Bratva Boss’s Secret Triplets by Bella King

Chapter 22

April

“Have you ever had kobe beef before?”

I’m snapped out of my trance at Rebel’s question. I’ve never even had fresh sushi, never mind something that costs a hundred dollars per serving. The sensation of the silk on my body has been so luxurious and smooth that I haven’t been able to hear anything he’s said to me since I sat down.

How he made this all happen so quickly, I don’t know, but the spread he’s set up for us is something I never thought I’d see in real life, just in movies.

There’s a charcuterie board in the middle of the table with meats and cheeses that I’ve never even heard of before, and I’m drinking my third glass of wine that I’m sure is worth more than my life.

It’s just food, and I try not to let the expense of things dictate their hold over me, but I almost feel unworthy to be experiencing it.

Rebel is always dressed well, but tonight he’s wearing all black instead of his standard white-shirt-black-jacket ensemble. I have to admit, I didn’t think he could be more attractive to me, but this look is really working for him.

“I asked you a question,” he says, looking at me expectantly. I almost want to laugh in his face for even asking, knowing full well that he is just trying to draw out the contrast between my sad, poor little serf life and his infinite money.

“No, I haven’t,” I relent as I pick at a cluster of grapes from the board. He sits back with a satisfied look on his face.

“Didn’t figure as much, most people haven’t,” he replies, absolutely thrilled with himself.

I do my best not to roll my eyes, he clearly went to a lot of trouble for me. I’m just not used to anyone throwing money at me like this. Dean obviously wasn’t rich, but he also wasn’t big on romantic gestures either.

Since then, I’ve never known how to accept nice gifts or dinner dates, especially not dates that cost more than my car, easily.

“So, I have some bad news,” he says, suddenly breaking character and becoming his typical hard-ass self. “Because of, uh, the state of things, I think it’s best that you stay here with me for a while until things cool off. Someone as rabidly obsessed with you as Dean would find you again in an instant, and I might not be there to save you next time.”

So that’s what this is about.

“Rebel, it’s nice here, sure, but I can handle myself. Now that I know what’s going on, I can just get a gun and be more aware of my surroundings,” I reply, closing my arms over my chest defensively.

“April, I promise you don’t know what you’re saying. The fact that you escaped is enough to piss them off to torture you when they find you again, and they will. They will hunt down and threaten every person you know and love until they give you up,” he continues, pausing briefly to take a drink of his wine.

In my heart of hearts, I know he’s right. Even almost being killed by someone as noncombative as Dean has shown me that I’m not the fighter I thought I was. Hell, I was hoping Rebel would come save me from him. How likely would that have even been under normal circumstances?

Next time, there probably won’t be someone storming up the stairs to blast through my front door and rescue me.

“I’ll stay with you for one week, and one week only. After that, I’ll need money to relocate, and I think you owe that to me since you’ve made a mess of my life by bringing this mafia shit into it,” I say firmly.

I don’t think I’m asking too much. If Rebel wants to show off his money so badly, I’m going to ask for some of it. It’s the least he can do.

“I can do you one better,” he replies, grinning at me like he knows a terrible secret about me. “How about you stay with me indefinitely, and I give you more money than you know what to do with?” he asks, motioning to his assistant for more wine.

For someone who spent the whole dinner emphasizing how poor I am, it would be stupid for me to turn him down without a second thought. But, indefinitely... I’ll start showing sooner or later, and he’ll know they’re his if he plans on keeping me around to fuck me when he’s bored.

Which leads me to another gripe I have.

Is he just going to keep me around as a trophy? I hate the idea of just sitting around his compound looking pretty for him between his murder appointments. That sounds like something you’d see in a dystopian future movie; a living sex doll.

The thought makes me nearly blind with nausea, unless that’s the pregnancy.

“I would have to think it over, really,” I reply, doing my best to hide my apprehension and sudden onset of sickness.

If I stayed just long enough, I could buy back my mother’s ring from the pawn shop and have enough to coast on for living expenses while I look for a permanent solution to my perpetual financial destitution.

“Come on, April. Let go of some of your pride,” he says, softening his tone and looking me in the eyes. He knows I need the money badly, and to be honest, I know that a week isn’t long enough for me to stay underground before Dean finds me again, or worse: someone else.

Somehow, I’ve avoided drinking the wine without Rebel noticing. He’s too wrapped up in his little proposition to even see that I haven’t touched my glass at all. We continue eating in near silence for a while, not wanting to risk the same conversation again but knowing so little about each other that there’s not much to say.

“I don’t know anything about you, and yet we’ve been through so much together,” I say, breaking the silence.

“There’s a reason for that. You don’t want to know shit about me,” he replies, taking a bite of his steak and swallowing, hardly chewing at all. “There’s a reason guys like me don’t work well in polite society,” he continues, pretending not to choke on his food.

“Well... as a woman, I feel compelled to ask anyways. It would make me more comfortable with staying here if I knew a little more about you besides the fact that you kill people and have a big dick,” I reply.

Using the woman card should make me immune to excuses. Who would deny a lady the right to information that would help her feel safe?

He shrugs. “I grew up in Russia, right in the slums of Moscow. We lived in a rundown apartment with two other families, and a lot of the time we didn’t have basic necessities. I started learning English on my own when I was seven, and by the time I was nine or ten I was proficient enough to communicate with American tourists and beg for shit. After I got too old to beg on the streets, I had to resort to crime. The job market was awful, and my mother couldn’t work because she had lupus,” he says thoughtfully.

His story sounds so far removed from the life he has now. Looking at him, I could never picture him as a small child begging for scraps on the streets in another country. He carries himself so well, like he’s never known any kind of need at all.

“That makes it your turn,” he says.

“Okay, fine. I grew up in Ohio, also didn’t have much as a kid but was definitely not to the point of begging. My father drank too much but kept it under control enough to the point that nobody else noticed except for me and my brother Dylan. I moved away as soon as I graduated from high school and never looked back. I knew that little town was going to kill any ambition I ever had,” I reply.

“Ambition to what, work in a restaurant?” Rebel responds, attempting some kind of playful rudeness but instead just making me angry.

“No, ambition to go to college and study marine biology,” I say, stabbing into my steak a little harder than necessary.

Rebel was definitely that kid who bullied the girls he liked on the playground.

“I think I’m done eating, I’m tired,” I continue, not necessarily lying but not keen on the idea of continuing this conversation at all.

“Are you sure?” Rebel says, somehow confused at my response to his comment.

“Yeah, I think so. Goodnight,” I reply, getting up out of my seat, feeling the silk cling to my body as I stand up. It’s got me simultaneously self-conscious and sexy as hell. Guess I can say goodbye to this body in a few months, might as well enjoy it now.

I leave without another word, pacing down the hallways in the stilettos that Rebel had purchased for me. The sound of the heels tapping the tile floors is hypnotic, tempting me to just walk around the compound until I develop blisters from the unreasonably rigid exterior of the shoes.

When I return to my room, I slip out of the dress effortlessly, careful not to let it sit on the floor for too long. The way the silk shimmers in the low light of my room is otherworldly; I feel like I could stare at it for hours, running my hands along the fabric as it flows over my skin like fine sand.

The last time I can remember feeling this beautiful was for my Junior prom when I was a teen, but even then I was so self-conscious about it that I didn’t enjoy it fully. This is a nice change.

I gaze at my body in the mirror across from my bed, tracing along my sides where the clear, pale skin will soon be replaced by stretch marks. My fingers find my breasts, playing with them and feeling for the changes that pregnancy is promised to bring them. They do feel more full than they did before I was pregnant, and I noticed how they filled out the silk dress when I first put it on.

I wonder if Rebel noticed.

Not that I care or anything.