The Bratva's Forbidden pregnancy

Sixteen

Vlad

I leaned back in my swivel chair, unable to focus on the task at hand. There were issues that I needed to address, businesses to preside over, and files on my laptop to go through. Yet, I couldn't concentrate; it seemed impossible to do so.

Damn it! I thought to myself, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Fingers drumming over the surface of my table, I tipped my head toward the ceiling with a sigh, as though the air held the answers I was searching for.

My mind was crowded with thoughts of Sienna and our last conversation, which revealed the pain and hurt that she'd been bottling up inside her.

I shut my eyes and drifted to the events of that evening.

Fyodor had told me about a charity gala happening that evening and that my presence there would be a means for further networking since the elite members of society were going to be there.

I didn't think it was so important to attend this gala, considering how many gatherings I'd attended since I landed in New York. But I knew it would be good for my mental state, so I agreed to go.

When I walked into the grand ballroom, I looked around, taking in the A-list attendees, from Hollywood stars to philanthropists to those who claim to be humanitarians but were actually wolves in sheep's clothing. A lot of business moguls were present, conversing in small groups with smiles on their faces like they truly gave a shit about charity. Most of those money-driven sickos were there for their selfish interests, under the guise of charity.

I recognized some politicians, and, of course, the elections were around the corner. This, to them, was just a show to gain the votes of the masses at the appointed time. Greedy bastards.

"Vladimir Wolkov," a man called from behind me.

I turned, recognizing the one-eyed black-suited man with a bear's broad stance and blond hair: Maximiliano Quintero, aka, Mad Max, a ruthless boss of a Mexican cartel.

Three years ago, we had a bitter feud that led to a brutal confrontation between our two organizations, a blood bath, if you may. Our battle was so intense that Maksim and Miguel, Max's boss, had to step in to prevent further damage. Their intervention was the only reason he was still breathing. Since then, the tension between us had been palpable, and we were never in the same room at the same time, never seeing eye to eye.

"I didn't think you'd be here," he said, his voice laced with resentment. "Last I heard, you were back in St. Petersburg."

"Last I heard, you were back in Mexico," I replied with the same resentment in my tone.

For a minute there, we glared at each other, but despite his madness, Max still knew better than to try anything stupid here and now.

"Everything alright?" Simon walked up to us, sensing the tension. His hand was reaching for the gun tucked away in his pants.

Fyodor soon joined us, frowning and ready for however Max wanted this to end tonight.

Max laughed lightly, looking around at the innocent people chattering and smiling, unaware of the impending danger that loomed over the hall. "I see you still hide amidst your bodyguards," he said to me.

"And I see you still have one eye...thanks to him," Simon said, nodding at the patch over his left eye.

Max's fists clenched, and his brows furrowed at the reminder that I was the one who'd taken out his left eye with one clean shot.

"I'll have my revenge, Vlad," he said through gritted teeth.

"Looks like I struck a nerve," Simon teased with a smirk that only infuriated Max all the more.