The Bratva's Forbidden pregnancy

Two

Vlad

The winter cold was harsh tonight, and the wind was whistling in my ears as snowflakes fell like tiny razors on the seaport. It was freezing out here, but my long black fur coat kept me warm.

The headlights of the exotic cars parked behind me cast beams that illuminated the night, shining on my men as they worked, loading smuggled drugs onto the ships. I stood there in silence, overseeing the operation.

The port was bustling at this time of night when others were cozy in their homes with their families. But I was out here in the snow with my men, taking care of my business.

St. Petersburg, being a major port city in Russia, offered access to the Baltic Sea and international connections, making it an ideal location for my kind of activities: smuggling and trafficking.

I was bathed in the warm beams behind me as I scanned the environment meticulously, my eyes catching every slight movement, including those in the shadows.

I drew from the cigar stick wedged between my gloved fingers, savoring the smoke before slowly exhaling it.

"Hey, careful with that!" one of my men said, warning three others to my right, prompting my eyes to shift in their direction.

He walked over there, and I could tell he was scolding them for being reckless with my merchandise. They looked terrified of him, and their hands were shaking.

I did see how sloppy they were while loading the ship assigned to them. Clearly, they were new recruits, and peering closely, I realized they were younger than most of the men working for me. They lacked experience from the looks of things, and that explained why they trembled when Sebastian spoke. In time, though, they would toughen up.

Sebastian, one of my loyal soldiers, was still yelling at them and demonstrating with his hands, his movements accentuating his anger. His English was rusty, so he switched to Russian, intensifying his threats.

"Gruz stoit deneg, a vasha oshibka stoit vam same. Ponimaete?" he said, meaning, "The cargo is worth money, and your mistake will cost you your life. Understand?"

In unison, they nodded, fear-stricken.

Now, get back to work!" he hollered at them.

He left them and walked over to me.

Sebastian was huge, standing almost as tall as I was. His face was a canvas of tattoos telling stories of his past. The scar cutting across his face stood out, a testament to his loyalty to the brotherhood. He'd gotten that during a brutal clash with a rival organization, and with that single act of selflessness, he'd gained a fraction of my trust.

He halted before me in a pair of black jeans and a black turtleneck shirt that hugged his body. His gray eyes were devoid of any emotion, his head was completely bald, and his face was so rigid and covered in ink. To an average man, Sebastian looked like a demon from hell with all those rings on his face.
With a slight nod, he greeted, "Pakhan." Around his fingers, he rolled an unsheathed dagger with dangerous precision. He'd always been good with knives, and whenever he hurled it, he never missed.

"How long until we get these to New York?" I asked, my voice low and even.

"Seven, maybe ten hours," he replied, his thick, raucous tone laced with the Russian accent, "depending on the weather."

"Good." I nodded, taking another drag on my cigar.

Being a member of the New York Russian Bratva, I could have been working in the United States, but I preferred to operate from my home country, where I'd spent most of my life. My cultural heritage meant a great deal to me, which was why I loved to operate from here. It was the connection to my roots that I cherished deeply. Plus, I wasn't exactly fond of the Americans.

I heard a car pull over behind me, and soon, the engine died down. The door unlocked, and someone stepped out of the vehicle, slamming it shut. I turned to the newcomer as he walked up to me.

It was Simon Olegov, the only man I completely trusted in this business. He was my most loyal soldier, and he'd been working for me since he was eighteen.

It's been that long, eh? Two fucking decades of unwavering loyalty.

The man had my respect.

Trust was a strong word to throw around in this business, given the nature of our work. But Simon was my right-hand man, and I trusted him with my life. It had taken a long time to let him in, though—to fully trust him, and for good reason—but eventually, I learned to do so. Besides, he worked so hard to earn it. A few years ago, he took a bullet for me; it wasn't the first time he'd done that, but this recent act was different because the bullet had missed his heart by an inch. He was more than willing to die for me.

As he stopped in front of me, his black buzz cut shimmered in the overhead lights, and the tattoos on his neck were visible through the collar of his black shirt. Simon was a sucker for tats, and almost his entire body was covered in ink. He was so close to me, and one might say I considered him my best friend. Simon was the only one who truly knew me inside and out.

He wasn't so tall, nor was he heavily built like Sebastian, but the man was just as dangerous, maybe even worse than Sebastian. Once, I'd watched him kill five guys three times bigger than him in less than sixty seconds with nothing but a broken table leg he'd used as a makeshift weapon. In hand-to-hand combat, Simon always used his average size to his advantage; he was fast and strategic in his thinking.

"Pakhan, there's something I want you to see," he said, flashing me a cocky grin with his eyes crinkling at the corners. Simon set the pace, leading me to the rear of his car. "Trust me, you're gonna love this." He chuckled, popping the trunk open.

I was certain that I would. Whenever Simon came to me like this, whatever he had was always something worth my time.

I looked into the trunk, and there was a man tied—hands and feet—with his mouth taped, but as he saw me, he almost lost it, immediately turning into a crackhead. He was struggling, his speech muffled, but that didn't stop him. His eyes were wide with fear, and his breathing was heavy.

Peering closely, I realized who the man was, and in that instant, I frowned. It was Denis.

I saw in his eyes that he knew I was pissed, and that alone had him squirming in the trunk.

Simon shot a glance at me, awaiting my instructions.

"Get him out," I said.

Without hesitation, Simon hurled him up with a rough jerk and slammed him to the snow-covered ground.

Denis was a member of the Wolkov Bratva who had committed a grievous offense; he'd killed another member of the brotherhood. It was an act of betrayal.

I stepped forward as Denis continued to struggle with the zip ties that had him bound. He was trying to speak, to plead, but his lips were still sealed.

Simon whistled, catching the attention of the other men, and soon, they gathered to watch.

I pulled out my gun and aimed at Denis' head while his hands were thrown up in front of him in fear.

"Let this be a lesson to every one of you," I said to my men, and within the next second, I squeezed the trigger.

Denis' head fell back with a hole in it, his blood splattering on the snow.

The barrel of my gun was still smoking when I lowered my hand and looked at the faces of my men, their breaths visible in the chill air. "This is the Wolkov Bratva. Here, we are our brothers' keepers. We are a brotherhood, and as such, no one is allowed to kill anyone," I began, my voice steady but authoritative. "The only enemy is he who is against us. That is one of the rules. Break it, and I can assure you that you will meet a fate far worse than this man's."

A heavy silence fell amongst the men as they exchanged hidden glances, but I knew they'd gotten the message loud and clear.

"Clean this up," I said to Simon, dragging on my cigar.

He nodded and signaled to a couple of men while I walked back to my car. Around me, the others returned to loading the ship, keeping their eyes downcast as my boots crunched through the snow.

Soon, not even Denis' blood would remain. The man would vanish without a trace, just as he deserved.