Chapter 15 – Drew
Gunfire shattered the silence of the docks like glass exploding in slow motion.
I ducked behind a shipping container, the cold metal biting into my shoulder as bullets pinged off steel around me. My Glock was steady in my hand, but my heart was pounding like a war drum in my chest.
“Stay down!” I shouted to the three Bratva men crouched behind crates to my left.
They returned fire, muzzle flashes lighting up the night like lightning strikes. The arms deal had turned into chaos in under thirty seconds—one moment we were watching the cargo offload, the next we were drowning in bullets and blood.
This wasn’t random. It couldn’t be.
Whoever sold us out knew the exact minute the cargo would arrive. Knew the route. Knew the security rotation down to the last man and the last second.
I fired twice, dropped one of the attackers, then pressed my back against the container and reloaded. My mind was already racing, already calculating, already looping through every possibility.
And every loop landed on one person.
Cassandra.
No. Fuck no.
I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second, forced the thought away. It couldn’t be her. She wouldn’t. She was scared, yes. Hiding things, absolutely. But this?
This was betrayal on a level that would get her killed.
That would get me killed for not seeing it sooner.
“Drew!” One of the men—Cassiel—shouted my name. “They’re flanking left!”
I snapped back into focus, swung around the container, and put three rounds into the chest of a man trying to circle us. He dropped like a stone.
More gunfire. More shouting. The smell of gunpowder and saltwater thick in the air.
I moved fast, calculated every angle, every shot. Covered Cassiel as he dragged Boris—who’d taken one in the shoulder—behind better cover. Kept Alexei from doing something stupid and heroic that would’ve gotten him killed.
By the time the dust settled, we’d lost the container.
But all three Bratva men were alive.
That was something. Not enough. But something.
I stood there in the wreckage, breathing hard, my Glock still raised, scanning for movement. Bodies littered the dock—none of them ours. Whoever had orchestrated this had pulled back the moment they realized they weren’t going to win.
They’d gotten what they came for. The cargo. The shipment Rafael had been banking on.
And someone had handed it to them on a silver fucking platter.
Viktor limped over, blood streaming from a gash on his temple. “What the hell was that?”
“A setup,” I said flatly.
“By who?”
I didn’t answer. Because if I said her name out loud, it would make it real. And I wasn’t ready for that.
Not yet.
“Get Lev to the hospital,” I ordered. “Tell Rafael what happened. I’ll handle the rest.”
Viktor frowned. “You’re not coming?”
“No.” I holstered my Glock, my jaw tight. “I’ve got something I need to take care of.”
He didn’t argue. Smart man.
I climbed into my car, slammed the door, and drove. Didn’t call Rafael. Didn’t call Kirill or Damir. Didn’t tell anyone about the ambush, about the missing cargo, about the clusterfuck that had just gone down.
Because I needed to know first.
Needed to look her in the eye and see the truth.
My hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, my jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack. Anger burned in my chest like gasoline waiting for a match.
If it was her—if she’d sold us out—I didn’t know what I’d do.
Kill her, maybe. The way I was supposed to. The way Bratva demanded.
Or maybe I’d just break. Shatter into a thousand pieces because I’d let myself care about someone who was always going to destroy me.
I pulled into my building, took the stairs two at a time, and shoved through my door with enough force to make it bang against the wall.
“Cassandra!” My voice came out raw, furious, barely controlled.
She was sitting in the living room, curled up on the edge of the couch like she was trying to make herself smaller. Invisible.
Her face was pale—too pale. Her hands were trembling in her lap.
She looked up when I said her name, her lips parting like she was about to say something. But the words died halfway out, strangled before they could form.
And then her eyes rolled back.
She crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, boneless and terrifying.
“Cassandra!”
I dropped everything—the anger, the fury, the accusations burning on my tongue—and lunged forward, catching her mid-fall. Her body was limp in my arms, her skin burning like she was on fire from the inside out.
Her breathing was shallow. Too shallow.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I scooped her up, her head lolling against my chest, and grabbed my keys with one hand. Didn’t bother locking the door. Didn’t bother thinking. Just moved.
I drove like hell, weaving through traffic, running red lights, my pulse hammering so loud I could barely hear anything else. She didn’t wake up. Didn’t move. Just lay there against the passenger seat, fragile and terrifyingly still.
“Stay with me,” I muttered, glancing at her every few seconds. “Come on, kitten. Stay with me.”
I screeched into the Bratva hospital lot, barely putting the car in park before I was out and carrying her through the doors.
“I need a doctor!” I shouted. “Now!”
A nurse appeared instantly, took one look at Cassandra’s unconscious form, and motioned for a gurney. I laid her down carefully, my hands shaking now, and watched as they wheeled her away.
“Sir, you need to stay here,” the nurse said, trying to guide me toward the waiting area.
“Like hell I do.”
But she was already gone, disappearing behind swinging doors that I wasn’t allowed to follow through.
I stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, feeling like I was being torn apart from the inside.
Minutes crawled by. Or maybe hours. I couldn’t tell.
I paced. Sat. Stood. Paced again. My mind wouldn’t shut off, wouldn’t stop replaying the dock, her face, the way she’d collapsed like her body had just given up.
Finally, the doors opened.
A doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand, expression neutral. “Mr. Kamarov?”
I crossed the distance in two strides. “Is she okay?”
“She’s stable now.” The doctor nodded. “Severe dehydration, stress-induced exhaustion, and a high fever. We’ve got her on fluids and antibiotics.”
Relief crashed over me like a wave. “Can I see her?”
“In a moment.” The doctor hesitated, glanced at his clipboard, then back at me. “There’s something else you should know.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“Ms. Miller is pregnant. Roughly eight weeks.”
The world stopped.
Everything—sound, movement, thought—just stopped.
“What?” My voice came out strangled, barely audible.
“Eight weeks,” the doctor repeated, clearly assuming I was the father. “The pregnancy is stable, but given her current condition, she’ll need to take it easy. No stress. Proper nutrition. Rest.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
Eight weeks.
Eight weeks ago, we’d kissed in my office. Scratched the itch in my bed. Told ourselves it meant nothing.
But this wasn’t nothing.
This was a baby.
My baby.
I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat, my mind spinning out of control. “She doesn’t know?”
The doctor frowned. “I haven’t told her yet. I wanted to inform you first, given the circumstances.”
I nodded numbly. “I’ll…I’ll tell her.”
“Good.” The doctor handed me a pamphlet about prenatal care, like I was supposed to know what the fuck to do with it. “She’s in room twelve. Try not to overwhelm her.”
He walked away, and I stood there like an idiot, staring at the pamphlet in my hand.
Cassandra was pregnant.
With my child.
A baby that shouldn’t exist. That we’d never planned for. That complicated everything in ways I couldn’t even begin to process.
I ran a hand down my face and cursed in Russian. “Yebat’. Chert voz’mi. Blyad’.”
Fuck. Goddammit. Shit.
Cassandra and a baby. My baby.
We’d never talked about feelings. Never discussed the tension that crackled between us like a live wire. Never acknowledged that what we had was more than just scratching an itch.
And now there was a baby.
I walked to room twelve on autopilot, my legs moving without my brain’s permission. Pushed open the door quietly.
She was lying in a hospital bed, eyes closed, with an IV in her arm. Her face was still pale, but her breathing was steady now. Normal.
I pulled a chair up next to her bed and sat down, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands.
What the hell was I supposed to do?
She might’ve betrayed us. Might’ve sold us out to whoever orchestrated that ambush. Might be the reason three good men almost died tonight.
But she was also carrying my child.
And I didn’t know which truth to hold onto.
Didn’t know if I could kill her if it came to that.
Didn’t know if I could protect her if Rafael found out what she’d done.
Her eyes fluttered open, slow and disoriented. She blinked a few times, her gaze landing on me.
“Drew?” Her voice was hoarse, broken.
“Hey.” I forced myself to sound calm. Normal. Even though I felt like I was drowning. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.” She tried to sit up, winced, and fell back against the pillows. “What happened?”
“You passed out. I brought you to the hospital.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Because you collapsed on my living room floor, kitten. Scared the shit out of me.”
She looked away, her jaw tightening. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” I leaned back in the chair, studying her. “The doctor said you’re dehydrated. Exhausted. Running a fever.”
“I’ve been sick. You know that.”
“Yeah.” I paused, weighing my next words carefully. “There’s something else.”
Her eyes snapped to mine, wary. “What?”
I held her gaze, my heart pounding. “You’re pregnant, Cassandra.”
The color drained from her face. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
“Eight weeks,” I continued, my voice steady even though I felt like I was falling. “The doctor confirmed it.”
She stared at me like I’d just told her the world was ending.
Maybe I had.
“That’s not….” She shook her head, her hands clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. “That’s not possible.”
Her eyes filled with something I couldn’t name—fear, maybe. Or regret. Or both.
She looked at me, tears pooling in her eyes, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know what she was apologizing for.
The pregnancy. The ambush.
All of it.
“Get some rest,” I said, standing up. “We’ll talk later.”
I walked out before she could respond, before I did something stupid like forgive her without knowing the truth.