Traded to His Enemy, Pregnant With His Heir novel · Chapter 1 of 48
Chapter 1: Which Her
On a warehouse floor on Chelsea Creek, the Don chooses his first love and leaves his wife to the Bratva, and the pakhan's doctor learns what her husband doesn't know: she's carrying his heir.
The Russians wanted one woman from my husband's house, and he had two of us on our knees to pick from.
He picked his first love.
He didn't know the other one was pregnant with his child.
The warehouse sat on Chelsea Creek, next to the fuel tanks.
It smelled like diesel and wet rope and something dead in the water.
Two men had pushed me down onto the concrete an hour ago, and my knees had split through my silver gown.
Donatella Rossetti knelt three feet to my left.
Her mascara had run all the way to her chin.
Across the floor, my husband stood in his black overcoat with his hands in his pockets.
Gianluca Bellucci. The Don of the North End.
His eyes went to Donatella first.
They always went to Donatella first.
The man in front of us didn't raise his voice.
He was tall, with short dark hair and a white shirt rolled to the elbows, and a burn scar shining on the back of his left hand.
Ilya Lazarev. The pakhan of Brighton.
"Three weeks ago your crew burned my shipment," he said. "Two of my men died in that fire."
Gianluca said nothing.
"You know the old law. A woman of your house lives under my roof for thirty days. Nobody touches her. Pay what you owe, and she walks out."
He nodded down at the two of us.
"Pick the one you're taking home."
Donatella sobbed so hard her diamond earrings swung.
I didn't cry.
I was thinking about the white stick zipped inside my clutch.
I'd peed on it at seven that morning and sat on the bathroom floor until the second line came in.
I was going to tell him in the car after the gala.
I'd practiced the words in the mirror.
Gianluca started across the floor.
For one second I let myself believe he was walking to me.
He went past me.
His coat brushed my shoulder on the way.
He crouched in front of Donatella, peeled the coat off and wrapped it around her, and lifted her up by the elbows.
"I've got you, Tella," he said into her hair. "I've got you. You're okay."
Something in my chest went still and cold.
He finally looked down at me.
"Shona."
He said it gently.
"She can't do this. You know how her nerves are. You're strong. You'll be fine. Thirty days, and I'll come get you."
You're strong.
Three years of marriage, and that was the reason.
I'd never once made it hard for him to leave me somewhere.
"Gianluca, wait." My voice cracked. "I have to tell you something. Please."
"Not now."
He was already steering her toward the steel door.
He looked back over his shoulder at Lazarev.
"If you put one hand on her, I'll burn Brighton to the ground."
Lazarev's dark eyes went to Gianluca, then down to me.
"Which her?"
Gianluca didn't answer.
The door banged shut.
Engines turned over outside, and tires spun on the wet gravel, and then they were gone.
I was alone on my knees in a Russian's warehouse in a silver dress.
I'd bought it because Gianluca once told me silver was his favorite color.
I understood now that he'd been looking at Donatella's car when he said it.
I looked at my left hand.
Three years ago he'd slid that ring on in front of four hundred people.
I twisted it off.
My knuckle fought me and I didn't let it win.
I set the ring on the concrete, right where he'd knelt for her.
Shoes stopped in front of me.
Lazarev crouched until his face was level with mine.
He was younger up close than the stories made him. Thirty-four, maybe.
His eyes were so dark I couldn't find the pupils.
He looked at the ring on the floor, and then at me.
"Your hands are shaking, Mrs. Bellucci. Is that for me?"
"No."
"Then who?"
I looked at the door my husband had just used.
"Me," I said. "I just watched him go, and I can't feel a thing."
Something moved behind his eyes and went away again.
He stood and held his hand down to me.
He didn't grab. He just held it there.
I didn't take it.
I got my feet under me and stood up on my own, with blood running down both shins.
His mouth tipped up at one corner.
"Good," he said.
His car was warm and smelled like leather.
The driver never said a word.
Boston slid past the windows in gold and black, and I kept one hand flat on my stomach, low, where nobody could see.
His penthouse was forty-one floors above the harbor.
A silver-haired doctor was waiting in a guest room with a bag already open.
Lazarev's rule, I found out later. Nobody under his roof went unchecked.
The doctor cleaned the grit out of my knees with cold hands.
He took my pulse. He took my blood pressure twice.
He asked me careful questions in thick English.
When was my last period. Was I sick in the mornings.
Then he packed up and stepped into the hall and spoke to Lazarev in low, fast Russian.
I didn't know a word of it.
I knew the silence that came after.
Lazarev walked back in and stopped at the foot of the bed.
His eyes went to my face.
Then to my hand, still spread over my stomach.
"Have you told Bellucci?"
My throat closed.
"No."
He stood there a long time.
Somewhere below us a ship's horn went off on the water.
"Then he doesn't know what he left on my floor tonight," Ilya Lazarev said quietly.
His eyes went black.
"His heir."
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