Pregnant by my father's enemy

Shadows of betrayal

My boots echoed in the dim corridor of Volkov’s Moscow compound, my heart racing as I clutched the encrypted burner phone.

I’d smuggled in, my fingers slick with sweat. I’d nearly been caught planting bugs, a guard’s radio crackling as he paused, his flashlight grazing my hiding spot until he turned away, distracted by a call. The mole plot I’d overheard yesterday—Bratva planning to assassinate Papa, with a traitor in my family—burned in my mind, a fire I couldn’t extinguish.

I had to warn him, but every move risked my mission: infiltrate the Bratva, destroy Volkov, save my family in a year.

Anya’s cold, six-year-old eyes from our accidental meeting haunted me, her rude “Go away” cutting deep, a reminder of the walls she’d built. I whispered to my stomach, “I’ll reach you, somehow,” but the compound’s steel walls were a noose, tightening with every step.

A soft shuffle froze me, my eyes darting to a shadowed nook. Anya stood there, clutching her tattered stuffed bear, red hair messy, green eyes wary but curious, her small frame dwarfed by the corridor’s gloom.

My breath caught—Volkov’s warning to stay away from his daughter screamed in my head, but Anya’s presence wasn’t hostile, just guarded, her gaze piercing.

“Anya?” I whispered, kneeling, voice gentle, my pregnancy softening my tone, aching for her pain. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?”

Anya’s eyes narrowed, silence heavy, her bear pressed tight to her chest. She stared, unresponsive, then muttered, voice small but sharp, “You’re not supposed to be here.” Her tone was rude, gaze flicking away, shutting me out.

My heart ached, seeing her grief—her twin, Katya, gone, killed by my family’s revenge. “I know you don’t trust me,” I said softly, hands open, desperate to reach her. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Anya’s lip curled, her voice a hiss, cold and final. “I don’t need you. Leave me alone.” She hugged her bear, turning slightly, her small body a wall against me.

I nodded, standing, voice low, tears pricking. “Alright, I’ll go. But if you need me, I’m here, Anya.” I backed away, her pain a weight crushing my chest, knowing pushing would shatter the fragile thread between us.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Volkov’s voice roared, his boots storming down the hall, ice-blue eyes blazing, black coat swirling like a predator’s shadow. I spun, heart slamming, as he grabbed my arm, yanking me close, his grip bruising, pain shooting through me.

“Let go!” I cried, wrenching free, my voice trembling but fierce, pulse racing. “I didn’t seek her out! She was just here, Volkov!”

Volkov’s gaze flicked to Anya, softening for a split second, then hardened, his voice a snarl. “I told you to stay away from my daughter, krasavitsa. You think you can disobey me?”

“I didn’t disobey!” I shot back, stepping into his space, defiance burning, my hands shaking. “She found me! You can’t control every damn thing I do!”

“Papa?” Anya’s voice was tiny, trembling, her eyes wide, bear clutched tight. “Why’s she here?”

Volkov knelt, his voice softer but firm, his hand gentle on her shoulder. “Go to your room, malyshka. Now.” Anya hesitated, glancing at me, her eyes unreadable, then scurried off, footsteps fading.

“You haven’t introduced me to her as your wife. Why is that?” I asked, glaring, my voice sharp, probing for cracks.

“What I tell my daughter is none of your business,” he spat, his voice icy, eyes narrowing. “You’re a means to an end, nothing more, Emilia.”

His words cut like a blade, but I masked the sting, my jaw tight. “Threaten me all you want,” I hissed, fists clenched, face inches from his, the air electric with tension. “I’m not your prisoner, Volkov.”

His smirk was cold, his hand brushing my jaw, deliberately, sparking heat I hated, my body betraying me. “You’re mine until I say otherwise. Keep testing me, and you’ll see how tight this cage gets.” His touch lingered, eyes burning, then he turned, barking, “Stay put.”

My skin prickled, my body traitorously yearning, but I shoved it down, heart pounding as I slipped into a service room, the door creaking shut. I powered on the burner phone, fingers shaking, typing a coded message to Luca: Mole in family.

Vincenzo targeted. Trust no one. I hit send, praying it reached him, but a faint buzz in my coat stopped me—a stolen Bratva comms unit, its voices crackling, urgent, chilling.

“Ivan’s moving,” a man said, his voice low, secretive. “DeSantis is in. He’s feeding us the Italians’ routes.”

My eyes widened, the phone nearly slipping from my grip, my breath catching. DeSantis? Matteo? My ex-fiancé, allied with Ivan, a Bratva rival? My mind reeled—Matteo, the mole? His betrayal, calling me a traitor, flashed back, but this was a knife to the heart. I listened, my heart thundering, my hands trembling.

“Volkov doesn’t know,” another voice said, smug, laughing softly. “DeSantis wants Vincenzo dead, Ivan wants the Bratva cut. We play both sides, clean and easy.”

My legs shook, betrayal cutting deep, rage boiling. Matteo, working against my family, maybe even me? The comms buzzed again, a new voice, older, colder, calculated.

“Calabrese is on board,” the voice said, sharp, precise. “Volkov’s deal is set—use the Romano girl as bait, lure Vincenzo to the docks, take him out. Calabrese gets the Italian turf, we split the profits.”

My breath stopped, hand clutching my stomach, fear spiking. Volkov, working with the Calabrese, a rival Italian family, to betray Papa? Using me as bait to lure him to his death? His demands, his obsession with my child, were a trap to destroy my family, a chess move I hadn’t seen.

I powered off the comms, heart racing, slipping the device into my pocket, my mind screaming. I had to stop this, protect Anya, expose Matteo, but the compound was a cage, time slipping like sand.

A creak snapped me back, the service room door inching open, my heart leaping to my throat. A man stepped in, tall, scarred—Salvatore, a Romano capo, or so I’d thought. His eyes were cold, a silenced pistol in his hand, aimed at my chest, his face twisted with contempt.

“Salvatore?” My voice trembled, stepping back, hands raised, pulse hammering. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re a liability, Emilia,” he said, his voice low, venomous, stepping closer, gun steady. “Matteo’s right—you’re selling us out. I saw you with that phone, sneaking around.”

“I’m not the traitor!” I snapped, my voice fierce, returning to the wall, my hand brushing a metal pipe on the floor, my only chance. “Matteo’s working with Ivan! He’s betraying Vincenzo, not me!”

“Lies,” Salvatore hissed, his mouth stretching into an evil smirk, cocking the gun, his eyes gleaming. “You’re Volkov’s whore now. Vincenzo’s better off without you.”

My heart roared, no escape, my body trapped. My fingers closed on the pipe, voice shaking but defiant. “You’re wrong, Salvatore. Shoot me, and you doom the family.”

Salvatore’s finger tightened on the trigger, his eyes narrowing, his voice a growl. “Goodbye, Emilia.”

I swung the pipe hard, catching his wrist, the gun clattering to the floor, but he lunged, slamming me against the wall, his hand choking my throat, cutting off-air. I gasped, vision blurring, clawing at his arm, kicking, my stomach twisting with fear for my child. “Get… off!” I rasped, driving my knee into his groin, breaking free, scrambling for the gun, my hands shaking.

Salvatore roared, tackling me down, his fist grazing my jaw, pain exploding, stars bursting in my eyes. I screamed, grabbing the pipe again, swinging wildly, cracking his shoulder, blood spraying.

He staggered, cursing, but charged, his knife flashing, slicing my arm, hot pain searing through me. I stumbled, blood soaking my sleeve, the gun just out of reach, my body shaking, legs weak.

“Die, traitor!” Salvatore bellowed, raising the knife, his eyes wild, bloodlust in his glare.

A gunshot cracked, deafening, and Salvatore froze, blood blooming on his chest, his body collapsing like a broken doll. My breath hitched, eyes darting to the door, my heart stopping. Volkov stood there, pistol smoking, ice-blue eyes locked on me, unreadable—fury, or something else, something I couldn’t trust?

“Viktor…” I gasped, clutching my bleeding arm, legs buckling, the room spinning, pain throbbing. “Thank God you came… I could’ve died.”

His boots thudded closer, his voice a low growl, eyes flicking to my wound, then my stomach, his face a mask. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, krasavitsa.”

My vision blurred, body swaying, fear choking me as blood poured from my arm, a deeper ache gripping my womb, crimson staining my dress, the smell hitting me like a punch.