The Bratva's Forbidden pregnancy

One

Sienna

I rested my head against the cool glass of the plane window, looking down at the gorgeous view of New York from my first-class seat. The Hudson River snaked its way through the city like a silver ribbon, and skyscrapers draped in the golden glow of the sun had their peaks shrouded in mist. It was a view that never got old.

I loved the city—maybe because my life was rooted there and it had been my home since I was a child—so I wasn't particularly excited to be leaving it.

Regardless of my preference, my father woke up one morning with the idea to pack up and leave for a holiday in St. Petersburg so we could get familiar with his family.

It hadn't gone down well with me when he said it, but then again, he didn't exactly ask for my permission. His precise words were, "We're going to St. Petersburg to spend Christmas with my family."

Nothing in that statement suggested he cared about my opinion—or anyone else's, for that matter. I would have argued with him, but I'd learned over the years that it was pointless. I would never win.

Dad was a successful lawyer, a really good one—one of the best in New York City and maybe even beyond. His reputation preceded him.

I was just a college girl: an arts student with a passion for interior design and an obsession with impressionist art. So, there was no way in hell that my twenty-one-year-old brain would beat such a man.

Believe me, I'd tried so many times, and so many times, I failed. Even Mom rarely argued with him. Sometimes, she'd just make her point about stuff and be mad at him when he decided to play smart and provide excuses for virtually everything he did wrong.

My dad had a perfect court record of never losing a case. How was I supposed to beat that?

Dad was part Russian from his mother's side, and now we were headed to St. Petersburg to meet my Babushka and other relatives. It sucked a lot because I was forced to leave my life so I could get acquainted with folks I'd never met before.

He really fancied this idea. Me, not so much. I had my own plans on how to spend my winter break, but all of that was thrown out the window now, and I'd be stuck with Dad's mother and the rest of his family all through the break. I couldn't imagine anything more terrifying or more boring than that.

It's official; I was about to have the worst time of my life.

Don't get me wrong; I had nothing against my relatives. It's just that the thought of being around

people that I hadn't met before was quite exhausting. Plus, I was trading in New York's mild winter weather for a snow-filled wonderland in Russia.

Great! Just great!

I picked up a glass of champagne from the table in front of me and took a sip, crossing my legs as I relaxed in the plush chair, the glass cradled in my hand like a precious gem. At least this tasted better than my life at the moment.

Dad's voice caught my attention as he asked my mom what she thought was the healthiest option on the menu a flight attendant had offered him. She leaned forward, and together, they weighed their choices on which dish to select with totally bored looks on their faces—lips thin and eyes dull.

I could tell that the attendant, a beautiful tall brunette with hazel brown eyes and cute dimples, was getting annoyed with my parents' pickiness.

She must be thinking, Just pick something already, goddamn it!

I let out a very subtle laugh, most likely unnoticed by anyone else.

I didn't catch what Dad said, but I heard Mom chuckling in a soft tone. The attendant was trying her best to put on an elegant smile, but I knew she was screaming inside.

Yep! Paul and Natalie Summers, my charmingly infuriating parents, usually had that effect on people. Of course, I'd know; I grew up with them. They could effortlessly piss you off and act like they'd done nothing.

"Sienna, honey!" Mom called out to me, turning in my direction. "Can you come over here to help your father, please? He seems confused." She laughed lightly.

Mom had the most amazing pair of green eyes that everyone told me I'd gotten from her, and they weren't wrong. I'd also inherited her heart-shaped face. What I hadn't inherited from her, though, was her hair color. Mom was blonde. I wasn't. I got my black hair from my dad.

"No," I replied, my voice a bit rusty from disuse. "I think you two got it covered." I squeezed out a smile.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that," she objected, wearing one of those pitiful looks of hers.

"He's your husband, isn't he?" I teased her. But I seriously did not wanna get involved.

"He's your father, isn't he?" she replied, cocking her head.

Good one, Mom.

I scoffed and shook my head, withholding my response.

The poor attendant was still towering over my parents in silence as they deliberated over the menu like it was a life-or-death decision. I pinched the bridge of my nose and rolled my eyes when their inane questions started pouring in.

"Will the chicken be organic?" Dad peered at the attendant over the rim of his glasses.

"Also, can they substitute the sauce?" Mom chipped in. "I don't think I want it, and I'm pretty sure my husband doesn't either...."

The attendant was about to respond when I returned my gaze outside the window and slowly drifted back to my thoughts as their chatter, with time, became indistinct.

This was really happening. I was indeed going to Russia to connect with my heritage, as Dad had said. Like I said, I didn't approve of this trip and had concluded that nothing fun or great would come out of it. But I had to go because Dad really wanted me to.

It's good to know your roots, to know where you come from, his voice echoed in my head, and I let out a soft sigh, gently rubbing my tired eyes. Maybe this was a good thing; if only I could see past my anger.

I'd spent most of my life in the United States, and to be honest, I was clueless about my Russian heritage—never having really cared to learn about it because I didn't feel the need to. But he was probably right; understanding my heritage was important.

Plus, a change of environment just might be good for me, like Mom had suggested earlier before we boarded the plane.

We would only be there for a couple of days, maybe weeks—God! I hope it was a couple of days. I was already missing New York City.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking," his voice cut through the air, forcing me out of my thoughts. "We'll be arriving in St. Petersburg in approximately twenty minutes. Thank you, and I hope you had a pleasant flight."

Wait. We're here, already?

I poured myself another glass of champagne and drained it in one swift motion.

"Look alive, baby," Dad said to me.

I turned to look at him, and he added, "We're in Russia now." His eyes crinkled at the corners as a smile played on his lips.

I gulped and mustered a faint grin despite the dryness in my throat.

Here goes nothing.