Secret Baby for the Bratva Boss: A Dark Mafia Secret Baby Romance, page 1
Table of Contents
Secret Baby for the Bratva Boss
CONTENT WARNING
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Secret Baby for the Bratva Boss
By Fia Farina & Rosalie Rose
All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2023 Fia Farina & Rosalie Rose
This story is a work of fiction and any portrayal of any person living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended.
CLICK HERE
to subscribe to my newsletter & get EXCLUSIVE updates on all offers, secret previews, and new releases!
CONTENT WARNING
This story is intended for mature readers and contains themes that may be sensitive to some, including violence, mentions of blood and killing, and explicit love scenes.
Chapter One
Kat
“You’re kidding me.” I stare at the text on my phone, half in disbelief, half completely unsurprised. My ride just canceled on me. That’s what I get for asking someone I barely know. That’s the last time I ask you for a favor, ex-coworker. But since my car is in the shop, and I already asked the world of everyone around me, I didn’t feel like I had a choice. “Well, shit.”
I look up at the office building that I share with a few other tenants, where I have what passes as my own office and little photo studio. I can barely afford it these days, but commuting from my upstate farmhouse was starting to become a serious hassle.
It doesn’t help that in a town this small there are only a few Uber drivers, and none of them are out now. I refresh the app once, twice, three times. Nothing. Great. What the hell am I supposed to do now, wait for a bus? Are any even out this late? Stranded, as always. I guess that’s just my thing now.
I sigh, pacing down the sidewalk. Autumn is here in earnest, the trees all turning and the dark falling swift and sneaky as a thief. There’s a new chill in the air, too, and a spooky little breeze that twists through the boughs of the colorful oaks that line the streets of downtown.
I sit on a bench under a streetlight just as it flicks on, and dial my best friend, Lilia. But she doesn’t answer. I’m not surprised. With her new remote job, she’s been working and sleeping weird hours. I don’t call Mom, either, because she’s babysitting Adam tonight and all of my aunts are over. I love them, but I know what they think of me. And if I have to hear one more sweet-toned comment about Adam being born out of wedlock…I know they mean well, but every comment stings, just a little.
I’m out of options. My brother is at work. My car won’t be out of the shop until the end of the week. Walking the twenty miles just doesn’t seem like the best idea. So, I shoot my brother, James, a text anyway.
Soft wind blowing, I pull my camera out of its bag and begin clicking through the photos from today’s shoot. It was for an engagement, out in the fall-yellow fields beneath the turning trees of a walnut orchard…romantic. Perfectly idyllic.
The couple in the photos looks beautiful, and the sunlight paints them both in a soft, sweet natural gold. Gazing down at the little screen, I can’t help but feel a prick of envy. But marriage was never in the cards for me.
And it never will be. If my aunts knew who Adam’s father was, they’d be glad he was born out of wedlock. They’d be glad I’m unmarried and raising my son alone in the little Podunk town where I grew up.
As always, when I think of him, heat crawls up the back of my neck. That’s why I try not to do it too often. Sheepish, I slide the camera back into its bag, gazing down the empty street as dark continues to fall, the sky’s rich blue deepening. My son, Adam, is three years old now. That means it’s been three years and nine months—or thereabouts—since I last saw him.
And I never will again.
My phone buzzes as a text comes in, from James: Out of work in an hour. Get you then kid.
I sigh. Great. Now I have an hour to kill.
I’m at the very edge of downtown and I’m kind of starving after a long day of work, so I get up and start walking toward the bars and restaurants I can hear around the corner. It’s a Thursday, which for most around here means it’s basically the weekend. It’s a pretty small town, where everyone seems to know each other and their business. Usually that doesn’t bother me. Even though right now, I kind of just want to be anonymous.
There’s a newer place on the corner, a bar that’s styled like a saloon. I decide to go there. There’s a lot less of a chance I’ll run into anyone I know if I don’t go to their old haunts. Oh, the joys of living in the town where you grew up. Inside, I order a beer and scoot myself into a back booth, where I can start swiping through photos I want to edit from the shoot earlier.
But just a few sips into my beer, I start to get the weirdest vibe… or a sensation, I guess…that someone is watching me.
When I raise my eyes from my phone, scanning the bar slowly, I don’t find anyone looking at me, even though the place is crowded.
I’m losing it, I think. I have been working pretty crazy hours lately. Daycare is expensive, and the studio in town is too, though I can’t seem to make myself give it up. I give myself a little shake. Maybe I’m just going crazy.
Still, my spine itches as I drink down my beer and signal the circling waiter for another. When I look around again, I find no one looking at me. OK. Now I know I’m losing my mind. I drink the second beer a bit more quickly—maybe a little too—filing away the folder of photos for later. Every time the door opens, a cool rush of air spills in. It smells more like rain each time.
“You’re not drinking alone, are you?”
I look up. A startlingly good-looking man is standing before me.
I know I don’t know him—I’d remember a face like his, and a body—but I get the creepy sense I’ve seen him before. In a dream, or in a movie or something. He has wavy blonde hair, the kind of silvery pale that makes you think of Alpine skiing vacations and Swiss getaways. He’s wearing a black sweater and slacks, and shiny stylish shoes. The silver watch on his wrist looks like it’s worth more than my car. That’s probably totally true, actually…
Cool blue eyes study me, carefully aloof but too penetrative for me to sit easy. His smile is suave. Confident. No—cocky.
I don’t like that. “Um,” I say, hesitating. “I am, yeah. And that’s not an invitation.”
He chuckles, bemused. He stands idly, leaning there against the booth with both hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t have taken it as one…Katerina.”
What the fuck? I stiffen, staring at him harder. Anxiety is building like a ball of knots in my stomach. I don’t like this. I don’t like him. At all. “Do I know you?”
“No. No, you don’t know me.” To my horror, the man slowly slides into the booth across from me, folding his hands on the table.
He wears heavy silver rings. All of him is too classy, too suave and expensive for this place, for this whole town—like James Bond walking into a gas station. And yet…he seems unperturbed by how little he fits in with this place. In fact, all his attention is focused on me, like he hasn’t even realized he sticks out like a sore thumb.
Or he just doesn’t care.
“You don’t know me, but you will, soon enough.” His smile spreads like poison. His eyes are pure ice. “How old is that little boy of yours now, Katerina?” His eyes dance, and I feel cold pour into me. Glacial. Paralyzing. “He looks just like his father.”
My mouth goes dry, and I feel every bone in my body stiffen into stone. I’m frozen there, gripping my beer bottle so hard my knuckles are white. My head is spinning, questions breaking against my skull like waves on a shore. How does he know about Adam? How does he know what my son looks like?
How the hell does he know Aleks?
“My, my, such a timid little thing, aren’t you?” He reaches across the table, and to my disgust, brushes his knuckles against my cheekbone. I don’t even have the wherewithal to shudder. I’m completely paralyzed. Out of body. “I never took Aleksander for the kind of man who’d like a girl like you. Tell me—did you know what he was, before? Before you fucked him and had his baby?”
Tears, not of sadness but of rage, prick at my eyes. The man withdraws his hand and sits back against the booth, watching me as his smile sours. If I could speak, I don’t even know what I would say. If I could open my mouth, I might just scream.
“How disappointing. In truth, I thought you’d be a bit more fun.” He drums his fingers on the table, casting his gaze away from me for the first time since he materialized beside my table. “I thought you’d have a bit more spark. You’re just like this little town of yours—b
Heat floods my face. “Fuck you. You don’t know me.”
His eyes cut back to me, dancing.
I lean forward, but it’s barely my own conscious doing. It’s anger, pure and hot, melting the ice of fear off my bones. I look the man dead in the eye. “I don’t know who you are,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, quivering. “And frankly, I don’t give a fuck who you are. If you ever come near me or my son, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
His smile spreads again, slow and delighted. “Yes, that’s more like it. That’s the Katerina I was imagining.”
“Don’t imagine me,” I nearly spit out. “Go back to wherever the fuck you came from. I haven’t seen Aleks in years. And I don’t plan to ever see him again. Whatever fight you have with him, keep it with him.” I shove myself out of the booth and turn to walk away.
But I hear him sliding out after me. I turn around, slamming one hand on the table and one on the back of his seat, blocking the man from getting up. We’re face to face, nose to nose. And a pulse of grim pleasure goes through me at the way his eyes widen slightly, as though I’ve caught him off guard.
“I mean it,” I snarl, keeping my voice low. “I know how to protect myself. And I swear to God, I’m prepared to.” Does he understand what I’m saying? Does he believe me? Does it matter, when I know that I have a Glock .42 in my nightstand—and I made sure I know how the hell to use it? “Don’t follow me.”
As soon as I turn my back on him, I feel all the fear and adrenaline crash back into me. I grip the strap of my camera bag, mind reeling, heart beating like a fist against the inside of my ribs. My body is moving of its own volition, walking me fast through the saloon and a crowd of drunk men in jerseys, out onto the street where the wind has picked up and is keening down the road. Head down, breathing ragged, I half-run back toward my office.
What if he knows I’m here? What if he knows this is my place? Was he watching me? I swallow, practically gulping. It smells wild and wintry out here, like rain. When I look back, I don’t see the man. He’d be easy to spot with his black getup and white hair. I need to get home. I need to get home now. Almost mindless, I jog toward the intersection. I’ll walk until James can get me.
I don’t care what I do, as long as I get the hell away from here.
Chapter Two
Aleks
This? Here? This is the Podunk, middle of nowhere town where Katerina May was born and raised—this is where she comes from?
It doesn’t suit her. Not at all. The narrow streets and smiling people, the warm crowds on the sidewalk, the family restaurants. Lamp posts, street signs. It’s all too mundane. The girl I knew was made of fire. Cheer and bliss and sweet naivete, yes; but also, secretly: fire.
But then again—I really only knew her that night. That one night. Leading up to that night, she was no one to me; a pest, maybe. At worst. The annoying girl who blushed when she saw me. Every damn time. The little sister of my best friend from college. Until.
Until that night…
When I find her photo studio empty and the street deserted, I’m displeased. My intel told me that if she’d be anywhere, it’d be here. But I still have other addresses. Her farmhouse, outside the town limits, set back in the woods. Her mother’s house, not far from that. Her friend Lilia’s apartment in town. And of course—James’s house.
How is my old friend, I wonder? When we met at Dartmouth, I thought for certain he’d move to the big city with his business degree, get some kind of fancy corporate job. But no. Instead, somehow, he’s back here, back in this odd little backwoods town. Why? What coaxes a person back here, I wonder? It looks like a place I’d fly over. A place I’d forget the minute it was in my rearview mirror.
It would be nice to see James, I think, after all these years. But he’s not why I’m here. I have one reason to be here right now, and she’s nowhere that I can find.
Annoyed, I turn my truck onto the interstate, a rental, one I regret how much I like, and begin driving toward Kat’s farmhouse.
It’s dark outside, but streetlights from town run in streaks along the bottom of the fresh clouds that have been blowing in fast. In the distance, where the forest rises up like a tide of shadows, I spot lightning. It’s low, illuminating vast domes of dark cloud. Ominous. I don’t care much for that.
But it is ominous. All of this is ominous. And worst of all—it’s my fault.
Something uncommon. And something I don’t generally care to admit. But if I hadn’t killed his brother, my gang rival Konstantin wouldn’t be here. Here, in this country. Here, in this town. Hunting down the girl he somehow knows I cared for, once. The girl I slept with, one night. Long ago. The girl I fell for, and walked away from.
And never spoke to again.
I shouldn’t give a damn, anyway. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as the first big drops of rain plop and splatter across the broad windshield of the rental. Lightning illuminates long crooked lines of fences along the fields, of the telephone poles and lines that accompany them. She’s just a girl I fucked once and shouldn’t have.
But more importantly, I suppose, is that she’s James’ sister. And I could never let anything happen to her, if only for that.
Thunder bangs hard, right above the truck, so loud and near it rattles the windows and sets my teeth on edge. There’s a sense of chaos tonight, in this little backwoods town. There’s a wind I don’t like the scent of, a wild recklessness in the air. All of it seems to promise something: danger, a violent edge. A happening.
That’s Mother speaking, I think, scolding myself, hearing her voice in Russian. Mother, with her signs and omens, with her proverbs and warnings. Mother, long dead. And I don’t need her ghost hanging over me tonight. Do I?
Bang! The percussion of thunder is so jarring, and I grip the wheel tightly, the rain falling so hard that I nearly miss it. No, her—her, like an apparition, like a ghost, hovering there at the edge of the road. Am I imagining it? What the fuck is that?
But no—it’s real. She’s real. Caught in the glance of my high-beams, rain falling in white blazing raindrops around her. Her. My her.
Katerina.
I yank the wheel so hard that my tires squeal. She’s walking on the gravel shoulder of the road, shoulders hunched and head down, gripping the strap of the black bag she’s carrying. When she hears the squeal of my tires, Kat whips around, her face white and drawn with terror. I suppose I could have approached the situation more gracefully.
Doesn’t matter. There’s no time for grace.
I throw the truck into park and open my door, watching as Kat staggers back, thrusting her hand into her bag. I half-expect her to pull a gun on me—I’m not sure why, but I wouldn’t put it past her. She might come across as a little sheepish, but Kat May is anything but that. She’s a girl full of secret fire. And on late nights, a few drinks in, a million miles between us and the years grown in our garden like nettles and weeds—that’s what I always remember.
Fire.
“Kat!”
“Stay back!” She screams the words, tears them out of herself. She’s backed up against a fence post now, and whips out a can of what must be mace, her finger on the top like a trigger. “I swear to God, I’ll—” But she stops as suddenly as if she’s been slapped, the words caught in her throat.
It’s as I step into the glare of my headlights that it happens. She goes completely stiff, her soft brown hair soaked and wetted to her face, her brown eyes huge and luminous with fear. A tremor rocks through her, her hand on the mace can, unsteady.
“You,” she whispers, those sweet, pouting lips expelling a soft vapor. As if summoned by the word, a clap of thunder sounds above us. It seems to rock the very ground.
She doesn’t even flinch. It takes everything in me not to look at her, not to really look at her. To drink in those dark eyes, and that soft mouth; her round face, the slope of her nose and chin. I remember touching those lips. Tasting her. I remember sliding my tongue into that warm, yielding mouth. I remember how pliant that body of hers can be.
All of this—it’s the last thing I should be thinking of. But near her, in her presence, just as I did that night—I lose control.
“Kat,” I say. She flinches like I’ve hit her. I deserve that. I deserve her fear. Her hatred. Her contempt. Instead of feeling the sting of that realization, I compose my face, making it as cool a mask as I can manage. “I need you to get in the truck. Now.”
