All Chapters of A Taste of the Bratva King: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

TamaraThe clock in the Vorobevs' foyer hasn't stopped its relentless counting, but this morning each tick feels like a nail being driven into my skull.I press my palms against the marble kitchen counter, the cold stone doing nothing to stop my hands from shaking. Two weeks and three days. That's how long I've been here, and the Vorobevs should have returned yesterday. Should have called. Should have done something other than vanish into thin air like smoke from one of Leonid's expensive cigars.My phone sits face-up on the counter, screen black and silent. I've called them six times since dawn. Six times straight to voicemail, Elena's melodic voice promising to return my call soon. Empty words that grow more hollow each time I hear them.Slava babbles from his high chair, mashing banana between his tiny fingers, little dark brows furrowed in concentration. The sun filtering through the kitchen windows is warm and golden, and the house should feel alive with morning energy. Instead,

TamaraBiological father?Sergei?What the actual everloving fuck?Everything I thought I knew crumbles like dust. The last thing I expected today was to see Sergei. The man I ran away from. The man who murdered my father. The man whose child I'm carrying— and he doesn't even know I'm still pregnant with his baby. The man whose son I'm holding in my arms.This feels like some twisted romance novel where coincidences pile up until reality becomes absurd. But this is my life, and I'm drowning in the impossibility of it all.My head reels as I desperately try to piece together this nightmare puzzle. How is this even possible? What are the chances that the baby I've been caring for, the child I've grown to love, belongs to him?Mr. Simpson licks his lips nervously, his gaze bouncing between Sergei and me like he's watching a tennis match. The poor man looks utterly bewildered by the sudden tension. No wonder he's confused— the tension in this room is strung taut, and it's obvious he has n

SergeiThe sounds of the orphanage seem to fade into the background as we head through the foyer; children's voices, doors opening and closing, the bustle of a building filled with life.Tamara hasn't spoken since we arrived. She cradles Slava against her chest, her energy vibrating with an agitation so heavy I can taste it. Every breath she takes seems to pull the oxygen from my lungs, and she still won't look at me. Only the electric charge between us tells me she's acutely aware of my presence, my every movement.Concentrate, dolboyob.Your son needs you focused.But even as I try to push it down, I feel the heat radiating from her body as we climb the stairs. The way her pulse flutters at her throat. The careful distance she maintains that somehow makes the space between us hum like a live thing.The questions burn on my tongue.Why did you leave Budapest?What were you doing with the Vorobevs?How long have you been taking care of him?But none of that matters now. Right now, we'

TamaraThe lights of the orphanage corridor burn my retinas as we step toward the exit.My legs feel unsteady, like I'm walking on the deck of a ship in rough waters. Everything that just happened with Slava— seeing his little face confused and reaching for me as we left him behind— sits heavy in my chest, a weight that makes each breath feel deliberate.Sergei walks beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with something sharper. Stress, maybe. Fear. The scent that clings to him when he's barely holding himself together, the same smell that filled the BMW when he drove like a madman through Budapest's streets, racing against time while I bled our baby's life away in the passenger seat.I force that memory down, but it claws at my throat anyway.The heavy wooden doors require Sergei's shoulder to push them open, the hinges creaking in protest. The sound reverberates through the hallway behind us, final and irreversible.Outside, the world has transformed. What had be

SergeiFuck.Fuck.And more fuck.I sit here like some pathetic mudak, staring out at the rain-slicked window of this sterile hotel room in Boston. The droplets streak down the glass, distorting the city lights into blurred smears of yellow and white. The vodka in my glass has gone warm, untouched for the past hour while my mind churns through the same goddamn loop.Tamara.Walking away from me.Again.Her spine rigid as a steel rod, those long, beautiful legs carrying her away from me with the kind of determination that makes my chest feel like it's being crushed in a vise. The way she wouldn't meet my eyes when I found her in that parking lot— blyad, it's eating me alive. She looked through me like I was nothing. Like I was a stranger.What the fuck happened?The question pounds in my skull like a migraine. Weeks ago, she left me without explanation. Before that, we'd been navigating the careful balance around her recovery from the miscarriage— the baby we'd lost, the one that had b