Page 8 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
“It never is,” Dominik replies.
He places a hand lightly at the small of my back, guiding me toward the car, and the contact is brief, a signal meant for the room that this matter is closed. As we move, my expression doesn’t change. My pulse pounds in my ears, loud and insistent, because defiance has a cost, and I have no idea how they’ll choose to collect.
We’re halfway to the vehicle when the sound hits, hard and unmistakable. Gunfire cracks through the air, close enough that I feel it in my chest before I hear it fully.
Dominik reacts instantly, his grip tightening as he shoves me toward the open door, his body between me and the street as engines roar to life around us.
“Get down,” he orders, and I don’t hesitate.
I duck into the back seat of a waiting car as glass shatters somewhere behind us and men shout. Engines rev hard. One car jerks sideways to block the lane while another jumps the curb, doors slamming as they peel off in different directions.
Dominik slams the door, rounds the hood in a blur of movement, shots ringing out behind him. He yanks the driver’s door open, shoves the man sideways with a grunt of surprise, and takes the wheel, all in one motion. The wheels spin once, then catch with a vicious screech, flinging us into the street as the engine snarls.
The world outside blurs as we tear down the street, tires squealing, another vehicle locking on behind us with intent that needs no translation.
I brace myself against the seat, heart pounding, and I meet Dominik’s eyes in the rearview mirror for a split second. This isn’t random. This is an answer. They aren’t going to let me go quietly.
3
DOMINIK
When gunfire breaks out at the chapel, I don’t waste time thinking. I grab Ana and wrench open the door of the first waiting car.
“What the—” the driver doesn’t finish before I shove Ana into the back seat, elbow him aside, and take the wheel. Hesitation gets people killed, and this situation is already past forgiving.
People scatter out of our way as the car lurches forward, guards shouting and calling for reinforcements while someone stumbles clear at the last second. A figure breaks from the chapel steps with a gun raised, dressed like the rest of them in black, his face hidden behind dark lenses, and there’s no time to tell who he belongs to.
The tires scream as I wrench us left, then right, forcing the car through a lane that barely fits, the impact throwing Ana hard against the rear door.
I twist at the waist without lifting my foot from the gas and reach back, bracing my forearm across her chest as I haul her down. Gunfire cracks again, closer.
The rear window explodes inward, glass spraying across the back seat in sharp bursts. Ana swears once and yanks the seatbelt across her body, locking it hard as she pulls it tight before curling inward, forearms over her head.
Good. I angle the car to give her the door instead of the glass and take the next turn too fast. The driver yells something useless.
I don’t answer him. I don’t need him anymore.
“Get out,” I snap. “Now.”
He hesitates for half a second too long, so I repeat it louder, and that does it. He jerks the door open as I slow just enough, then he’s gone, disappearing into the alley with the kind of speed that comes from knowing better than to argue.
I fix my attention on the exit route, settle fully into the wheel, and punch the gas. The engine roars as we tear down a side street slick with rain and grime. I know this part of the city, which spills into traffic thick enough to lose a tail. Ana is breathing hard behind me. I don’t look at her yet.
A black Mercedes-Benz swings in behind us, clean, confident. The rules are clear. No sirens, so not the police. No hesitation, so not freelance. It closes the distance without weaving, without testing us, the driver holding the wheels steady.
I take a corner hard enough that my shoulder slams into the door, then cut through a service lane and onto a main road without signaling. Horns blare. People shout. No one follows us through the chaos except the car behind us.
My phone buzzes in the console. I don’t answer it. It buzzes again. I flick on the radio instead, tuning to a private channel I use to stay ahead, not catching up. Voices bleed through, clippedand tense, layered over each other with coded threats and false politeness.
“She flew away.It’s a shame.”
“Then you failed.”
“It’s not all my fault.”
“The council hasn’t placed her yet.”
“That’s the problem.”
