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I am Bratva.
My baby is Bratva. There are Russian brotherhood cells all over the world. While I’d not come across any in Las Vegas when I had freedom, that doesn’t mean they aren’t here, working in the shadows.
My heart calms down, realizing outing myself may be the only way out of this situation. Even in prison.
Especially in prison.
Someone will get word to the closest brotherhood leader. I’m carrying a Koslov baby.
One look at Cormac reminds me I’m also carrying an O’Rourke.
They’ll fight for my child, too. To the death, which might mean me, if Kieran, that evil king of theirs, has his way. He’ll gut me to get his hands on my baby. Leave me to bleed out and die. I doubt Cormac would stop him. They stick together, that family.
My stomach flips as they put me in the back of a police car, and I vomit on the seat, getting some of it on my T-shirt and sweatpants.
“Oh shit, honey,” the female officer cries out.
“I’m sorry. I’m pregnant.”
“I know, honey. We’ll get you an ultrasound as soon as we get to the infirmary.” She shows incredible sympathy considering my sad state.
I’ve had every advantage in this world and threw it all away. We drive off, and when Cormac isn’t within five feet of me, I slump in utter relief.
Holding back tears, I’m brought to a gray cinderblock, three-story complex, complete with metal fencing and barbed wire twisted along the top. Several guard towers dot the perimeter with flashing, revolving lights.
The whole processing routine passes quickly, and after an ultrasound shows my baby is fine, they tell me I’m due in a month. I take this news with both terror and relief.
“When can I talk to a lawyer?” I ask the guard, who hands me a prison jumpsuit to wear since my clothes are ruined, and I don’t fit into anything else they have.
“You can meet with a public defender tomorrow morning.”
Morning…
I’m spending the night locked up. Not much different from the last two years of my life.
The jail is filled with prostitutes and rowdy drunk girls who hooted and hollered in some sick solidarity when I arrived last night.
I passed out as soon as my head hit the flattened pillow.
In the cafeteria the next morning, I’m given a box of cornflakes and a container of milk with a banana. Because I’m pregnant, they added a pre-made protein shake to my meal.
I smirk, noticing it’s the same brand people on TikTok used to make all kinds of high-protein desserts.
TikTok, Facebook, Instagram. All apps I haven’t been on in over two years. I let my social media accounts go dark after I ran away from Astoria.
I meet with the public defender after breakfast, who reads me a list of outstanding warrants for both me and Cormac, based on our descriptions.
“Yeeeeep. There’re a ton of police reports shoved in here,” he says.
That explains the thick file. God, I’m screwed.
“This isn’t looking too good, Miss Michaels,” he adds. “You and Mr. O’Rourke went on a bit of a crime spree.”
We were banned from all the casinos, forcing Cormac to pull cons on the street with me. When I got too big, he said I was hurting business and left me in the room, usually tied to the bed, while he sold drugs.
Drugs the cops found in the car.
But no one seems to care that he kept me a prisoner.
