Knocked Up by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Levushka Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  Did she like him? Or was it just a fling?

  And then, for the first time, I wonder whether sleeping with me wasn’t some kind of rebound for her. A sick kind of closure.

  Remembering the way she touched me, the way she felt on top of me, I can’t believe she would really be thinking about Mikhail, but the thought tickles the edge of my mind as we eat breakfast and continue talking.

  It is easy to be with Zoya. I don’t think about work or what I need to do today. Instead, I just listen to her stories and share some of my own.

  And for the first time since I got the call about Mikhail, I feel like I can finally breathe.

  We clean our dishes together, and then she grabs my hand and leads me back to the room.

  As soon as the door is closed, the rest of the world ceases to exist.

  I strip off her dress, pull her bra off with my teeth, and press her against the wall, pinning her there with my hips.

  We work off our breakfast all over the room, falling into a tangle of arms and legs on the bed between sessions while we gather energy for another round.

  Being with Zoya is the closest I’ve ever been to being addicted. I want more of her. Even while I’m inside of her, I’m thinking about when we can do this again. How I can get my hands on her again.

  It is hard to fathom she is the same woman I got fired ten days ago.

  “How long are you staying in St. Petersburg?” she asks, drawing a circle on my chest with her finger.

  “I’ll be here until after the funeral, for sure,” I say. It is the closest I’ve come to mentioning Mikhail since telling her he was dead in the hospital. I study her face for a reaction, but there is only pity.

  “Right. Of course.” She lays her head on my chest, and I like the weight of it. Usually, cuddling feels unnatural to me, but Zoya fits next to my body like a perfect puzzle piece.

  “You could come with me.” The words are out of my mouth before I can really think about them. It just seemed like the right thing to say. I’ll have to go back to Moscow, and I don’t want to be away from Zoya yet. Not until we know what this is between us. So, easy solution: she could come live with me.

  She sits up and looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Are you serious?”

  I tuck my arm behind my head and shrug. “Why not?”

  “Because we hated each other before yesterday,” she says.

  “You hated me?” I ask with feigned offense.

  She rolls her eyes. “You got me fired, so you can’t pretend you liked me.”

  “The line between love and hate is dangerously thin.” This time, I realize I’ve overstepped. Love. I reach out desperately to draw the words back in. “Not to say that this is…I mean—”

  “I know what you meant,” she says, patting my chest.

  I let out a sigh of relief. Then, back to the issue at hand. “Well, what do you think?”

  “About living with you?” she asks.

  The more I think about it, the less crazy it sounds. “You wouldn’t have to live with me if you didn’t want to. We have apartments all over Moscow. I could put you up in one of those.”

  She chews on her bottom lip. “I don’t want any charity.”

  “It’s the least I can do.” I drag my finger down her heart-shaped face, stopping at her chin. “Like you said, I got you fired. Giving you a place to crash doesn’t seem so out of line.”

  She thinks about it for a minute, and then her eyes shift downward. “What about…the baby?”

  The baby. Mikhail’s baby.

  I know now would be the perfect time to bring up Mikhail. To let her know that I know. To talk about what it means for us. But apparently, I’m a coward.

  “Life happens, right? We can figure that out while we figure everything else out, too.”

  Zoya twists her pink lips to the side and tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I suppose we can figure it out.”

  Over the next few days, the only thing we figure out is how many times two people can have sex before they physically can’t take it anymore.

  For the first time in years, I turn my phone off and cut myself off from the world. I don’t want to think about work or our rivals or Mikhail. I just want to think about Zoya.

  I want to focus on this beautiful person who, for the time being, is mine. When possible, I push every other thought from my head.

  And this method works great, until I check my phone after Zoya and I get out of the shower and realize my mother sent over Mikhail’s funeral arrangements.

  “No one should look so sad after what we just did in there,” Zoya says, wrapping her arms around me and kissing my back.

  I can feel her bare breasts against my skin, her nipples pebbled from the chill in the room, and I put my phone down and turn to wrap her in my arms. “My brother’s funeral is tomorrow morning.”

  She stiffens and then pulls away from me, her blue-green eyes cutting me open. “Do you want me to go?”

  “Do you want to go?” I ask.

  “If you want me to,” she says. “If it would help you.”

  I want to ask if going would help her. If it would give her closure. But I don’t. Instead, I just kiss her hair and tell her I want here there. Right now, Zoya is the only thing that feels right to me. The idea of being away from her makes me feel unmoored.

  So, the next morning, I put on my best suit, and Zoya manages to make business formal look sexy by putting on a black pencil skirt with a dark-gray v-neck sweater. I bought her a few things to wear around the estate, but she had to borrow the funeral outfit from the chef, Samara.

  I worry that having Zoya with me will feel like a betrayal to Mikhail. That bringing the woman carrying his child to his funeral is breaking some kind of unwritten brother code. But as soon as I see the casket at the end of the church aisle, I squeeze Zoya’s hand and forget everything else.

  The service is a blur. My mother watches Zoya and I carefully when we arrive, but by the end, she is weeping into a handkerchief. My father maintains his composure, but he arrives just before the preacher begins speaking, leaves the moment he is done, and doesn’t look at me once. When he walks past our row, Zoya lays her hand on my knee, and I lean into her touch more than I ever have before.

  By the time we walk out through the front doors of the church and into the day, I’m glad to be free of the church and the emotions inside.

  I just want to forget about it.

  Zoya checks up on me on the drive home and during lunch, making sure I’m okay, but I wish she would stop. When I pull her in for a kiss and tip her back, my hand curled around her neck, she pulls away.

  “Are you sure?” she asks, face filled with concern.

  I nod and pull her against me, crushing my lips on hers. In an instant, our funeral clothes are on the floor, and I’m channeling every emotion from the day into Zoya.

  I bend her over the side of my bed and press into her with one quick thrust. She cries out and then stretches her arms out in front of her, arching her back into me for more.

  She didn’t cry at the funeral. Not that I saw, anyway. And I’m not sure what that means.

  Did she love Mikhail? Was he just a fling?

  Her concern has been for me all day, but I’m desperate to get inside her head and find out what she is thinking. How she is feeling.

  Would she rather I be dead in his place?

  The thought is morbid, and if Mikhail and I weren’t identical twins, I probably wouldn’t have even considered it. But since we are, I can’t help but wonder who she is thinking of while she is fucking me. Is she imagining me or my brother?

  When I come, I’m more frustrated than when I started.

  Zoya flips over, a sated smile on her face, and lays a hand over her stomach. Over her baby.

  It’s almost easy to forget she is pregnant at times.

  Her morning sickness comes and goes, though it mostly takes the form of nausea, especially when she is hungry. Otherwise, her symptoms are minimal.
It’s too early for any outward signs, so I have to remind myself she is carrying a child. My brother’s child.

  “What are you going to tell the baby about their father?” I ask, blurting out the question before I can second guess myself.

  Zoya is still smiling when she looks at me, but as the question washes over her, the smile fades. She slides to the top of the bed and slips beneath the covers, pulling the sheet over her chest as though she is ashamed. It is the first time she has covered herself like that since I first peeled her clothes off.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” I start, trying to figure out exactly what I do mean. “What are you going to say about him?”

  She crosses her arms over her stomach and looks down at the mattress. “Nothing if I can help it.”

  The words hit me like an arrow in the chest. I’d felt bad for Zoya. For the hand life had dealt her. I felt bad that Mikhail would never be the supportive baby daddy he could have been and that she was left as a single mother. But now?

  Now, I’m angry.

  “Nothing?” I snap. I push off of the bed and grab my boxers from the floor. “You don’t think the child deserves to know?”

  Her cheeks are red and there are tears welling up in her eyes. “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I do,” I say bitterly, stepping into my pants and zipping them up. “I understand perfectly. Now that he is dead, you can just forget about him entirely.”

  Zoya’s attention snaps to me, her eyes narrowed, pointed jaw set. “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about?” I breath, buttoning my shirt with nervous fingers. As soon as I’m finished, I glare at her. “I’m talking about my brother, Zoya. The man whose funeral we just attended.”

  Her face goes as white as the sheets.

  “He looks just like me. Maybe you remember him,” I say sarcastically, throwing up a dismissive hand to wave her away.

  “I don’t understand what you are talking about.” Her voice is shaking, near tears.

  I’m tired of the dramatics. Clearly, Zoya was playing some kind of game. I showed up and saved her, and she thought she could turn my grace into a free ticket for her and her child. Fuck that.

  “I know Mikhail is the father of your baby, so drop the act. My mother told me.”

  Her brows pull together, and she shakes her head. “Your mother?”

  “She saw you two together about ten weeks ago. Timeline matches up.”

  Zoya looks like she is going to be sick. “Alek. Please. You don’t understand. I—”

  Before she can say anything else, the door to my room bursts open.

  I turn to see Boris barreling into my room. “For fuck’s sake. Knock.”

  “No time,” he says, slightly out of breath. He turns and sees Zoya naked in my bed. She pulls the blankets higher around her shoulders and turns away, her cheeks red. Boris’ eyebrow raises in either surprise or amusement—maybe both.

  “Then what is it?” I demand, grabbing the door frame and threatening to close it in his face.

  He puts his foot against the bottom of the door to stop me. “One of our warehouses was just attacked. It’s rubble.”

  For the first time in several days, Zoya is out of my head and work takes over. It feels good to forget the drama for a minute. “Who?”

  “Who do you think?” Boris says. The answer is obvious: it’s our rivals. Clearly, they are not just some small-time gang we don’t need to worry about. Otherwise, they wouldn’t dare make a move this bold. “We have to go.”

  I look back at Zoya in the bed for an instant. She is still pale and shaky, her lower lip trembling. She opens her mouth to say something, but I hold up a hand to stop her. “We’ll talk later.”

  As soon as I close the door on her, I want to turn back and hear her explanation. I want to be wrong about everything.

  “Please tell me that girl is a fling,” Boris groans.

  The desire to protect Zoya is still firmly in place, and I turn on him. “What does it matter to you?”

  “Me?” He asks, shrugging. “It doesn’t. You should just know she is trouble.”

  “How so?” Before two weeks ago, I didn’t know anything about Zoya. But in the short time we’ve spent together, I’ve learned that she is gentle and caring, though she also has a serious dose of snark. She is not afraid to share her opinion—unless, of course, it comes to the small detail of my dead brother being the father of her unborn baby. Zoya is tough when she needs to be, but she is also sweet enough to soften my rough edge, to make me feel things I’ve never felt before.

  “Drama,” Boris says with a disinterested wave of her hand. “She got herself pregnant, fired, and then in trouble with a rival gang. I mean, what more reason do you need? Though, the baby won’t be a concern much longer, I suppose.”

  I snap my attention to him. “What does that mean?”

  “Her mother said she is going to get an abortion.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t make any difference to me, of course, but it might to you.”

  Is that what Zoya was going to tell me? That she was going to get an abortion so it didn’t matter who the baby’s father was?

  Except, it did matter.

  Mikhail is dead and this child is all I will have left of him.

  How could Zoya do this? To Mikhail? To me?

  We’d talked about her coming to Moscow with me. She’d pointed to her stomach, insinuating the baby was part of her plans, and I’d told her we would figure it out. Why would she say any of that if she was planning to get an abortion?

  Thoughts and questions swirl around my head as I get into Boris’ car and we drive to the warehouse. Anger ebbs and flows, mingled with betrayal and shame. I let a woman distract me. I let her tear down my walls and step all over my heart.

  But I won’t let her distract me anymore.

  If there is anything this experience has taught me, it is that I was right all along. There is nothing more important than the work. I just need to put my head down, get rid of this rival family, and become the boss of the Levushka family.

  Fuck everything else.

  Fuck my father and his disappointment in me.

  And most of all… fuck Zoya.

  Chapter 15

  Zoya

  It takes me thirty minutes to find the strength to crawl out of bed and put my clothes on after Aleksandr leaves.

  His words ring in my head the entire time.

  I know Mikhail is the father of your baby.

  She saw you two together about ten weeks ago.

  Timeline matches up.

  In the moment, I wanted to shout that he was crazy. But then, reality hit me. I’d never been alone with Mikhail. And certainly never when his mother was around.

  She saw you two together about ten weeks ago. Timeline matches up.

  A wave of nausea washes over me as I walk towards the cottage where I grew up, where my mother still lives. Where I lived up until a little over a week ago.

  I press my hand to my stomach and think the question as loudly as I can, desperate for an answer. Who is your father?

  Mikhail had always been the Levushka twin most interested in me. But that was only because he was the Levushka twin most interested in everyone. He smiled easily, flirted often, and was always in search of the next good time. I talked to him a handful of times over the years, but there was always something shinier to distract him, and I actively avoided him when I could. So, the thought that he could have been my first time—Aleksandr’s brother—makes me feel sick.

  When my mom answers the door, her face is stern and unphased. She knows I’ve been staying in Aleksandr’s rooms with him, but she hasn’t come to see me. Even when Boris was away from the estate. I know she is still angry with me.

  However, as soon as she sees me—really sees me—her eyes widen and she opens her arms. “What is it, Zoya?”

  I fall into her embrace like a child and weep.

  She has to drag me to the sofa in our
small living room, my head on her shoulder the entire time. Her hand presses firm circles into my back, and she whispers words of comfort in my ear. I don’t really hear them, but the soothing cadence of her voice is enough to calm me down after a while.

  “Talk to me,” she says, propping me up. “Is it about the baby?”

  I wipe at my eyes and nod.

  “Is everything okay? Is it healthy?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Or, I think so.”

  She seems relieved for a moment, but then she frowns. “Then what is the matter?”

  I inhale and let out a shuddering breath. “You’ve wanted me to tell you who the father is since the first moment I said I was pregnant.”

  My mother leans forward and grips my hands, nodding, encouraging me to continue.

  “And I’ve refused. I know it upset you, and I’m sorry for that, but I couldn’t tell you the truth. It was too horrible.”

  Her lower lip trembles. “Who was it? Who could it be that you would keep it a secret?”

  “That is the thing,” I say. “I don’t know who it is.”

  She pulls away slightly, her head tilting to the side. “A stranger?”

  I shake my head. “Not like that. I mean, I don’t remember getting pregnant. I don’t remember sleeping with anyone.”

  Her expression is blank, unreadable, so I continue.

  “I was a – well, I’d never been with anyone. At least, I didn’t think so until I found out I was pregnant.” I wipe residual tears from my eyes and sniffle, trying to compose myself. “I remember the night I went out. Going to the bar, buying a drink. But that is it. Everything else is a blur. I just woke up in my bed the next morning with no memory. But now, Aleksandr—”

  She gasps. “Did Aleksandr--?”

  “No!” I cut her off before she can finish the question. “No, not Aleksandr. But – but Mikhail…maybe.”

  Her top lip pulls back in a snarl. “How did you find out?”

  “Aleksandr told me he spoke with his mother. She saw me with Mikhail that night, found out I was pregnant later, and did the math.” It feels good to say it out loud. To explain the entire story to my mother the way I didn’t have a chance to explain it to Aleksandr. I can only hope he’ll listen to me. And if he does, that he won’t hate me afterward.