Pregnant by My Father's Enemy

The night of fire

My fingers shook in my darkened room, Volkov’s note—“You touch my young blood, I wipe out your existence”—crushing my chest. The Bratva’s attack, three capos’ severed fingers, Papa’s strangling rage, choked me, my hand clutching my stomach, guarding my unborn child.

How did Volkov know about my pregnancy? The question dragged me back five months, to the night that shattered my world and chained me to him, a night I’d give anything to erase.

I curled on my velvet couch, the Romano estate a silent cage, my heart aching for Matteo. He’d been in Naples for weeks, his calls clipped, his warmth fading like a dying flame. My fingers trembled over my phone, dialing, my breath catching in my throat.

“Emilia,” Matteo answered, his voice low, breathy, like he’d been running. “It’s late. What’s up?”

“I miss you,” I said, voice soft, sinking deeper into the couch. “I just… need to hear your voice. When are you back?”

“Soon, amore,” he said, but his tone was off, strained, distant. “Busy here. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, heart clenching, a knot tightening in my gut. “Are you okay? You sound… out of breath.”

“Fine,” he snapped, too fast, irritation sharp. Just… training. Long day, Emilia.”

I swallowed, unease creeping like ice in my veins. “Okay. I love you, Matteo. I can’t wait—”

A moan cut through, sultry, sharp—a woman’s voice, followed by a giggle, low and teasing. I froze, my phone slipping to the bed, my heart slamming against my ribs. I grabbed it, voice quaking. “Matteo? What the hell was that?”

“Nothing,” he barked, his voice hardening, defensive. “TV. Chill, Emilia, Jesus.”

“TV?” My voice rose, trembling with rage. “That was a woman! Who’s with you, Matteo?”

“No one!” he shouted, but another moan—“Oh, baby…”—sliced through, her laugh mocking, cruel. My blood turned to ice, hands clenching into fists, nails biting my palms.

“You’re lying!” I screamed, tears burning my eyes. “You’re with someone! How could you do this?”

“Emilia, stop!” Matteo’s voice was sharp, the woman’s laugh louder, taunting. “It’s nothing, okay? I needed release. You weren’t here, so what?"

“Release?” My voice broke, heart shattering like glass. “I’m your fiancée! You swore you loved me, Matteo!”

“I do!” he yelled, but it was empty, hollow. “It’s just physical, Emilia. It doesn’t mean sh*it.”

“It means everything!” I sobbed, hurling the phone, its crash against the wall echoing my pain. I collapsed, tears streaming, chest heaving, Matteo’s betrayal gutting me, unraveling my duty as a Romano. I was done, my heart in pieces.

My phone buzzed, Ariana's name flashing. I answered, voice raw, choking on sobs. “Sof, he… he cheated.”

“That f*cking bastard!” Ariana's voice was pure venom, fierce and loyal. I’m coming over, Em. We’re going out. No crying over that scum, you hear me?”

“I can’t—” I started, voice shaking, but Ariana cut me off, her tone a whip.

“You will. Get dressed. Club. Now. Screw Matteo, he’s nothing.”

“Ariana, I'm a mess,” I whispered, wiping tears, my hands trembling. “I can’t face people.”

“You’re a Romano,” she snapped, her voice fierce. “You don’t hide. You make him regret it. I’ll be there in ten. Black dress, Em, show him what he lost.”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see, dragging myself up, resolve hardening. “Okay. I’m in.”

The club throbbed with bass, neon lights flashing, bodies writhing under strobes. I leaned against the bar, my black dress hugging my curves, face flushed with tequila and rage, the liquor burning my throat. Ariana, fierce in red, shoved another shot into my hand, her eyes blazing. “Drink, Em. Burn his memory out, every last piece.”

I slammed it back, the burn feeding my fury, my head buzzing. “He said it was nothing, Ari. Nothing! After everything we’ve been through!”

“He’s trash,” Sofia snapped, slamming her own shot, eyes scanning the crowd. “You’re Emilia Romano, Em. Make him choke on his mistake.”

“You’re right,” I said, voice hard, another shot down, my anger a live wire. “He doesn’t get to break me. Not tonight.”

Ariana grinned fiercely. “That’s my girl. Let’s own this place.”

My gaze drifted, rage crackling, when a chill hit my spine.

Across the VIP section, a man stared, tall, muscled, in a tailored black suit, his ice-blue eyes locked on me, cold and predatory. His chiseled face was familiar, but my tequila-fogged mind couldn’t place him. My breath caught, body flushing, a mix of fear and heat I hated myself for feeling.

“Who’s that?” I whispered, nudging Ariana, her voice unsteady, my heart racing.

Ariana glanced, whistling low. “Viktor Volkov. Guy owns the room, Em. I mean, look at him…power in every step.”

He did. Men avoided his gaze, women stared, but he ignored them, his eyes pinning mine, gleaming with recognition, as if he’d been hunting me. My heart pounded, thrill battling fear. I knew him—from a photo in Papa’s study, a Bratva threat—but Matteo’s moans drowned the warning, pulling me toward danger.

“Em, he’s moving,” Ariana hissed, gripping my arm, whispering, “He’s dangerous, Em. You don’t want his attention.”

“I’m sure,” I lied, voice trembling, shaking her off as he approached, his stride deliberate, every step a claim. He stopped close, his scent—leather, smoke—overwhelming, towering over me, his presence a storm.

“You don’t belong here, krasavitsa,” he said, his voice low, Russian-accented, cold as steel, sending shivers through me. “A woman like you is wasted on this filth.”

My chin lifted, defiance sparking despite my trembling hands. “And who are you to say where I belong?”

His smirk was icy, eyes raking me, stripping me bare. “Viktor,” he said, no last name, gaze unrelenting. “And you’re Emilia Romano. I know your kind.”

My breath hitched, fear spiking. How did he know my name? But Matteo’s moans roared in my mind, pushing me to recklessness. “You don’t know me,” I snapped, voice sharp. “And I’m not here for you.”

“Yet here I am,” he said, stepping closer, his heat searing me. “Dance with me.” His hand grazed my wrist, firm, possessive, a jolt shooting through my body.

“No,” I said, my voice faltering, my body drawn to his command. Sofia’s warning burned, but my fury screamed louder.

“One dance,” Viktor growled, pulling me to the dance floor, the crowd parting for him like water. I followed, heart pounding, skin flushed, my mind screaming to run but my feet moving anyway.

The music slowed, sultry, his hands gripping my waist, yanking me against his hard frame, eyes locked on mine. “You’re angry,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear, his voice cold but electrifying. I can taste it. Let it go, krasavitsa.”

“Don’t call me that,” I hissed, clutching his shoulders, moving with him, our bodies pressed tight, heat igniting against my will. “You don’t know my pain.”

“I know your betrayal,” he said, grip tightening, hips guiding mine, his touch a claim. “Your man’s a fool. I’d chain you to me.”

My breath caught, Matteo’s betrayal fueling my recklessness. “You don’t know him,” I said, voice trembling, his lips grazing my neck, sparking a fire I hated.

“I don’t need to,” he growled, hand sliding lower, possessive, voice ice. “You’re mine tonight.” His teeth nipped my earlobe, a shiver rocking me.

“Stop,” I gasped, my body betraying me, pressing closer, hands roaming his chest, feeling his power. “This is wrong.”

“Is it?” His hand cupped my jaw, forcing my gaze to his, eyes ruthless. “You want me. Say it.”

“No,” I lied, voice shaking, body arching, lips parting, craving him. His smirk was cold, victorious, as he leaned in, breathing hot.

“Liar,” he snarled, lips crashing into mine, rough, devouring, stealing my breath. I moaned into his mouth, fisting his shirt, kissing him back with desperate fury, my anger at Matteo pouring into him. His tongue claimed mine, hands gripping my hips, pulling me tight, his arousal hard against my thighs.

The club vanished, music a pulse, as Viktor broke the kiss, voice a growl. “Come with me.” He dragged me through the crowd, up a private staircase, to a shadowed room of leather and steel, slamming the door.

“Viktor, wait—” My voice trembled, but he pinned me against the wall, his body caging mine, eyes burning with cold hunger.

“No waiting,” he said, his voice raw, ruthless. You want to forget him? I’ll f*cking erase him.” His hand tore at my dress, ripping the strap, exposing my skin, his lips on my throat, biting hard, drawing a gasp. His fingers dug into my thighs, lifting me, my legs wrapping around him, the friction sparking heat.

I had a feeling he meant every word.

“This is crazy,” I panted, pushing his chest, but my body arched, needing him, shame and desire warring. “I don’t know you.”

“You know this,” he growled, hand sliding between my thighs, rough, teasing, finding my wetness, a dark chuckle escaping. “You’re soaked for me, krasavitsa.” His lips claimed mine again, brutal, his fingers relentless, pushing me toward the edge.

“Viktor!” I cried, clawing his back, nails digging, trembling under his assault. “Please—”

“Beg,” he snarled, voice cold, eyes locked on mine, his touch unyielding, driving me wild. “Say you’re mine.”

“No,” I gasped, hips rocking against him, betraying me, my moans filling the room. His laugh was dark, tearing my dress further, baring me to him, lips on my chest, sucking, biting, marking me as his.

“You’re mine,” he growled, shoving me onto a leather couch, his body over mine, suit jacket gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing hard muscle. He yanked my legs apart, fingers rough, relentless, pushing me higher, my cries echoing. “Say it, Emilia.”

“F*ck you viktor” I sobbed, pulling him closer, body arching, desperate, as he stripped me bare, his touch raw, possessive. “Just… do it.”

He didn’t hesitate, belt clinking, his body claiming mine in one brutal thrust, a snarl escaping him. I screamed, nails raking his back, pain and pleasure shattering me. He moved hard, fast, each thrust a punishment, a possession, his eyes cold, ruthless, never leaving mine. “You feel that?” he growled, hand gripping my throat, not choking, but possessive. “No one else does this to you.”

“Viktor!” I cried, trembling, sweat slicking my skin, my world narrowing to him—his heat, his power, his dominance.

He drove me higher, relentless, my moans desperate, body clenching, shattering around him in a wave of raw release. He didn’t stop, thrust harder, drawing out my cries, his own release, a low growl, his grip bruising.

When it was over, Viktor pulled back, his face a cold mask, adjusting his shirt like nothing had happened. “Go home, krasavitsa,” he said, voice flat, ruthless. “This was nothing.”

I lay there, trembling, dressed in tatters, body aching, shame flooding me like a tidal wave. I’d wanted to erase Matteo, but I’d given myself to a monster, his power searing my soul. I stood, shaky, clutching my dress, and fled, his icy gaze burning my back.

The memory faded, Volkov’s note in my hand, his threat real, my room dark, breath ragged. That night with Volkov was my rebellion, my ruin, and now my child was his, a secret sparking war. My hand clutched my stomach, my voice a raw whisper. “I’ll protect you.”

Tears fell, my resolve hardening. I’d face Volkov, fight for my child, no matter the cost, even if it meant burning everything down.