions getting the better of me.

“I don’t think I can stay here,” I say as adrenaline finally pushes me out of bed.

“Katya,” Evie warns, but I don’t listen. I don’t want to.

Evie keeps talking as I pace the bedroom, shoving jeans, leggings, and oversized sweaters into my battered canvas duffel.

“I get that you need space, Kat, but don’t disappear. That man will burn down half the city trying to find you.”

“I just need time,” I whisper.

“You don’t have time, honey. You’re already in it. This is the time.”

I pause in the doorway, fingers white-knuckling the strap of my bag.

“I’m not leaving forever. I just need to remember who I was before all of this.”

Evie exhales. “Where are you going?”

“To a place where no one expects anything from me.”

She doesn’t push. She just says, “Call me when you get there.”

I don’t answer. I hang up before she can convince me to stay.

I slip out through the side hallway near the library, the one no one ever uses. Maude hums something old and familiar in the kitchen. No one sees me go.

I take the car myself this time. No driver, no explanations. I head straight to the only place that has ever felt like mine.

The old studio I used to rent sits above a used bookstore off Lafayette Street.

I haven’t stepped inside since before the wedding, before my life was dictated by alliances and gold-plated promises, and I’m relieved when the key still turns.

The lock clicks open, and the familiar scent of oil paint, turpentine, and sun-soaked canvas hits me like a memory.

It’s dusty, cramped, and half-covered in old drop cloths and stiff brushes I never cleaned properly, but it’s mine.

The windows are tall and cracked just enough to let the cold in.

There’s a wooden easel in the corner, warped slightly from use.

My stool, splattered with years of forgotten color.

A tiny sink that still leaks and a space heater that works when it feels like it.

It’s perfect.

I drop my bag by the door, cross the room, and drag a blank canvas from the stack against the far wall. My fingers itch to make something, not because I know what to say, but because I need to say something.

I mix paint in silence, letting the rhythm soothe the chaos in my chest.

Red. Ochre. A smear of blue I can’t name.

Time unravels. Hours slide past as I layer paint, hurling grief, panic, and bone-deep confusion across linen and wood. It doesn’t have to be pretty, it only has to be honest.

And for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I’m ready to be a mother, a wife, or whatever version of myself Isaac seems to believe in so completely.

But here, surrounded by chipped brushes and forgotten color, I remember what it felt like to be Katya before all this.

The girl who got paint under her nails and stayed up all night chasing inspiration.

The girl who wanted more. Who still does.

My back aches, my eyes burn, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I don’t care. For the first time since that hospital room, I feel as if I’ve taken something back. I don’t know how long I’ll stay. I only know I needed to come, and I’m not ready to go home yet.

But I should have known better. My choices never come without consequence.

The paint still stains my hands when the floorboards creak. At first, I think it’s just the old loft groaning the way it always has. But then a shadow passes the cracked window, followed by the unmistakable metallic click of a gun being cocked.

My blood turns to ice.

“Evening, Mrs. Kozlova,” a voice drawls, heavy with mockery. Two men step into the studio, both tall, both armed, both strangers except for the tattoos inked just below their ribs. A rook. My stomach lurches.

“What do you want?” My voice is steady even though my pulse screams.

One smirks. “Your husband’s attention.”

Hands like iron clamp around my arms, wrenching me back against a chest that reeks of cigarettes and oil. I thrash, sink my teeth into his wrist, earning a curse, but the muzzle of his gun digs into my ribs.

“Play nice,” the other sneers.

I don’t. I spit in his face.