Accidental Bratva Daddy (Bratva Blessings)

Chapter 20Natalia

20

Natalia

T he setting sun bleeds red across the Moscow sky as I pull up to the wrought iron gates of Viktor's estate. The massive gates stand open—unusual for this time of day—their ornate scrollwork casting spiderweb shadows across my windshield. A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the late summer evening. Something feels wrong.

The circular driveway stretches before me, empty of the usual fleet of luxury vehicles that marks a family gathering. No security patrol in sight. No staff bustling about. Even Viktor's prized German Shepherds, usually prowling the grounds, are conspicuously absent. The sprawling mansion looms against the crimson sky, dark and forbidding where it should be warm and inviting.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The crunch of gravel under my tires seems unnaturally loud in the eerie stillness. Memories flash unbidden—countless family dinners, holiday celebrations, the sound of laughter echoing through halls that now stand silent and dark. The contrast makes my stomach churn.

The manicured gardens that Viktor tends with such obsessive pride seem neglected, though it's only been days since I last saw them. The carefully shaped topiaries cast twisted shadows in the dying light, their familiar forms transformed into grotesque figures that seem to reach for my car with gnarled branches.

A flutter of movement from one of the darkened upstairs windows catches my eye, but when I look again, there's nothing there. Just blackness where warm light should be spilling out. My heart pounds against my ribs as instinct screams at me to leave.

With trembling fingers, I retrieve my phone from my purse, Viktor's contact photo smiling up at me from the screen—a snapshot from happier times. The call goes straight to voicemail, his familiar warm greeting now carrying an undertone that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"Hello, you've reached Viktor Orlov. Leave a message and I'll call you back soon, Detka."

Detka. His pet name for me since childhood. Why does it sound so wrong now?

I end the call without leaving a message, my teeth worrying my lower lip. Almost unconsciously, my fingers find Luka's contact. My protector. My rock. Just the sight of his name makes me feel safer. One call and he'd be here, his strong presence driving away this nameless dread that's settled over me.

The twins move in my womb, as if sensing my unease. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to calm them—and myself. "It's okay," I whisper. "Everything's fine. This is Uncle Viktor's house. We're safe here."

But the words ring hollow, even to my own ears.

My finger hovers over the call button. Pride wars with instinct—do I admit I need Luka's help for a simple family dinner? What happened to proving I can handle things on my own? Decisively, I hit the call button, listening to my phone ring once, then twice.

Before it can connect, movement catches my eye. A figure materializes from the lengthening shadows beside my car—Anton, Viktor's assistant. But like everything else about this evening, something's wrong. His usually immaculate appearance is disheveled, tie askew, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cooling air. The smile he gives me as he approaches my window is more grimace than greeting, his eyes cold and calculating where they've always been warm and deferential.

"Mrs. Volkova," he says smoothly, though there's an edge to his voice I've never heard before. "Viktor's relocated everyone to his private resort outside of Moscow. The one in Zavidovo."

My stomach drops at his words. Every cell in my body screams danger. "Zavidovo?" The exclusive resort town is nearly an hour away through dense forest. Viktor hadn't mentioned anything about changing locations. "I can drive myself. I'll meet you there."

I try to keep my voice steady, casual, but fear makes it tremble. Anton's polite facade cracks for just a moment, revealing something dark and predatory beneath. His next words drop all pretense of civility.

"No," he says firmly, voice hard as steel. "You're coming with me. The boss's orders."

Before I can react, before I can scream or fight or finish the call to Luka, his hand shoots through my half-open window like a striking snake. My phone is torn from my grip. The crack of it hitting the pavement seems to echo in the unnatural silence, the screen shattering like my last hope of escape.

"The boss?" The words catch in my throat as realization dawns. In all the years I've known him, Anton has never referred to Viktor that way. Has never dropped his careful, respectful demeanor. Has never shown this streak of casual cruelty.

His hand clamps around my arm with bruising force, yanking me from the car. I struggle, but pregnancy has made me slower, more vulnerable. He drags me toward a black limousine I hadn't noticed before, its tinted windows revealing nothing of what, or who, waits inside.

The back door swings open with a soft click that seems to seal my fate.

My heart stutters to a stop as I see who sits within, bathed in the blood-red light of sunset. Viktor. But not the uncle who taught me to ride a bike, who came to every dance recital, who dried my tears after Papa died. This is someone else entirely—a stranger wearing my beloved uncle's face. His smile is cold, predatory, his eyes holding none of the warmth I remember.

"Hello, Natalia," he says softly, the familiar endearment twisted into something threatening. "We've been waiting for you, Detka."

In that moment, I know with bone-deep certainty that I should have never left the comfort of my husband’s arms.