Page 25 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

For four years, I lived under the assumption that I was a ghost. A man with no anchor, no legacy, and no reason to care if I took a bullet in a shipyard or ended up at the bottom of the Adriatic. I controlled everything because I had nothing to lose.

But tonight, the entire board has been flipped.

I have a son.

A little boy with my eyes, my dark hair, and a toy dinosaur, sleeping soundly in a townhouse I had to practically barge my way into. The revelation doesn’t just disrupt my life; it completely demolishes it. The operations, the weapons shipments, the turf disputes—everything that seemed so vital three hours ago has instantly shrunk into absolute insignificance. Everything is secondary now.

I take the exit ramp on two wheels, the Charger’s tail fish-tailing slightly before I master the slide and gun the engine toward the industrial district.

Ten minutes later, I screech to a halt in the private, gated lot of Rusnak & Associates—the high-end corporate law firm that serves as the legitimate front for our family’s structural and financial interests. I kill the engine, the sudden silence of the car cabin feeling heavier than the music.

I storm through the back entrance of the building, my damp coat trailing behind me like a shadow. The security guards don’t dare speak to me; they just bow their heads and open the private elevator. I ride it up to the penthouse floor, my breathing ragged, my chest tight with an urgency I’ve never felt in my entire life.

I bypass the receptionist entirely and kick open the double glass doors of the corner office.

My younger cousin, Charlie Rusnak, sits behind a massive polished-mahogany desk, a glowing tablet in hand and a glass of sparkling water at his elbow. Charlie is the clean-cut brain of the American branch—the one we sent to Harvard to ensure the Bratva’s legitimate assets stayed untouchable and its illegal ones stayed completely invisible.

“Samuel,” Charlie says, not even looking up as he slides a finger across his tablet. “It’s past midnight. Unless a dock worker just ran off with a shipping container of gold bullion, this is highly inappropriate—”

“I need a custody filing,” I growl, slamming my palms down on his desk, leaning over him until he is forced to look me in the eyes. “Now. Tonight. I want a team of lawyers drafting the paperwork before the sun comes up.”

Charlie blinks, his calm, calculated demeanor fracturing for a fraction of a second. He slowly sets the tablet down, studying my disheveled hair, my damp clothes, and the sheer, volatile desperation rolling off me.

“A custody filing?” Charlie repeats, his voice flat and analytical. “For whom?”

“My son,” I spit out. “A woman has been raising my son for the last four years. I just found out tonight.”

Charlie doesn’t gasp. He doesn’t show shock. He simply leans back in his leather chair, weaves his fingers together, and lets out a long, slow breath.

“What woman?”

I impatiently explain the story and timeline to him. “I want him. I want my name on his birth certificate, I want joint custody, and I want her to know she can’t keep him from me. How fast can we make it happen?”

Charlie stares at me for a long, agonizing moment before shaking his head. “We can’t, Samuel.”

“What the hell do you mean we can’t?” I roar, my hand clenching into a fist, the wood of his desk groaning under my weight. “I’m a Rusnak. We own half the judges in this district!”

“This isn’t a zoning permit or a shipping tax, Samuel,” Charlie says, his tone remaining infuriatingly grounded, completely clinical. “From a legal standpoint, you’re a ghost to this child. You have absolutely no established claim over him. No prior acknowledgment of paternity, no documentation, no financial support trail, and zero involvement in his life for four years.”

“I didn’t know!”

“The courts do not care what you knew,” Charlie counters, his voice sharpening. “Ashley’s position as the sole caregiver is ironclad. She’s run a multi-million-dollar logistics empire, has a flawless public record, and has provided a stable, wealthy, secure environment for that boy since the day he was born. If you walk into a family courtroom right now demanding rights, her lawyers will tear you to pieces. They will bring up your lack of a stable residence, your associates, and your…unconventional business practices. You will lose, and you will expose our family’s operations in the process.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, sending a wave of suffocating frustration rushing through my veins. I turn away from his desk, pacing the length of the office, my fingers ripping through my hair.

“There has to be a way,” I mutter, my voice thick with a dark, dangerous edge. “I’m not letting her shut me out. Not after I looked at him. I’m his father, Charlie.”

“Then you play the long game,” Charlie says quietly, watching me pace. “But legally? Right now? You have no leverage. If you try to force her hand, she can walk into a courthouse tomorrow, get a restraining order, and legally bar you from ever taking a step within five hundred feet of that boy. And the law will protect her.”

I stop pacing, staring out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the rainy city below. My chest heaves, the bitter taste of helplessness coating my tongue. I’m used to taking what’s mine. I’m used to breaking obstacles until they yield to my will.

But looking at the distant, glittering lights of the city, I realize that the rules of engagement have completely changed. I can’t fight this with bullets or bribes.

But I will fight it.

“She thinks she can keep me out,” I whisper, my voice dropping to a low, chilling promise as I stare at my own reflection. “I won’t let her.”

I turn away from the glass, the shadow of my reflection fading as I face my cousin again. My jaw sets into a rigid line. If the courts are a dead end, then I’ll simply have to rely on the blood in my veins.