Chapter 30
Nadia
Mildew. The sour stench of cheap Ben whiskey. And that nauseating rust smell from my wounds.
The darkness wrapped around me like an airtight body bag, suffocating me in this cramped bedroom.
My hands were tied behind my back with coarse industrial nylon rope, the cord cutting deep into the gashes left by the blast-proof glass.
Every breath pulled at the torn muscles in my back, yanking at the lacerations on my wrists—pain so sharp I wanted to bash my head against the wall.
My brain was mush from blood loss and too many sleeping pills. But then, without warning, a wave of nausea came roaring up from the pit of my stomach.
"Urgh—"
I curled into a ball like a shrimp on the moldy mattress, heaving violently. My stomach was empty—I could only retch up a few mouthfuls of bitter, burning bile.
I gasped for air, cold sweat dripping from my temples into the sheets. In the extreme dizziness, a thought hit me like a lightning bolt, splitting open my foggy brain.
My period... Christ, how late was it?
Memories of the Bahamas flooded back like a tide. The salty Caribbean breeze, rum on ice, and on that California king bed, Roman mounting me like an insatiable beast, over and over again.
No condoms. No protection whatsoever. Because on those nights ruled by dopamine and adrenaline, I'd thought—desperately, insanely—that if I could carry this man's child, if I could give birth to an heir with those cold brown eyes, maybe he'd be mine forever.
My whole body trembled. My fingers curled tight.
Inside me... a life was growing.
A child with the Bratva Pakhan's blood.
My heart hammered out of control in my chest.
Should I keep it? The instant that thought crossed my mind, a suffocating pain seized me.
This was a cub with Roman Sokolov's blood.
That man had betrayed me with the cruelest silence, thrown me into a bottomless pit.
Why the hell should I carry his child? Let this innocent life suffer the same fate—being discarded like trash, betrayed?
Logic screamed at me to let go, but I curled up even tighter.
No... this wasn't Roman's appendage. This was my blood.
I'd never truly had a "family" in my life. Those vampire parents outside treated me like a cash cow with a price tag. Roman treated me like a disposable human shield. I'd been a beggar my whole life, scrounging for scraps of affection from others' leftovers, always ending up torn to pieces.
But this child was different. In this fucked-up world, he was the only family that truly belonged to me, a life connected to mine by blood. I could give him the love I never received. Together we could build a real sanctuary, a home without lies or exploitation.
Yes, for him.
Even for this life that hadn't seen a glimmer of light yet, I absolutely could not die in this moldy hellhole! I absolutely could not let those dark web traffickers touch a single hair on our heads!
A fierce, unprecedented maternal instinct and will to survive burned through all my weakness and despair like wildfire.
The lock turned, piercing the darkness.
Harsh hallway light spilled in. Eleanor and Richard entered one after the other. Eleanor held a chipped mug, eyeing me like a butcher sizing up meat for the scales.
"Stop playing dead, bitch. Get up and drink some water." Eleanor kicked the bed frame with her toe. "We leave for the exchange at two this afternoon. If you dehydrate and die before they inspect the merchandise, I swear to God I'll skin you alive."
The moment she got close, stomach acid surged up again uncontrollably. I whipped my head toward the edge of the bed and heaved violently.
Yellow-green acidic water mixed with bloody streaks from my throat splattered near Eleanor's feet.
Eleanor jumped back like she'd been electrocuted, eyes bulging.
"Richard..." Eleanor's face went ghost white, her voice shaking. She whirled around, staring hard at my stomach. "Look at her... Oh God, is this little slut pregnant?"
Richard's expression turned ugly instantly. He stormed over, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and forced my head back.
"Knocked up with that Russian mob boss's spawn?
" Eleanor paced frantically in the cramped room like a cat on a hot tin roof.
"Fuck! We're screwed! Those dark web VIP clients with special tastes want clean goods!
What if they find out she's got a bastard in her belly, think it's bad luck, and refuse delivery?
If that one million and two hundred grand goes down the drain, those Irish loan sharks will chop Leon into pieces tomorrow! "
Hearing her words, my heart leapt into my throat. My hands clenched tight behind my back, nails digging into my wounds again. I forced myself to keep my head down, disheveled hair hiding the alertness in my eyes.
If these desperate lowlifes discovered I was actually pregnant, to ensure that one million and two hundred grand deal went through, they'd absolutely use a coat hanger or abortion pills to force a miscarriage!
Every muscle in my body tensed instantly, ready to bite out their throats if I had to.
But Richard stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly released my hair like I was garbage and let out a harsh, mocking laugh.
"Eleanor, has your brain turned to mush?" Richard lit a cigarette, blowing smoke in my face, eyes full of contempt. "Use that walnut-sized brain of yours. Who is Roman Sokolov? The man makes Chicago tremble when he stomps his foot! You think he'd let cheap goods like her carry his heir?"
Richard's words dripped with pure venom.
"Look at her now—more ghost than human. Covered in blood, running back here like a stray dog kicked to the curb by its owner.
Not a single bodyguard in sight!" Richard sneered, ash falling on my leg.
"If Sokolov really cared about her, if he'd actually knocked her up, would he abandon her?
Dream on. This woman's been used up and thrown away.
She's puking like this because that bowl of milk we drugged her with earlier wrecked her stomach. She's just playing victim!"
This had to be the world's cruelest humiliation—degraded by my own father into worthless trash discarded by the mob.
But hearing this acid-tongued profanity, my face hidden in shadow showed not a trace of devastation. Instead, I exhaled—slowly, deeply.
A bizarre sense of relief washed over me.
Mock me. Degrade me all you want. Think of me as cheap and worthless as possible.
As long as you don't touch my belly, as long as you believe Roman wouldn't deign to let me get pregnant, my child is safe.
I deliberately played along, coughing weakly twice, burying my head lower, feigning complete numbness—like someone whose pain had been laid bare, heartbroken beyond repair—letting them mock me without restraint.
"Yeah, cheap whore, she never had what it takes to be a mob wife." Eleanor relaxed, rolling her eyes. "Fine, forget her. As long as she's breathing when we hand her over this afternoon. Richard, go check the car. The second it's time, we move!"
"Lock the door tight. No screwups." Richard shot me one cold glance and walked out.
The heavy wooden door locked from outside again.
The room plunged back into deathly silence.
I lay quietly on the moldy sheets, listening to their footsteps fade, slowly exhaling stale air, and closed my eyes.
In my mind, Roman's hard face—so tender in darkness—merged with that azure Bahamian sea.
"In our world, Kitten, never expect someone else to be your savior. Remember, the key's in your hands."
His low, raspy voice, thick with nicotine, cut through memory and exploded in my ears.
"Hold your gun. That's your guarantee."
I exhaled. Opened my eyes. Fear and anxiety miraculously calmed.
I slowly worked my bound hands behind my back. The skin on my wrists was already torn open—the blood acted as lubricant, letting me inch my fingers along the seam of my skirt toward my thigh.
Last evening, before that maid took me to the basement, though I'd felt hopeless, some beast-like instinct for danger I'd developed in the mob world made me do something.
My fingertips finally touched something cold and hard taped to my inner thigh with medical adhesive.
A small handgun.
Roman had given it to me in the Bahamas. Palm-sized, easily concealed, but lethal enough at close range to blow an adult man's skull apart.
My money-obsessed parents, their heads full of nothing but dollars, had only bothered to tie me up. Never thought to search me thoroughly.
This was the last ace Roman had left me back then. The key to deciding my own fate.
I clenched my teeth, enduring the pain of ligaments nearly tearing in my arms, using blood-soaked fingers to pick at that rough rope.
Sweat mixed with blood stung my eyes. Nails split horribly from scraping the coarse nylon, warm blood dripping onto moldy sheets.
The knot was too tight. Richard, that bastard, had used a deadlock.
I gasped for breath, every muscle pull like being flayed alive, but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. When my fingertips' flesh wore away, I used knuckle bones. When nails broke, I kept clawing with jagged edges.
That gun was inches away—cold, heavy, promising freedom.
"Faster... faster..."
In the darkness I bit down hard on my trembling lip, swallowing the bloody taste in my throat. The agony in my hands had gone nearly numb, but still, in desperate silence, like a cornered mother beast, I fought tirelessly, manically against the rope cutting into flesh and bone.
I would get it. I absolutely would.