Pregnant by My Father's Enemy

Into the wolf's den

“Move,” a guard snapped, his accent thick, shoving me toward towering steel doors, his hand rough on my back.

My pulse thundered as the Bratva SUV screeched into Viktor Volkov’s Moscow compound, a fortress swallowing the morning light, cold and unyielding.

My hand pressed my stomach, my unborn child my only anchor, as I braced for my mission: marry Volkov, infiltrate his Bratva, destroy him in a year, or my family would bleed. My coat pocket hid tiny listening bugs, my only edge, but fear gnawed at my bones, my heart racing. I stepped onto the frozen ground, heels sharp, the wind biting my face.

The marriage contract was signed, no ceremony, just a chain around my neck.

“Back off,” I hissed, voice steady despite my trembling fingers, glaring until the guard retreated, his eyes narrowing.

A voice—cold, commanding, lethal—cut the air. “Touch her again, and I’ll send you back in pieces.”

My breath hitched, eyes snapping to Volkov, framed in the doorway, his tailored black suit tight on his muscled frame, ice-blue eyes pinning me like prey. His chiseled face was stone, but his presence was a storm, every guard tensing in his shadow. My skin flushed, a traitor to my burning hatred, his gaze reigniting a spark I loathed with every fiber of my being.

“Volkov,” I said, venom in my voice, chin high, hands clenched. “Your cage is as charming as you are.”

He closed the distance, his scent—leather, smoke—hitting me hard, voice a low growl. “Watch your tongue, Emilia. This is my domain. You’re a pawn, not a player.”

“I’m here because you forced me,” I shot back, fists clenched, stepping into his space, defiance blazing. “Don’t expect me to grovel at your feet.”

“I expect obedience.” His fingers grazed my arm, firm, electric, sending a jolt through me that I hated. “Defy me, and your family bleeds.”

I yanked free, hissing, “Lay a hand on me again, and I’ll make you regret it.”

Volkov’s laugh was dark, his body looming, the air crackling with tension. “I like your claws, krasavitsa. Let’s see if they cut.” He barked, “Inside, now.”

I followed, heart pounding, guards at my back, into a grand hall of black marble and iron chandeliers, menace and luxury bleeding together. My mind raced—plant the bugs, uncover his secrets, survive. Every second was a gamble, my family’s lives hanging by a thread.

Volkov led me into his study, walls lined with maps and knives, a massive desk strewn with files. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing to a leather chair, his voice a whip.

“I’ll stand,” I spat, crossing my arms, scanning for a bug’s hiding spot, my pulse hammering like a drum.

“Sit,” he growled, stepping close, his breath hot, eyes locking onto mine. “Or I make you.”

I narrowed my eyes but sank into the chair, slipping a bug under the armrest, my fingers swift, heart in my throat. “Happy now, tyrant?” I taunted, voice sharp, defiance masking my fear.

He leaned on the desk, arms crossed, his gaze stripping me bare, intense and unyielding. “You’re here, but not safe. My daughter, Anya, six years old, lives in this compound. You don’t go near her. Ever.”

My eyes narrowed, catching the steel in his tone, his hand twitching, betraying a father’s fear—a weakness I could use.

“Your daughter? Afraid I’ll expose what a monster you are?”

Volkov’s jaw clenched, his voice a snarl, eyes blazing.

“Anya’s untouchable. You cross that line, and I’ll bury you, Emilia.” His hand twitched again, betraying more than he meant.

I flinched but held his gaze, voice low, venomous. “You’re no father. You’re a killer. I’ll outlast you, Volkov.”

His eyes flickered—lust, rage?—his voice dropping, dangerous. “Keep dreaming, krasavitsa. You feel this.” His fingers brushed my wrist, deliberately, sparking a fire I despised. “You can’t fight it.”

I slapped his hand away, his face burning, his voice shaking with rage. “I feel nothing but hate for you. You’ll pay for dragging me here.”

He straightened, smirked coldly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Prove it. Dinner is at eight. Don’t test me.” He stormed out, the door slamming, leaving me trembling, my body traitorously alive from his touch, a betrayal I’d never forgive myself for.

I’d bring him down, no matter the cost, his empire in ashes. I exhaled, slipping another bug under the desk’s edge, fingers quick, heart racing.

The meeting room was next, but the compound was a labyrinth, guards everywhere, their eyes like hawks. I slipped into the hall, heels muffled, dodging patrols, my breath shallow, every step a risk. One wrong move, and I was dead.

A soft gasp stopped me, my eyes darting to a shadowed alcove. A six-year-old girl stood there, blonde hair tangled, green eyes wide with fear, clutching a worn sketchbook, her face pale, haunted, her posture rigid like a cornered animal. Volkov’s warning rang—stay away from Anya—but my heart ached, seeing her pain.

“Who are you?” her tiny voice demanded, sharp but trembling, stepping back, sketchbook a shield against me.

My heart sank, her grief palpable, screaming loss. “I’m… Emilia,” I said softly, hands raised, voice gentle, my pregnancy making me ache for her. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you Anya?”

Anya’s eyes narrowed, her voice cold, cutting. “I don’t want to know who you are. Leave me alone.”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said, voice low, desperate to reach her. “I just… got lost, that’s all.”

“Lost?” Anya scoffed, clutching her sketchbook tighter, her voice bitter, too old for her years.

“You’re his new wife, aren’t you? I heard the guards. Stay away from me.” She backed away, eyes flashing with anger. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

My heart twisted, seeing the wall she’d built, forged by loss—her twin, Katya, gone, killed by my family’s revenge for Mama. “I understand,” I said, my voice soft, tears pricking. “I’ve lost people too. I’m not your enemy, Anya.”

Anya’s lips trembled, but her voice was ice, shutting me out. “You’re nothing to me. I need to go now.” She darted down the hall, her footsteps fading, leaving me shaken, guilt heavy in my chest.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, whispering, “She’s hurting.” Anya’s pain mirrored mine, but Volkov’s warning loomed like a blade. I couldn’t push her, not yet, not without risking everything. I moved on, heart heavy, slipping deeper into the compound, the need to plant the final bug driving me forward.

Voices—gruff, urgent—halted me near a steel door, cracked open just enough to hear. I pressed against the wall, breath hitching, straining to listen, my heart pounding. A man, voice like gravel, spoke, his words chilling. “Vincenzo’s open, Dimitri. We hit him now, he’s done. The mole’s got his next meeting pinned.”

My blood ran cold, hand gripping the wall, nails digging in. A mole? In Papa’s mafia? My mind reeled—Luca? Matteo? No, it couldn’t be. The mole must’ve leaked my pregnancy to Volkov, betraying us all. Another voice, colder, replied, sharp as a blade.

“Volkov wants it clean,” Dimitri said, voice sharp, no mercy.

“One shot to the don, and the Romanos folded. Emilia’s just a toy, nothing more.”

“Next week, then,” the first man said, a dark chuckle escaping. “The mole’s handing us everything, just like we expected.”

My legs shook, rage and fear colliding, my breath coming in gasps. They were plotting to kill Papa, and a traitor in my family was feeding them, selling us out.

I had to warn him, but exposing myself could end my mission—and my child’s life. My fingers slipped a final bug near the door’s hinge, hands trembling, and I backed away, heart pounding, as boots echoed closer, heavy and deliberate.

I dove into an alcove, breath held, a guard’s flashlight sweeping past, inches from my face. My mind screamed—get a message out, save Papa—but Volkov’s control, Anya’s pain, the traitor’s shadow, caged me. One year to destroy him, and now this betrayal.

My hand pressed my stomach, voice a fierce whisper. “I’ll stop them. I swear.” But the guard’s steps paused, his radio crackling, and my heart stopped cold—had he seen me?