Pregnant by the Bratva Boss (Yezhov Bratva #1)

Prologue

Los Angeles

February 2022

It rained pitchforks and hammer handles that night.

The torrent was almost blinding, blurring my surroundings. Trees danced violently, their leaves and branches masquerading as shadows with every flash of light and rumble of thunder. Above, purple lightning tore across the pitch-black skies, and below, it was hellish. With rainy gusts of wind kicking up tiny stones, sticks, and any other trash from the asphalt, I could barely see anything.

But I liked it. I liked everything—the harsh sound of the downpour battering against the roofs and ground, the blurred view of the wrought-iron gate behind me, and the slight shine of golden lampposts breaking through the deluge as they wound up the curve of the driveway, In the air hung a strong smell of rain and earth and, of course, victory.

The rain was good. With its help, I was surely going to get the biggest break in my career.

I’d already pictured it: greeting everyone on my path and smiling on my way to the sergeant’s office to officially tell him I was able to do what no one else could—gather enough evidence to tear down the kingpin of the Russian mob and his little organization.

He'd be so proud.

I’d be so proud.

And my father would’ve been so damn proud…if only he could be here to witness it.

The number of men standing guard outside, adorned with black raincoats and umbrellas, was insane. It was like the more it rained, the more need arose to secure the area.

A smile touched my lips.

They were already too late. I had infiltrated, climbed over the big fence—surprisingly not wrapped with electric barbed wires—and crawled right under their noses.

Resuming stealth mode, standing in the blind spots away from the CCTV ranges, I cinched my raincoat tighter, scrambled, and crouched close to the tall hedges leading to a lit patio behind the mansion. Moving to the back was a lot easier than I’d expected.

The pool and security lights were still on, exposing me. I pushed further back, intentionally seeping into the hedges to avoid being spotted by one of the cameras or the lights. From my angle, I had a perfect view of the interior through the screen doors.

I peered at the sky with wet lashes, and water streamed down my face. The rain wasn’t letting up anytime soon—which was a good thing but could pose some hindrance. If there was any time to do this, it was now.

I sucked in a deep breath, sniffing a bit of water into my nostrils. Then, I lunged forward, took the big leap of faith, dashed past the uncovered pool, around the soaked lounge chairs, and stopped by the screen doors.

With a deep breath and my heart in my mouth, I curled my fingers around the handle and pushed.

It moved.

I might’ve done a little dance of joy if my brain wasn’t wired differently.

Suddenly, my entrance seemed slightly suspicious. I’d easily slipped into the compound, and now, the back door was unlocked.

For a man with, undoubtedly, a long list of adversaries, I’d assumed he’d tick the cautious box. It could be one of two things: Given his age, dementia was slowly setting in, or something was fishy.

Gingerly, I stepped inside and slid the doors shut behind me, muffling the sound of pouring rain outside. I shuffled forward, didn’t bother to peel off the dripping raincoat, and, in turn, got water all over his expensive carpet.

I didn’t care. A part of me wished the rain ruined more than just the carpets. I’d told myself that a mobster like Boris Yezhov did not deserve sympathy.

The man swam in money, possessing illegally obtained wealth and influence. That was why I was here: to unravel the threads of his corruption and shatter the chains of fear he’d bound our city in. Justice had to be served, and I was more than willing to be the waitress.

The house was warm. The scent of hot bread, foreign stew, and something else I couldn’t place a finger on wafted in the air—like a tingle, a tension, a warning.

I side-stepped, walking around the big house with my back pressed tightly against the wall. My raincoat left wet trails. It probably wasn’t professional, but I felt a bit daring.

All the lights were on, and there were no maids or bodyguards in plain sight. From somewhere, a faint sound of rich orchestral music could be heard. I recognized it instantly. It was classical music, composed by an old Russian composer, Rachmaninoff, one of the best of his time.

My steps picked up, tracing and trailing until I reached the source. Rachmaninoff’s fingers on the piano were louder now, sifting through the door left ajar. And so were the angry voices of the men inside what had to be my target’s study, judging by the largely structured shelves on each corner and the center desk carved from the finest of woods.

Outside, through the window, the torrent had lessened to trickles, and the sound of their voices rose higher inside. From my angle, I saw an older man dressed in a plain white shirt and black slacks in clear view.

I pulled out my phone to start recording.

For someone inching closer to sixty, he had quite the physique. Tall and lean, with silver hair and angry blue eyes, he was yelling at someone behind the door, pointing a wrinkly finger.

“… kak ty menya predash’?”

I couldn’t make out most of it, but I understood enough to know that he’d questioned the betrayal of the person behind the door.

“Your gimmicks won’t work on me, Uncle. Vashe vremya vyshlo. ”

Your time is up.

Boris started to object, raging about his disappointment and his promise—or threat—to tell the others about what had transpired between them.

Then, the click of a trigger silenced him.

My hands flew to my mouth to clap back a scream. I sucked in shallow breaths with shaky hands, my heart now pounding in my ears.

The old man dropped to his knees, a hole between his eyes and red trickling in a long stream down his nose to his shirt. He stared lifelessly as the person behind the door stepped out into the light, in clear view.

My eyes widened at the sight of the murderer’s broad back and Jack Dawson haircut.

Black ink peeked out from the collar of his pale blue shirt, winding up his neck to the back of his ear. He had light brown hair and a black-gold coated Glock 44 with a silencer in his firm grip.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

He lifted the gun to the spot between the old man’s eyes.

The majestic notes of Rachmaninoff’s masterpiece had reached the final cadence, adding a flair as the music came to a perfect close.

And he fired. Again.

My shoulders shook as the old man’s body dropped to the ground with a dull thud , his head landing at his feet.

I stood, frozen on the spot. Unable to move or breathe, hot tears stung the back of my eyes.

His green eyes brewed with an intensity until they turned a dangerous shade of black. With his back to me, he exited the room through another door I didn’t see.

I dragged my eyes back to the man on the floor and watched the blood seep into the carpet, leaving behind more damage and evidence than a wet trail of rain.

Boris Yezhov deserved to be served justice by the hands of law—not his nephew’s.