The Bratva's Forbidden pregnancy

Six

Vlad

New York: a city crowded like a Black Friday sale. But worse. It was like they were trying to squeeze all the vodkas into one tiny shot glass.

I looked outside my window, watching as people packed like sardines on the sidewalks. The city was bustling with life, and the energy levels were off the charts. It was as if the entire population of Wyoming could fit into one neighborhood in this crowded city. And still, more would come. Idiots!

They say the city never sleeps, and in my opinion, that wasn't far from the truth.

Regardless, it was a beautiful place, and the view from the backseat of the car wasn't bad. The sun cast a warm glow over the concrete jungle, making everything seem golden, even the trash. Towering skyscrapers pierced the sky, and the city's skyline unfolded like a canvas of steel and glass.

The lofty arch of the Brooklyn Bridge, the stately opulence of the New York Public Library, and the bright lights of Times Square were all revealed as we drove around the city that would be my new home—for the time being, anyway.

This wasn't my first time in New York; I'd visited the city a couple of times before, but only for business-related issues. I wasn't the type to roll well with a crowd. I hated it, and NYC was known for its crowding.

The city was so dense that you could find a different nationality, language, or cuisine on every block—sometimes, all at once.

I toiled with the cufflink on my left sleeve, thinking about how different St. Petersburg was compared to this bustling city.

New York was beautiful, but I liked my homeland better. Russia was more beautiful in every aspect.

It was too noisy out here—no peace and quiet.

"Hey, watch it, punk!" a cyclist yelled at a driver who almost knocked him down.

Like I said, too noisy.

The car came to a halt, waiting for the light to turn green. I gritted my teeth in displeasure, as the driver directly behind us wouldn't stop blaring his horn, yelling God-knows-what.

In a short while, we were in motion again.

Americans were too loud and carefree; I didn't like them. But I didn't have much of a choice because I was stuck with them for the time being, thanks to my cousin, Maksim. He just decided to send me.... Of all the Wolkovs, he chose me to come to America, knowing full well that I hated leaving my home country.

As Pakhan, his orders were not to be disobeyed. I didn't like being here, but I was compelled to; that was loyalty on my part. He'd ordered me to take care of the business here in New York, and that was exactly what I would do.

I caught Simon's eyes watching me through the rear-view mirror. He had a faint grin etched on his face, like he knew exactly what I was thinking; he truly did. He'd been with me long enough to understand my reactions to different situations.

Our driver was Fyodor Apagov, Maksim's right-hand man. He was in charge of making sure that I was fully settled in the city. He'd taken his time to show me around, introducing me to our business associates.

Today, he was driving us to a gallery opening in New York City's Chelsea, a neighborhood known for its vibrant art scene, trendy galleries, and hip atmosphere. At least, that was what Simon said he'd read on the internet.

The reason we were headed there was to network with other powerful and influential visitors who would be present at the gallery. So, basically, you could say I was going there on business.

Fyodor pulled over outside a building with a magnificent exterior that featured tall arched windows framed by ornate stone carvings.

The backseat door opened for me, and I stepped out, adjusting my coat, my eyes scanning the surroundings.