Pregnant By the Mafia Boss (Utkin Bratva #1)

Chapter Seventeen - Fiona

“What is this about?” I mutter under my breath, skimming my fingers over the new dress in the full-length mirror in front of me. The dress is heart shaped at the top, only giving a tasteful glimpse of my cleavage and it’s a rich plum color, doing everything right for my olive skin tone. It stops right before my knees, but still, it’s a dress I would wear for a date night or to a show. I turn sideways in awe of how it doesn’t make me feel fat or frumpy now that I’m pregnant.

Reluctantly, I slide my feet into the comfortable navy kitten heels, and they perfectly complement the dress. Right after I slide on the lightweight knitted sweater to go over it.

Wow. Ruslan, you’ve outdone yourself. The classy outfit isn’t one I would have naturally selected from the department store rack. I probably wouldn’t even have been in the designer section. I was a real bargain hunter, and Ruslan’s world is one I’ve never experienced before. It’s an adjustment I’ll more than likely have to get used to. Because this outfit didn’t come from a department store.

Oh no, Ruslan brought this one from a designer boutique. I can tell by the feel of the fabric, and the way the dress is cut so beautifully, hugging my body in all the right places. If it were me picking a dress for an outing, I would have consulted with my two best girlfriends and put on a fitting room catwalk show in the department store. God, what I wouldn’t give to see Sophia and Rachael again! Just to hear them laugh, and for us to get together on a Friday night, laughing at boys.

I stare back at myself, my emerald eyes staring back at me. What have I become? This is definitely a new dress code, and it’s clear Ruslan has ideas about what I should be wearing. Blowing out a hard breath, I reason that getting out will make me feel less cooped up, and that’s a good thing. I can’t bring myself to be indignant about the dress because it’s so beautiful.

“Be ready by six thirty. There’s a package waiting for you. I’ll be back to collect you by then.” That was the morning message Ruslan left me with, leaving me in a tizzy as to what I needed to be ready for, and what I should wear. I needn’t have worried it seems. Briefly, I stare back at the large silver box lined with reems of tissue paper that the dress came out of and let a resigned sigh slip. Without me telling him, Ruslan knew the correct shoe, top, and dress size.

Of course he knows. He’s a crime boss, and he can probably locate anybody in Chicago he wants.

Hesitating, I step back from the mirror. Is lipstick needed? Why should I do my makeup if I don’t know what this whole thing is about? Defiantly, I stare at my makeup bag as one of the housekeeping staff floats in. She’s the same woman who served me on the first night of my entrapment.

She chuckles, heading to the closet with clean sheets and towels for the bathroom.

“Are you still getting ready?”

Curious as to what she means, I frown. “I have no idea what I’m getting ready for? Are we going out to dinner someplace?

“Yes, oh yes you are. You’re due to attend an Utkin family dinner. It’s a very important event, and it will be good if you can make an impression.”

“Impression?” My voice changes pitch as a tug pulls in my chest.

The maid stops buzzing back and forth with a smile. “Yes. It’s a Russian tradition to meet the family before getting married. It’s only right,” she chirps, her automatic response agitating me.

“Right, the marriage,” I retort, the bitter acid of regret scorched on my tongue. Rolling my eyes, I wish I could go back in time and correct my stupid dare. If I knew what I knew now, I wouldn’t have done it.

The maid gets back to her duties, leaving me feeling painful regret. Rubbing my stomach, I feel guilty about my thoughts, because it’s not as if I’m upset about the baby. I just wish it was with a man I could truly love.

I can’t marry Ruslan. He’s everything I loathe in a man. I want a perfect gentleman for my child. Not a ruthless Mafia boss who sees me as his possession to do with what he will. Heading into the bathroom, I drag my hair up off my neck, distracting myself from the dire situation I’ve thrown myself in, not sure about anything.

Tingly heat flushes through my pussy as I think about our steamy encounter in the kitchen, pre sandwich. I would have let him do anything to me, and I wanted him as much as he craved me. We wouldn’t have made it to the bedroom, but it was Ruslan’s self-restraint that set the groundwork for the interlude to only go so far. It’s as if I’m powerless under his touch.

“Why can’t I keep it together around him? I should resist,” I scold with a mumble, a pang of guilt knifing through my stomach. Unfortunately, there’s a huge part of me that’s more than willing to submit to him. The fire of his touch burns so good, it’s the only thing setting me alight. I wonder if it’s because I gave my virginity away and I’m birthing a son with him.

Some say you never forget your first love….

Disgusted with myself for putting love and Ruslan in the same sentence, I hover over the bathroom counter—my face deadpan and bare, reminding myself of the ugly truth in the huge mirror.

“That’s not what this arrangement is. It’s as far from love as it can get,” I remind myself, a jaded expression blanketing my face. Marriages of convenience are the norm in Mafia circles, it’s not as if I don’t understand the protocol. But my sweet mother convinced me it was different with her and my father.

“ We married for love, Fiona… but your father and I… w-we have to part ways because your father chooses the mob over us,” my mother confessed to me one night when I asked about her and my father’s complicated relationship. “He loves you, and by you staying here in Ohio, it’s the ultimate display of his affection. I thought I could change him. That I could get him to live a more wholesome life—but it’s not in him. He has this thing inside, and he won’t let it go. The mob’s got a hold on him. Your father has his ways. I can only turn a blind eye to some things.”

“Mom, what—”

“Never mind. It’s better you don’t ask so many questions but know this—your father moving on to Chicago is the best thing for both of us. You’ve got a chance at a normal life. Me—maybe, but only if I stay living my humdrum life in the shadows. I’ve sinned too. I watched him do horrible things—covered for him.” She shivered as if relieving the events. “I don’t want that for you, and neither does your father,” my mother told me as she sat staring at the TV screen, spilling everything to me. “I’m a rotten sinner like everyone else. A mob wife. No, Fiona. Promise me that you won’t be like me, because once you’re in, there’s only one way out.” Her haunting speech chilled me to the bone, and that conversation as a teenager is what led me to not ask much more about my father.

Yet, here I am, the sins of my father being passed on to me. I’m destined for the same fate as my mother, only this time, I’m an open target.

“Sorry, Mom, I did turn out to be just like you,” I whisper bitterly, unaware of how long the maid’s been watching me in the bathroom doorway. Blinking rapidly, I plaster a small smile on my face. I’m about to walk out of the bathroom, when the maid stops me.

“You should do your hair and makeup. Trust me. You don’t want to go to one of these Russian dinners and disgrace yourself. I can tell you. Here, I can help you with your hair. I’ve been admiring it since you’ve arrived.”

Scoffing, I hold on to the sink, staring back at her through the mirror, as she selects a stock of makeup supplies from the drawers beside us. “Arrived? Is that what you call it?”

She pauses with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry,” she rushes out. “I didn’t mean anything by it. If you prefer to do your own hair and makeup, I understand.”

I clap my hand over her wrist. “No. Stay. Please help.” My eyes beg with her, because any kind interaction is welcome. Ruslan has every shade and color known to man, and as she pulls out all the makeup supplies, I’m surprised by the wave of jealousy hitting me.

Is this a special suite for his women? I let go of the thought, thinking I do want to make a decent impression, but truthfully, I don’t know what I’m in for with his family.

“Okay, I will do my best. I think there’s a hot curler here. I think curls would look nice, and a smoky eye.”

“Perfect.” And for the next twenty minutes, I have a normal conversation with the housekeeper, and by the time my makeup and hair are done, I find my mood’s elevated as well.

“Ah, now you look like the perfect bride to be.”

Nodding my head, I admire the cascading loose curls, and the smoldering eyes. I left my mouth lined with clear gloss, but it’s enough. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve got rooms to clean, so I better get back to it. Best of luck,” she issues, quickly stepping aside. I put on the delicate pair of gold earrings Ruslan’s brought for me and walk out to the open area, waiting for Ruslan.

But it’s not me waiting for him. It’s him waiting for me. He’s already standing near the couch. His devastatingly seductive darkness and heady cologne have me aching to jump his bones.

A gentleman, but underneath the formal suit, a deadly wolf lay. I’d already experienced Ruslan’s primal side, and liked it—does that make me a wolf too? But right now, I admire his self-containment as a low whistle breezes from his lips. He isn’t like any of the immature Chicago boys I’ve dated.

“You are beauty worthy of every star. My family are going to love you.” I blush,his admiration making me feel womanly.

“Thank you. I hope they take it easy on me.” Ruslan smirks, but doesn’t provide an answer, leaving me stumped.

“Magnificent dress choice, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess you did okay on this round,” I tell him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of how much I love it. Ruslan holds out his hand with a gleeful grin.

“Come.” I slide my hand into the devil’s, and as the driver smoothly takes us through the estate gates, Ruslan shares news I don’t want to hear.

“Are you aware your Uncle Roberto’s prison sentence has been increased? I thought you might want to know.” His mouth twitches, but mine drops as I press my eyes shut.

Fuck. “Okay. So what?”

“So what, Fiona? I think you know what I’m getting at. He won’t be coming out for at least the next two years. Something about a yard fight stabbing. Tsk. Tsk, that’s too bad. It looks like your best option is to hand the Omerta files over to me where they’ll be safe,” he drones, the colder switch of him emerging.

I stare numbly into the blur of traffic through Ruslan’s dark tinted windows, a silent desperation brewing. I don’t have a fucking file. Damn you, Luca. It’s a picture! But what does it even mean? I can’t let it end up in the wrong hands. No. No. No. Because what then?

Ruslan’s places a light touch on my thigh, dragging me back to him, but luckily, the car comes to a halt, disrupting the conversation with him I’ve been avoiding. Somehow, I hope the Omerta Files conversation will die the further into the pregnancy we get, but I know it’s stupid to believe such a thing.

I’m surprised we’re dining not far from Ruslan’s estate, and from what I see, it’s a modern, normal restaurant, but it’s popular, and the parking lot is full. Makes sense, he’s bringing me to meet his family, not trying to impress me with a Michelin-star meal.

Sighing, I think it’s best I answer before we get out, that way we can’t get into an argument. “I’m not giving you the files, Ruslan. Respect my decision,” I state plainly, holding on to the last threads of bravery I own.

Ruslan’s void-deep eyes bore into mine, bringing on a round of goose bumps. “Suit yourself. I think in due time, you’ll be changing your mind.” He smirks, rounding to the other side, opening my car door, and guiding me as we pass the patrons, heads of curiosity turning along the way. Ruslan speaks to the waitress for a moment, whispering something in her ear, and soon enough we’re led through to a separate section where a long table fit to accommodate large numbers of people awaits and beautiful black and gold place settings are arranged, along with white candles to set a more intimate mood. There’s a woman who’s pale in complexion, with blonde hair, yet she’s tall and the spitting image of Ruslan, only in female form. It has to be his mother. She’s talking quietly with a man beside her, and if I were to take a guess, it would be that he is Mr. Utkin. Her blonde and silver hair is slicked back, and she’s dressed head to toe in caramel colors.

Her eyes are small, icy blue, and sharp. These are the same inquisitive eyes that skirt right over to me, and when she stands, I can literally smell the reek of money wafting off her.

There’s a few older Russian men at the table and now they stand as I enter . Fuck, there’s the guy who kidnapped me. Ruslan feels my stiffness, tightening his grip on my hand as he casts a smile around his table of relatives.

“Hi, everyone, thank you for coming out tonight. I’m very happy for you to meet, my bride to be, Fiona,” he adds curtly, more as if I’m a prize, not a woman whom he loves.

Ruslan’s mother is the first to welcome me. “Hi, Fiona. I’m Ruslan’s mother, Tatiana.”

“Hi, nice to meet you,” I say back to her with a professional smile, my gaze landing on Ruslan’s associate who kidnapped me. I deliver a message with my eyes.

You bastard.

“Ah, finally, you bring us a nice girl. Welcome to the family,” an elderly man greets. “The name is Sergey. I’m Ruslan’s uncle.” Warily, I offer him my hand as a waiter enters providing drinks and appetizers for the table.

“Nice to meet you, Sergey. Happy to be here,” I lie, putting on a great acting performance. I meet Ruslan’s extroverted cousins, and they are lively and entertaining enough for me to crack a smile. Overwhelmed with the introductions, I settle in next to Ruslan, opposite the kidnapper, avoiding eye contact, and gulping down water to break up my nervousness. I wish I could drink, but I can’t for the baby’s sake.

“This is a place we’ve been coming to for years as a family, Fiona. When we were first immigrants to America, this is the place we came. It’s owned by our Russian friends, Olga and Igor. I trust they’ve prepared excellent food for us to celebrate your union.” Tatiana smiles thinly, but there’s something disingenuous about her.

I don’t care. This is a marriage I didn’t ask for. I’m just going to be myself.

Ruslan must catch on to my internal defiance, leaning in to whisper in my ear.

“My mother is my mother. I do warn you that it might get a little rough. She can be a little invasive upon first meeting. Nothing to worry about. You’re handling yourself well.”

My eyes narrow at him with suspicion. “How many have you brought here, Ruslan for a first meeting? You said that as a plural,” I say in a low voice back to him.

“No one,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Not to my blood family. You’re the first in a long time.” More surprises… I don’t ask about the long time. It’s neither the time nor the place, but I don’t plan on sucking up to his mother. Ruslan is just going to have to grin and bear whatever I choose to say.

Serves him right.

“Son. You’ve brought her. Fiona, you’re very interesting. You look incredibly young,” Tatiana remarks, the not-so-subtle dig turning the corkscrews. Ruslan stretches his draped hand over the back of my chair as I smile conservatively back at her, the whole table stopping to hear my reply.

“I’m twenty-one, but I turn twenty-two soon,” I return brightly, cutting between the tension of introductions as a cranberry fig goat cheese crostini are placed on the table along with bacon-encased water chestnuts.

“Wow. Twenty-two.” She nods, but I instantly pick up the disapproval shining in her eyes as Ruslan and his mother’s eyes connect.

“Mother,” he warns with a smooth stern tone, but hidden beneath my professional smile I want to tell her that her ruthless son would never be my first choice for marriage either.

His aunts, who are seated beside her also raise their eyebrows but keep quiet.

“What?” she says, raising her shoulders, continuing. “I just don’t quite understand why I wasn’t contacted regarding such a quickie wedding. It’s just a little bit of a shock to my system.” She put her hand to her heart dramatically.

Ruslan chuckles, his hand curving around my shoulder. “Well, what’s that saying? When you know, you know.” He grins, his cousin Andrei smirking at him.

A few of the men chuckle, but soon enough the main course arrives, diverting everyone’s attention to that for a few minutes.

I’m starving, and take the opportunity to enjoy the food, Tatiana’s enquiries continuing as she slices into her steak.

“Tell me more about your family, Fiona. Where are they from?” I finish chewing my salmon, placing my fork down, ready to amuse myself.

You’re about to get the shock of your life, lady.

“Well, my mother lives in another state—Ohio.”

“Oh, Ohio. That’s interesting that she’s in a different state. Is she happy there?” Tatiana asks, pretending to extend the innocent question, but from my perspective it sounds as if she doesn’t think I’m good enough for her son. Smirking, I decide to change their perspective, not mine.

“The last time I spoke to her she was doing fine there. It’s better for her, being that she’s the late wife of Luca Marino. Ya know?” Squinting, I watch the mouths at the table descend as I drop the shocking news right in their laps.

Speechless. Perfect. My job is done. That ought to shut her up. I keep eating, but note, Ruslan’s cousin’s face. Andrei—who was formally introduced to me by Ruslan—is holding back his amusement. I can tell because the corners of his mouth are twitching. Of course, he probably knew already about my father, because the same level of alarm hadn’t registered on his face. In fact, his mouth opens to a wide grin as he sends a closeted wink in my direction. Directing my pent-up energy elsewhere I stab my fork into my roasted tomatoes, plopping one in my mouth.

Yep, that’s right. I’m the daughter of the late Don and your rival. Digest that at your fancy dinner table, Utkins.

Ruslan’s angry gaze is radiating into the side of my head, but I give no fucks. I’m hormonal, and he kidnapped me. I’ve lost my father—no matter how estranged we were, it still hurts, and now because of a snap decision, and taking a dare, I’m pregnant by a Russian mobster, and practically forced headlong into an arranged marriage—I mean how did he expect me to respond?

Despite the bullshit, I continue to carve out a smile for Tatiana as she gawks at me in amazement. Until she musters the courage to answer. “Luca Marino. That’s a name I haven’t heard for some time,” she remarks. “Hmpf.” The aunts and cousins whisper quietly, but it’s not as if they can without me hearing. I’m sitting right at the table alongside them.

I can’t handle all this scrutiny anymore. What a fucking joke. Pushing back from the table, I drop my napkin into the middle of my plate, excusing myself.

“I need to use the restroom. Ruslan, where are they?”

His jaw flickers as his cold eyes meet mine. “First on your right in the main restaurant. Don’t be long,” he murmurs, the treble in his voice, wavy enough to indicate how upset he is.

As I walk boldly, I give myself an internal pat on the back for my efforts. I find the bathroom easily, thankful there’s not many women on the inside.

Releasing a salty chuckle, I stand at the restaurant mirrors. Now this is turning out to be an interesting dinner. If I could be a fly on the wall now listening in on how his mother feels about him marrying a dead rival’s daughter, I’m sure it would be a priceless moment.

I only wish I could call Sophia and Rachael. Ruslan’s eased up on my restrictions, and I’ve been able to let them know I’m okay, along with my mother, but they’ll never know everything. I can’t tell them. Ruslan’s forbidden me to.

“If you try to tip your friends off about what’s going on between us or your mother, then I promise you, I’m going to make hell seem like a nice place to be. Do you understand?”

“I won’t. I’m not dumb, but by not saying anything, it’s going to raise suspicion. I need to talk to them like normal, so they know I’m okay.” His threats didn’t have the effect he wanted them to have, because as much Ruslan affected me, I knew I affected him as well.

I toy around with my limp curls, letting the tense memory bleed away, and reapply a layer of lipstick, then spraying a little perfume on the inside of my wrists for good measure. Satisfied I can rejoin the fray, I head out of the bathroom with my head down, fumbling to put my lipstick back inside my purse.

“Shit,” I murmur, annoyed that I didn’t do it back in the bathroom, only to feel the penetrative grip of a man’s hand digging into my elbow.

“Well, hello there,” he greets, the tinge of an Irish accent on his tongue. Gasping from the bump, I raise my head to say sorry, facing off with a pair of the iciest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. His face is craggy, but he has an appeal.

“Hi, um I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going?” I tell him in a fluster, flipping back my hair. His mouth curves into a broad smile.

“No need to apologize. My name’s Jamie Bergin. And it’s a chance meeting. I’ve been wanting to speak to you,” he advises as I take him in.

He’s wearing a black suit, but there’s something disarming about him that I can’t put my finger on. “You want to speak to me?” I say in surprise as I realize the man still has ahold of my forearm.

Get away from him. There’s something wrong. Alarm bells ring in my head as I lick my lips, staring around into the crowded restaurant, giving myself the reassurance that nothing can happen anyway. I’m in a restaurant.

“Yes. I’m guessing by now, you know a lot of people want to speak with you,” he replies in a dark husky tone, my eyes widening. He can’t be talking about what I think he’s talking about.

No. No. No. I play dumb, crossing my fingers that it’s enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap back, working to unpeel his fingers from my arm, but he digs in deeper, baring his yellow stained teeth and a sigh.

“Listen, bitch. You can stop playing coy with me. You’ve got the files, and I want them. You’re coming with me.”

Wrenching my arm free, hysterical laughter free flows from my mouth. “Everyone can see you.”

“Oh.” His bushy eyebrow elevates as his hand moves quicker than lightning to his hip, the hard butt of a gun muzzle buried into the soft folds of my belly causing me to freeze.

“Do you want to take the risk and tell me what people can see?”

All I think about is the baby and its safety. “Please, don’t.” I ring out the desperate plea, my heart sinking to my feet.

He tilts his head, his eyes cold. “ Then all you have to do is walk normally to the back door of the restaurant, and we’re going to sail right out of here to the Omerta files. You don’t have to get hurt. This can be a nice, easy process. Hell, I might even let you live,” he chuckles.

I comply, the noisy racket of my heart beating so loudly as he releases my wrist, walking me to the side exit near the bathrooms, but I know he has the gun aimed at my back as I can feel the poke of it as I stumble forward into the dead of the Chicago night.

Pressing my eyes shut, I will Ruslan to come looking for me. I wish I hadn’t made him mad now. I want to see my mother again. My friends. Even my old boss, who I hate. Even she’s better than this.

“Where—where to next?” I ask meekly, the still air of Chicago providing the backdrop of a full parking lot.

“Far right. The SUV. Look, I’ll beep to make it easy for you to see.” I look around the parking lot, hoping to see a face so I can escape, but it’s clear. Everyone is inside eating and being happy with the people they’re dining with. Me—I’m about to be kidnapped. Again.

Slowing my pace, shallow breaths move me forward as I think about what Bergin is going to do. He’s not going to let me go. He’s going to kill me, so I’m going to kill as much time as I can.

“What if I don’t have the files?” I say to him, stalling as best I can.

Bergin’s bone-chilling laugh rings out as we reach a few paces from his vehicle. I know once I’m inside it, I’m doomed. “If you don’t have the files. I thought it was only the Irish who had a fantastic sense of humor. Oh no, if you don’t have the files, I’ll line you up and drop you like a ten-pin bowling ball. Now speed up,” he barks in exasperation.

A light click and the sound of crunching underfoot gives me the courage to swing my head around. “Oh. I like ten-pin bowling too. Except it’s not going to be her who drops.”

Ruslan’s presence is a sheer relief as I watch him hold the gun to back of Bergin’s head, walking him forward.

“Now what you’re going to do, sonny boy, is get in your shiny SUV and go home. If you don’t, I’m going to end your life. Right here in this parking lot. You’re on my turf.”

“Ah, Ruslan. You always were a sneaky bastard,” he hauls off as Ruslan points to the restaurant, giving me my walking papers. There’s not a soul in sight, and I can’t believe it.

“Move, Bergin.” He knees Bergin in the back, a whooshing sound coming out of him as he slams his head against his SUV, opening the door and shoving him in. “Drive. And get the fuck out of here. You’re a dead man walking.”

Scurrying back to the safety of the restaurant, I can’t believe it. Ruslan just saved my life. He saved my life. Shit. I watch as Bergin drives off without fanfare, awed by Ruslan’s authoritative command. Once he’s done, he jogs back to me. I’m a trembling sobbing mess.

Ruslan wipes the tears with the back of his thumb. “Are you okay?”

Nodding at my savior, I sink into his embrace. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Trust me. Especially not at the hands of Jamie fucking Bergin. The piece of scummy shit.”

Maybe he does care about me. Maybe I can find a silver lining with Ruslan….