Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

this whole mess started with Lila, I sigh and pull the little box out of the bag. Maybe it’s time we change the dynamic suffocating our family. “It’s complicated.”

“Kostya’s, I presume?”

When I nod, she throws an arm around my shoulder.

“Are you going to tell him?”

How can I not tell him? But if I do, he’s going to think I trapped him. “I don’t know.” My eyes are stinging and brimming with tears.

Maybe sensing I’m right on the edge of a meltdown, Lila hugs me closer to her body and helps me stand then walks me toward the bathroom. “Well, maybe we should first see if there’s anything to tell him.” I’m still hugging the boxes, so I twist away from her and go into the bathroom, take the first plastic stick from the box, and pee. All the while, I pray there’s no baby.

I’m begging my fairy godmother or guardian angel or any and all deities who might be listening to not make me have to go back to Kostya and talk to him. He made it fairly clear that anything between us meant nothing to him and is finished. I don’t want him out of some sort of obligation he feels to a baby. I shouldn’t want him at all, actually.

But I do.

Oh God. This is bad.

So bad. I look down at my stomach. Nothing seems amiss. At least there’s no blood or wounds that I can see.

My head is still buzzing, and I can’t quite distinguish details from memories, or past from real time. But I cannot continue sitting on this floor. My ass is cold. My back is aching. I need to stand and stretch, to work my muscles, to get the blood flowing to my limbs so that I can concentrate on figuring out exactly what is going on.

There’s a logo on a sign posted on the wall in front of me. It’s just over the top of a table, at about eye height, if I was standing. It reads, “Diamond Owl Repair.” If I make it out of here, that’s an important detail, plus it’s a focal point I can use to measure my progress to getting vertical and upright.

My body cracks and pops as I use the car handle and my own strength to lift myself so I can straighten my legs. They wobble and tremble under the effort, but I’m finally standing, and I can see out a window on the other side of the car.

Three men are huddled in a parking lot full of cars. Two of the men are in suits, one in a blue uniform shirt with a blue bandana tied around his curly red hair. He reminds me of the Lucky Charms guy, and I would probably chuckle, if it weren’t for the whole “handcuffed to a car in a strange building” thing I’m currently dealing with. My tiny bladder is stretched to its bursting point, and the fear isn’t helping the urgency there.

I don’t know where I am more than the name of the place on the sign, but I need to get out of here because I’ve watched more than enough TV to know that waking up to find oneself cuffed to a car is hardly ever the way to a happy ending. I don’t exactly think there’s a caped crusader in tighty-whities coming to rescue me.

The cuffs aren’t especially tight against my wrist, but they don’t feel that stellar, either. I struggle against them, pulling my thumb into my palm and trying to slip my hand through, but no matter what I do, my hand is too big.

Even if I happened to have a bobby pin, which I don’t, I can’t lift my hands to my head to try and pick the lock. Not that I know how to pick locks, anyway.

It’s hopeless. I’m pathetic. Why the hell did I go to that apartment building anyway?

Because I don’t have a place to stay and going back to Mom’s, pregnant, where I would be forced to apologize for speaking the truth, isn’t something I can face right now.

The door opens, and, as if it’ll do any good, I duck below the window of the car as the redhead from outside walks in. “Ah, the pretty lady is awake.” He could very well be the Lucky Charms guy with that thick Irish accent.

“Why am I here?” I croak.

He chuckles and moves closer while I back away as far as I can. My heart is beating hard enough I’m sure my rib cage has to be bruised, but I keep my breaths calm, my head up.

“You thirsty?”

He reaches into a small refrigerator against the wall and pulls out a bottle of water. With a flick of his wrist, he twists the cap and takes a long swig then holds it out for me. As thirsty as I am, I don’t want to drink after him.

I shake my head. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He shrugs and finishes off the bottle of water. “Gonna have to just sit tight, darlin’.” And like there isn’t a pregnant woman attached to the car who is currently under a ridiculous amount of duress, he pops open the hood of the vehicle I’m attached to and whistles as he works, tools banging, radio booming loud enough no one would hear me scream if I tried.

“Are you going to kill me?” I have to shout. Even then I don’t get an answer. “Hey, you little leprechaun! I have to pee!” I kick the car door and get a new ache in my bare foot for my trouble, but he at least peeks around the hood.

“You leave a dent, love, they’re gonna make you pay for it.”

“They who?! Pay how?!” He ignores my shrieking as I work my way up the panic ladder for every second I’m forced to stand here with my legs crossed and my head aching while I wonder if this is the last place I’m ever going to see, if