Page 106 of Baby for the Bratva King

I step away from the grave, digging around in my pocket for my phone.

“Looking for this?” says my father, producing the device.

“Give that back.”

“No, sweetheart. We’ll be confiscating this for the time being.”

Looks like the only thing left to do is run.

I turn on my heel and sprint, letting the adrenaline carry me to safety. The gates are up ahead, and I’m only a few meters away from the main path.

I hop over gravestones, hoping these people forgive me for jumping over their graves.

I can’t help but notice the state of these decaying craves. Stone crumbles away, moss invading what used to be a sacred space for families of the deceased. Some of the headstones are cracked through the middle, the engravings either faded or hidden under moss.

I happen to catch the date on one particular stone—1912 was the year they died.

Shivers race down my spine. My father tried to bury me alive in an abandoned graveyard. None of these headstones have flowers. None of them are being maintained.

In some parts of the churchyard, grass grows up to my thigh, and it’s a bitch to run through.

I was about to be buried in a graveyard full of skeletons…

Tears stream down my eyes, my legs seizing up, but I refuse to give up. I will my legs forward. One foot in front of the other. Don’t look back.

A branch snaps behind me, but I keep my gaze fixated on those iron gates.

I make it to the main path, my speed increasing now that I’m on solid ground. One more big effort and I’m out of this place.

But as I cross the finish line, more black figures materialize. They curl around me like shadows. At first, I’m convinced this is an optical illusion. Weird shit happens when your body is exhausted, and I’m on the verge of collapsing. My knees buckle. My eyelids want to close. I’m out of fuel. The adrenaline is slowing down.

One of the shadowed men grabs me—confirming this is not an illusion, but my very unfortunate reality.

“Leave her in one piece,” says my father from behind.

Once again, my stomach swallows my heart.

I focus my vision, counting the figures. There has to be about twelve. Where is he getting all these employees? And how has nobody else figured out how corrupt he is?

I glance behind me, searching my father’s face. He stays behind, concealed by shadows, black cloth whipping around him in the breeze.

“Where the hell are we?”

“South Bronx.”

Not very classy for a man like my father.

“Bring her over here.” My father snaps his fingers at his minions, and they drag me back over to him.

They take the shortcut through the graves, trampling on someone’s great grandma.

I never come to graveyards because my mother was never buried. According to my father, she wanted to be cremated.

My father scattered her ashes over the Hudson. “It’s what she wanted,” he told the news presenter once when they asked. “I boarded the Coney Island Express and scattered them while we were passing the Statue of Liberty. She wanted to be laid to rest there.”

I feel sick as I look around, wondering if my father lied. I was forced to believe him—it was the only explanation I ever had.

But if my father is capable of murder, it makes me question everything. What if he lied to me and Fleur as well as the nation?