The Bratva Devil’s Pregnant Captive (Rusnak Bratva #11)

Chapter 1 – Valeria

The study wing is the only place in this house that feels untouched by noise.

I stand between towering shelves of leather-bound books, running my fingers lightly along their spines as I scan titles without really seeing them. Power. Strategy. Economics. War. Influence. My father collects them obsessively—says knowledge is the only weapon no one can take from you.

I believe him.

Still, I don’t pick blindly.

I pull one free, flipping through the pages with practiced ease, skimming paragraphs, dismissing what feels obvious. Most of these books repeat the same ideas in different languages. Men explaining power as if it were something theoretical. Something clean.

It isn’t.

My gaze catches on a single line.

Power does not belong to the strongest man in the room. It belongs to the one who understands what everyone else is willing to lose.

I pause.

Then I read it again.

Slowly this time.

A small, thoughtful hum escapes me before I close the book halfway, considering it. Yes. This one understands something the others don’t.

I tuck it against my chest and step away from the shelf.

The estate is quiet tonight.

Too quiet.

I feel it as I walk. It’s like something subtle, threading through the air.

Pay attention to what changes, he always says. Not what stays the same.

My boots echo on the floor as I move toward the sitting nook tucked into the far corner of the study. The fireplace crackles softly, casting a golden glow that cuts through the cold elegance of the room. Outside the tall windows, snow clings to the grounds in a smooth, untouched blanket.

From here, the estate looks exactly as it should.

Impenetrable.

Beautiful.

Safe.

It always has.

I lower myself into the кресло—my кресло—and let out a quiet breath as I settle in, tucking one leg beneath me. The book rests easily in my hands as I open it again, the pages whispering softly.

This is my favorite place in the entire house.

Not the grand halls. Not the dining rooms filled with men who measure each other with every glance. Not the polished spaces meant to impress guests who pretend not to fear us.

Here, there’s no performance.

Just quiet.

Just control.

I start reading.

Minutes pass. Or maybe longer. Time moves differently when my mind locks onto something worth understanding.

I’m flipping to Chapter Eight when the first gunshot cracks through the halls.

The sound slices clean through the silence.

I freeze.

For a second, I tell myself it’s nothing. A misfire. One of the guards being careless during late-night drills.

It happens. Rarely, but it happens.

Then a second shot rings out.

Closer.

Sharper.

And this time, it isn’t alone.

A scream follows.

High. Sudden. Cut short.

Human.

My body moves before my mind catches up. The book slips from my hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as I’m already turning, already moving, already running.

The door flies open.

The corridor is wrong.

Men are moving too fast.

Guards rush past me with weapons drawn, their usual composure shattered, voices raised in sharp, overlapping commands.

“Lock down the East Wing—now!”

“Where the hell did they come from?”

“Move—move!”

The air is different too.

Thicker.

I inhale—gunpowder. Smoke.

My heartbeat stays steady.

It always does.

But something cold settles in my chest as I take it all in, my mind working faster than the chaos around me.

This isn’t a drill.

This isn’t a mistake.

This is an attack.

For most of my life, I have believed these walls were untouchable. Impenetrable.

My father made sure of it.

He built this house like a fortress. Filled it with men who would die before letting an enemy step inside. He always said the Petrov name was enough—that fear alone would keep danger at a distance.

I believed him.

Not anymore.

Because my home is under attack.

And whoever is doing this…knew exactly how to get inside.

I turn sharply, already moving with purpose now.

There’s no hesitation. No confusion.

Only one thing matters.

My father.

At this hour, there’s only one place he would be.

His office.

He works like time is something he can outrun. Like stopping—even for a moment—is a weakness he cannot afford.

If there’s chaos in this house, he’ll be at the center of it.

Or controlling it.

Or—no! I don’t let the thought finish. I move faster.

The door to his office is already open.

That’s the first sign that something’s wrong.

My father never leaves doors open.

Never.

I slow as I reach it—not out of fear, but instinct. Something in me tightening, sharpening, bracing.

Then I step inside.

And the world tilts.

Blood. It’s everywhere.

Three bodies lie scattered across the room—men I’ve known for years. Men my father trusted enough to keep close. Their blood spreads across the expensive carpet in dark, soaking stains, creeping into patterns that shouldn’t exist in a place like this.

One of the tall windows is shattered, jagged glass clinging to the frame as icy wind tears through the room, carrying the scent of snow…and gunpowder…and blood.

The cold barely touches me.

Because I see him.

My father.

He’s slumped in his chair behind the desk, his body angled unnaturally, one arm hanging loose at his side. Blood spills from his head, thick and dark, staining the collar of his shirt, dripping slowly onto the polished wood beneath him.

His mouth is slightly open.

His eyes—closed.

For a second, my mind refuses to understand what I’m looking at.

No.

No.

A sound builds in my throat—sharp, broken—but I force it down before it can escape. My fingers curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to ground me.

This is not how he dies.

Not like this.

Not in his own chair.

Not—

Movement.

My gaze snaps up.

And everything inside me goes cold.

Anton.

He stands over my father’s body like this is nothing. Like this is routine. A gun hangs loosely in his hand, his posture relaxed, his expression calm in a way that feels…wrong.

Too calm.

Too certain.

For a moment, my mind cannot make sense of it.

My cousin.

My blood.

Standing in my father’s office—over his body.

No shock. No hesitation. No remorse.

Just calculation.

The betrayal doesn’t feel real.

It feels like something my mind is trying—and failing—to understand.

Anton doesn’t see me.

Or maybe he doesn’t bother to look.

Instead, he steps closer to the desk, his gaze fixed on my father like he’s studying something already finished.

Then he lifts the gun and slams the butt of it against my father’s head.

The sound is sickening.

Wet.

Final.

Something inside my chest twists violently, but I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

I can’t.

Anton watches carefully, like a man verifying his work. He reaches down, grabs my father’s wrist, lifts it slightly, and lets it drop.

The hand hits the armrest.

Lifeless.

Empty.

Anton nods once.

Satisfied.

That’s the moment it becomes real.

My father is dead.

And the man who killed him is standing three feet away from me like it means nothing.

I should move.

Hide.

Reach for something—anything.

But my body refuses to obey.

Rooted.

Frozen in place, not from fear—but from the sheer impossibility of what I’m witnessing.

Anton doesn’t even look toward the door.

He doesn’t check.

Doesn’t hesitate.

His confidence is absolute.

He isn’t worried about being caught because in his mind, he already won.

He turns, walking toward the shattered window as if he owns the room now. As if this has always been his.

For a fraction of a second, the cold wind lifts his coat, carrying snow into the office, scattering it across blood-stained floors.

Then he steps onto the balcony and disappears.

Gone.

Just like that.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

Something inside me snaps.

I move.

Fast.

The cry tears out of me before I can stop it as I rush forward, my hands reaching for him—for my father—like I can pull him back.

“Papa—”

His eyes fly open.

I freeze.

A sharp gasp rips from my chest as I stumble closer, my hands flying to his face, to the blood soaking through his hair, his temple. It’s warm. Too warm.

“Papa?”

For a second, I think I’m imagining it. That grief has already broken something in me.

But then—he moves. Violently.

His body jerks upright, a harsh breath dragging into his lungs like he’s been underwater too long. His hand clamps around my wrist with brutal force, dragging me closer.

Alive.

He’s alive.

“Papa!” Relief crashes into me so hard it almost buckles my knees. “Come with me—I’ll get you out, we’ll—”

“Тихо!”

The word cuts through me like a blade.

Silence.

His voice is sharp. Commanding. Not a father’s comfort—a leader’s order.

He rips his hand from mine only to grab me again, harder this time, his grip unyielding as he pulls me toward the door.

“You will come with me,” he says, each word strained but absolute. “You cannot stay.”

“Papa—”

“No.”

There’s no room for argument.

Not in his tone. Not in his eyes.

Only urgency.

Only fear.

Not for himself.

For me.

He stumbles once as we move into the corridor, and that’s when I see it—really see it.

The blood.

Not just from his head.

From his side.

A dark stain spreads across his shirt, thick and relentless.

A bullet.

My stomach drops.

He shouldn’t be standing.

He shouldn’t be walking.

But he is.

Because he’s not thinking about survival.

He’s thinking about mine.

Gunshots echo through the halls as we move—louder now, closer. Voices shouting. Boots pounding against marble floors. The estate is no longer a fortress.

It’s a battlefield.

I try to pull back, just slightly. Not to escape—to steady him.

To help.

But his grip tightens painfully.

“Papa—slow down. You’re hurt—”

He doesn’t even look at me.

Doesn’t respond.

His jaw is locked, his face set in a way I’ve only ever seen when he’s making a decision that cannot be undone.

And then I understand.

He’s not trying to escape with me.

He’s getting me out.

Alone.

“No,” I breathe, shaking my head as realization crashes in. “No—Papa, no—”

He drags me into the study wing.

My stomach drops.

I know where we’re going.

The hidden passage.

Built into the wall behind the shelves. A route meant for emergencies no one ever believed would come.