Cruel Juliet (Gubarev Bratva #2)

Chapter 1 Sima

SIMA

It’s late when I finally clock out. I swear my feet are plotting to murder me in my sleep, and honestly, I can’t blame them.

It’s been twelve hours of carrying boxes that feel twice as heavy thanks to the bowling ball strapped to my stomach. Twelve hours of running around after brides who think the wrong shade of cream is a crime against humanity.

A.k.a., a typical workday.

Assistant to a wedding planner sounded glamorous when I started. Spoiler: it’s not.

But starting over from scratch rarely is.

By the time I waddle my way down the street, my back feels like it’s been in a losing fight with a baseball bat. Why did I think I could pull this off again? I’m eight months pregnant, for crying out loud. Stupid, stupid Sima.

My body is begging me to stop. Every step is a painful reminder that I’m not the same person I was a year ago. I’m slower and heavier. Stretched thin in every sense of the word.

I follow the flagstone path to my cottage by the water, and for a second, it looks like a postcard. The porch light is glowing soft and warm. It’s the kind of glow that says, Welcome home, kick off your shoes, and collapse like a dying star.

My chest aches with longing at the thought. I almost let myself believe I’ll be able to spend the night relaxing despite the hellish day I’ve just had.

Then the panic creeps in.

One month. That’s it. I have one measly month until this kiddo makes her debut and my entire life gets flipped on its head. Then I’ll get to welcome all the better-known joys of motherhood: sleepless nights, endless diapers, chafing nipples, the works.

Plus, of course, a tiny human who will depend on me for literally everything.

And here I am, still working late nights, hauling chairs across ballrooms and pretending I have it all figured out.

What a joke. I barely have me figured out.

My steps slow as the porch comes into view. My throat tightens. How the hell am I supposed to do this? These hours? This job? I can barely keep up now, and that’s without a newborn attached to me.

I swallow hard, push the panic down, and rest my hand on my belly. The baby shifts, a firm kick against my palm.

The emotion chokes me before I can stop it. My eyes sting. Exhaustion and love hit me all at once, messy and overwhelming.

“We’ll figure it out,” I whisper. “Mostly because we don’t have a choice.”

I’ve managed to start over. Again. This time in the Florida Keys, of all places. Admittedly, I didn’t plan it with some grand strategy. I just kept running south until I hit the ocean and couldn’t go any farther. End of the road—literally.

Goodbye, Sammi Banks.

Rest in peace, Sima Danilo.

Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for… Felicity Bennet.

That’s me now. Felicity—Latin for “happiness.” That’s a morbid little inside joke from me to me. Happiness isn’t really something I believe in anymore. I left that behind like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

But comfort? Comfort might still be possible. If I can ever stop sweating, that is.

The air is different here. Heavy with salt, sticky on my skin. Palm trees line the streets and chickens roam like they own the place.

Unlike New York, where Sima Danilo is literally hunted by the mob, nobody looks at me twice here. I blend right in. Just another transplant trying to piece together a life. Little old Felicity in her little old cottage.

And while work isn’t as steady as I’d like, it’s enough to make ends meet for now. Besides, if I have to take time off once the baby comes, I’ve still got my cushion: the money I took from Petyr when I ran.

That was months ago, but it still sits there, untouched. My just-in-case money.

I tell myself I’m saving it for an emergency. That I’m being responsible, smart, careful. A good mother-to-be.

But if I’m honest, the reason it’s still there is pure guilt. Every time I think about using it, my chest twinges.

Because it’s his. Taking it feels like a thread tying me back to him, and I’ve been trying so damn hard to cut every one of those threads.

Still, guilt doesn’t pay the bills. It sure as hell doesn’t keep a baby in diapers. So I keep it tucked away, a nest egg I’ll dip into if I have to.

But not yet.

The porch steps groan under my weight as I climb them. One hand is fixed on the rail, because balance isn’t really my strong suit these days. I pause at the door and stare at the familiar chipped paint, the key already cold in my hand. For a second, I want to cry just from the relief of being home.

Tonight, the plan is simple: shoes off, sweaty clothes begone, maybe a bowl of cereal if I can make it that far without collapsing.

But then my brain does what it always does when it’s too quiet: It drags me back to him.

Petyr.

Thinking about the father of my child, even after all these months, still makes my chest ache. I hate that it does. That I still miss him so damn much.

Or maybe I just miss the version of him I thought was real. The man who could be gentle when he wanted to be. Who made me laugh when I didn’t want to and made me believe, for a hot minute, that I wasn’t just running from my past, but running toward something better.

Sometimes, late at night when it’s just me and the sound of the ocean, I wonder if I ran too quickly. If maybe, just maybe, we could’ve worked through it. If we’d actually sat down and talked like two people instead of hurling threats at each other, maybe things could have been different.

Then I remember his cold voice.

He said he’d take my baby. He said he’d throw me back to my family like garbage, just as soon as he had what he wanted.

The memory still makes my stomach turn. I can’t forget that—or worse, forgive it.

I couldn’t risk taking the chance and being wrong. Not with my child’s life on the line. One mistake, one moment of misplaced trust, and everything could’ve been over before it started.

So I ran. And even if my chest aches when I think about him, even if I still dream about the way it felt to curl against him and almost believe we were real, I know I made the only choice I could.

I saved my baby.

And I probably saved myself, too.

When I reach my front door, I stop short. That’s weird.

The handle is turned just slightly. The door rests against the frame, but isn’t latched. For a second, my brain doesn’t process it.

Then my heart stutters hard in my chest, and my stomach drops all the way to my shoes. The air feels heavier. Wrong.

Unlocked.

The door is unlocked.

I stand frozen on the porch. One hand hovers inches from the knob. The other presses instinctively against my belly.

My eyes flick to the windows and scan for signs of movement. A shadow. A curtain swaying. Anything.

Nothing stirs. The porch light buzzes above me, too loud, too steady, as if mocking how silent everything else is.

I force myself to breathe, long and slow, though my pulse is hammering in my ears. “It’s fine,” I whisper to myself. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

But my hand still won’t touch the knob.

I shake my head hard. I’m overreacting. That’s all this is. Pregnancy Brain is real, and I probably just forgot to lock it on my way out this morning. People forget things all the time.

Still, my fingers brush the knob carefully, like it might burn me. Cold metal against clammy skin. My heart won’t slow down, no matter how many times I tell myself the same thing: He’s not here. He can’t be. It’s just me.

Just us.

With a deep breath, I push the door open and step inside.

The hinges groan softly. The air feels thick, captive, like the cottage is holding its breath. I don’t flip on the light yet. I can’t bring myself to. I just stand there, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

And then I feel it. That crawling awareness along my skin. A prickle at the back of my neck.

He’s here.

I don’t know how I know, but I do. I can sense him the way you sense a storm before it breaks. My gaze sweeps the living room, corners blurred in shadow. Everything looks normal. Untouched.

But when I look again—really look—I see it.

A hulking silhouette in the corner, bigger than the shadows around it.

My throat tightens. My body reacts before my brain does, one foot already stepping back toward the door. But I don’t get the chance to move farther.

A voice cuts through the dark, deep and certain. Just one word.

“Don’t.”