Page 97 of Baby for the Bratva King

“Saskia is my maid, so I suppose the gold-digger claims aren’t that far out.”

More gasps fill the atmosphere.

“We’re asking the wrong questions here,” I continue. “Why would the daughter of a philanthropist need to work? Saskia and her sister grew up wealthy, and yet they’re taking whatever jobs they can find, trying to make ends meet. Think about that for a moment.”

But the paparazzi aren’t interested in what I have to say, which makes a fucking change. They’re more interested in selling a story, and my questions take away the excitement.

“Dangerous mafia billionaire impregnates innocent philanthropist’s daughter,” sounds more shocking than the truth.

“Mr. Pozharsky,” says the journalist. “Are you saying you’re in love with your maid?”

I cross my arms over my chest. My love life is starting to combine with the Bratva. Gabriel will not be happy, nor will the rest of my men. Tough fucking luck. I own them, right down to the clothes they wear. I built this empire. They’re in no position to hold me accountable… even if I am being reckless like my father.

Gabriel was at college with me at the time. He saw my father. He saw the tears streaming down my face as I grieved him for months. “This is what happens when you stick your nose in other people’s business,” he told me. “You end up with nothing. “Better to just mind your own and keep away.”

I sigh.

And then I just tell the truth.

“I’m in love with Saskia. We’re having this child together, and one day, I plan to marry her.”

The street bursts into conversation, people branching off to see what their friends make of my response. I glance at their faces. Strangers are invested in my life, thinking they know the score.

“Wow, Mr. Pozharsky,” exclaims the journalist. “Do you know how many girls’ hearts you just broke?”

“Oh, believe me,” I laugh, taking my leave. “I just broke a lot more than that. Do svidaniya.”

26

SASKIA

I swing on poles and do the opposite of what Felix tells me to do. He should know the drill by now, but apparently not. He left the front door open, hence why I’m practicing pole.

Today in the studio, I’m channeling my anger into strength and practicing some handsprings. I’m about to kick myself up when the studio door rolls open, a very distressed Fleur walking in.

Shit.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Your name was booked in for this hour.” Fleur dumps her stuff on the floor and folds her arms over her chest, waiting for me to go first.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m meant to say.

I release my hands, stepping away from the pole.

“Why is father talking about Felix and the mafia allegations as though they’re true?”

“You know how he is—he’s very media trained.”

“And I know how you are when it comes to ignoring the red flags.”

I pick at the callouses on my palm. Time to bite the bullet. “The mafia allegations are not just allegations.”

Fleur’s eyes pop out of the sockets. “They’re true?”

“There’s no evidence, but father certainly knows how to win people over.”

“Saskia,” says Fleur, her voice laced with disappointment. “You should have told me.”