A Baby for the BRATVA Boss (Holidays with the BRATVA #2)

Sophia

Christmas is four weeks away. Usually, I’d be hunting down the decorations and planning how to dress the house. I’d be ordering a tree, planning what to eat, organizing festive treats.

But this year… This year there’s no escaping the reality of our situation. There’s no hiding it behind garlands and twinkle lights and big wrapped boxes that are actually empty.

My father sits at the dining table with his head in his hands, the last of the firelight throwing cracks of gold across the bottles, the papers, the shaking of his fingers. The silence feels thick. The kind that comes when you already know how the story ends.

I should be angry. I used to be. But after enough nights like this, watching him gamble with everything we had, everything my mother left behind, I’ve run out of anger. Now there’s only the steady, dull ache of waiting for the next knock on the door.

When it finally comes, it’s too calm. Three short knocks. No hurry. No fear of being turned away.

My father flinches so hard his glass tips over. He looks at me like he wants to tell me to hide, but there’s nowhere left to go.

“I’ll answer it,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t stop me. Maybe he can’t.

Cold air spills in when I open the door. Snowflakes drift through the porch light and melt against my skin. A man stands there, dark and still, the world bending around the weight of his presence.

“Miss Akimova,” he says. His voice is deep, smooth, expensive. He holds out his hand for me to shake and I take it out of courtesy. It engulfs mine, and I swallow the surprise I feel at the rough warmth of it. “We need to talk.”

I know who he is before he says another word.

You don’t grow up in this city without hearing the name Yury Dubovich whispered like both a warning and a plea.

Pakhan of the Dubovich Bratva. The man people owe everything to when they’ve already lost it all.

He is taller than I remember, his shoulders broad in the tailored wool coat that fits him perfectly.

He steps inside without asking, snow still clinging to his coat. Two men follow, closing the door behind them. My father scrambles to his feet, but Yury doesn’t even glance at him. His eyes find me instead, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping out something only he understands.

I try not to move. Try not to show how much my pulse has changed under his scrutiny, because why should it.

“Mr. Dubovich,” my father starts, voice cracking. “If you’d just give me one more week—”

“One more week,” the darkly calm man repeats, quiet but sharp enough to cut. “You said that last time.”

“I can fix this,” my father pleads, words tumbling now. “I just need—”

Dubovich looks at him then. Just one look. And it’s enough to silence him.

The air in the room changes. Colder. Cleaner. Then he turns back to me.

“Are you aware of what your father owes?” he asks simply.

My father’s hand twitches toward me. “Please, Yury. Sophia has nothing to do with this.”

“She has everything to do with it,” he says, barely containing his fury if the tightness in his neck is anything to go by. He grits his teeth. “You tried to exploit my weakness without realizing your own.”

The words land like a verdict. I stare at him, waiting for the meaning to settle, for someone to say it’s a mistake. But it isn’t. It’s simple math. It’s pure power. It’s the world catching up.

I look between them. My father looks sick. Small. Maybe he really did offer me, in some drunken attempt to buy himself time. It wouldn’t even surprise me anymore.

“What happens if I say no?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His expression softens only slightly when his eyes swing back to me. “Then I take the debt another way. Either way, it ends tonight.”

For a moment, the only sound is the clock ticking on the mantel. The same one that’s been in our family for generations. My mother used to wind it every morning.

I think about her. About how she’d tell me to be brave. About how she’d tell me that fear is just proof that something matters.

“If I go with you,” I say finally, “you’ll leave him alive.”

Dubovich inclines his head, a single controlled nod. “He will be left in peace. His debt is paid.”

It should sound like mercy. It doesn’t. We both know my father is beyond finding peace. He is too deep into his addiction.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”

My father’s voice cracks again, but I don’t let him speak.

Yury studies me for a long moment. His gaze is heavy enough to make me feel stripped bare. “You have thirty minutes to pack what you need.”

I turn away before he can see the tremor in my hands.

It doesn’t take thirty minutes to pack what’s left of my belongings. My father sold or gambled almost everything. I have clothes, old, seasons out of style, a few toiletries, a book that was my last Christmas gift from my mom before she died.

I grab my threadbare coat and the white scarf my mom knitted for me a long time ago, winding it around my neck twice.

When I return downstairs, I find my father has collapsed into his chair again, eyes glassy, lips moving soundlessly.

I take my mother’s clock and I don’t say goodbye.

Outside, the night has thickened. Snow falls in heavy sheets, muting the world. The car waiting at the curb is black and gleaming, its headlights slicing through the dark like knives. Dubovich opens the door and waits, patient, silent.

I hesitate only once, on the threshold of what was our ancestral home.

Now I don’t even know who owns it. The cold bites through my boots, but it feels clean.

Honest. I breathe it in and step forward.

His hand brushes my back as I slide into the car.

Even that small touch leaves a trail of heat behind.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and suddenly the world is smaller. Warmer. Claustrophobic.

Dubovich slides in beside me. He doesn’t look at me at first, just gives a brief nod to the driver. The estate starts to fall away and be replaced by the city, the streetlights flickering on as the sun finally sets.

I press my hands together in my lap to keep them still. The leather seat is warm beneath me, the air thick with the scent of cloves and something darker I can’t name.

I risk a glance at him. His face is carved from shadow, sharp in the passing light. “Where are we going, Mr Dubovich?” I ask.

His mouth moves, almost a smile. “You can call me Yury. At Christmas I always spend time in the mountains. I have a lodge. It’s modest, comfortable. I hope you’ll like it.”

A shiver runs through me.

“What were the terms?” I ask. “What is expected of me?”

He looks at me, gray eyes glinting like gunmetal.

“Your father caught wind that I want an heir. He asked or a week, or I could take you.”

Ice slides down my spine. I’m shaking now, there’s no point trying to hide it. I know enough of this world to know that someone as powerful as Yury doesn’t do things by half.

He wants a baby. I have a uterus.

“Your father assured me that you are healthy.” He says it like a statement but it’s a question. I think back to yesterday. The last day of my period and I shudder.

“As far as I know. I’ve never been pregnant before...” I stop myself revealing anymore and turn to face the window while I focus on not throwing up.

The snow outside turns the world white. Endless. Empty.

The car keeps climbing, headlights cutting through the falling snow.

I watch it blur against the glass and tell myself I’m only doing what I have to do to survive.

If that means letting him put a baby inside me, carrying it, birthing it and handing it over.

That’s what I’ll do. Then I can leave this world behind and start a new life somewhere where the Bratva can’t reach.