Page 1 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

Chapter 1 - Laurel

Traffic noise wasn’t something I was used to yet, but I opened my apartment window anyway, hoping to get a little bit of fresh air. That seemed like something that was in short supply in my new city, but it was early and still somewhat cool.

I didn’t exactly breathe deeply like I might have in Virginia, where I grew up, or even in Napa Valley, where I spent the last year. No one would have dared smoke on the vineyard grounds, but the distinct whiff of cigarette wafted into my kitchen to remind me I was embarking on a whole new life.

One I still wasn’t too sure about. Everything was more expensive than I expected, and everything moved incredibly fast compared to what I was used to. I was on my own, truly on my own, for the first time, and I sometimes had difficulty blocking out the fear that I wouldn’t make it.

“You asshole,” someone yelled from down in the courtyard. “Where have you been all night?”

I slammed the window shut, not that it completely blocked out the ensuing argument that erupted downstairs. Unlike the crisp morning breeze, the sounds of fighting didn’t bring back any good memories.

“You’re completely useless,” the angry woman downstairs screamed, while the man who stayed out all night hurled back insults of his own.

Completely useless. Kind of reminded me that I hadn’t spoken to my mom in a while. The last message she sent me was when I told her I was leaving Napa, and she said I was stupid and that she and my dad wouldn’t bail me out if I couldn’t find another job in LA.

They rarely agreed on a single thing besides how much of a disappointment their only child was. And even then, that would sometimes start a fight, because someone had to take the blame for me.

Really, it was a miracle I managed as much as I did, without any support from either of them, and I concentrated hard on my old mentor at my first ever job at Five Horses Winery in Virginia. For just a brief moment, I transported myself back to those rolling green hills and rows of vines. I could almost smell the aged wooden barrels and feel the cold air in the cellar, or see the smiling faces of the regulars who watched my three-year-long journey from a waitress straight out of high school, all the way to getting my sommelier certificate.

When I opened my eyes, the fight downstairs had stopped, and now I was in danger of running late.

“Well, that’s what you get,” I muttered, hustling to get ready to catch the bus half a block down the street. No more getting lost in times that no longer existed. I had to make the present the only place I wanted to be.

The bus was crowded, as usual, during the rush to get to work, and I had to transfer, running, as usual, for the second one, since the schedules almost overlapped. It was a lot different from the decked-out Range Rover I drove in Napa.

Just like my cramped, somewhat musty apartment was a far cry from the big, modern house overlooking the vineyard. It was a small sacrifice for freedom. That’s what I kept telling myself anyway.

Oh, I didn’t regret leaving. I wished I had the strength to get out sooner. If only I could shake the feeling that I really wasn’t good enough. To live on my own, to do my job, to be able to ever, ever have a relationship with anyone that didn’t involve getting screamed at. They say that people attract what they deserve, so the fact that I went from the toxic household I grew up in to an even worse one on my first shot flying solo didn’t bode well.

But that was all changing. Getting better.

The second bus stopped a block away from my job, and I hurried toward the restaurant, still partly under construction, my worries starting to melt away. I could already envision how beautiful the place would be, and despite having a year-long gap in my work history, the Fokins had given me a chance.

Nik and Emerson were the sweetest couple ever, absolute relationship goals, and even though Emerson was probably only about six years older than me, she took me under her wing in a motherly way, all while remaining professional and not making me feel like I didn’t know what I was doing.

I was so damn lucky they bought my story of traveling throughout Europe for a year to enhance my wine knowledge and gave me a few practical tests to prove I had enough experience to be their head sommelier. Emerson had confided in me that they wanted someone young and fresh to help build a reputation for their new place, so my measly experience in Virginia wasn’t a problem for them.

It still pissed me off that the reputation I had already begun to make for myself had to be erased like it didn’t exist, but I shook it off. Now was the only thing that was important; the past could go do all those things to itself that the fighting couple had yelled at each other earlier.

It had only been two weeks since I was hired, but walking in through the back door, I already felt like I was in my second home. Hell, my first home, since I certainly didn’t have any special feelings for my apartment.

“Morning, Laurel,” Chance, the kitchen designer, said. He was pushing a cart of stainless steel shelves past me, still managing to look chic and squeaky clean despite the manual labor. Dust and paint splatters knew better than to settle on someone as fastidious as Chance.

“How’s Todd?” I asked. His husband was the dining room designer and had been on a trip to a gallery in Milan with one of the owner’s relatives to commission some paintings.

Nik and Emerson were sparing no expense.

“He’s not too happy,” Chance said, stopping as if he wanted to share some juicy gossip.

I was trying to walk the line between friendly and professional, because I knew all too well how fast things could go south when coworkers got too close. Or bosses and employees.

Before he could tell me anything, Emerson popped her head into the back and called for me to meet her in her office.

“We’ll talk later,” Chance said, then furrowed his brow. “At least I hope so.”

Oh great. Way to instill confidence. My stomach dropped as I hurried after Emerson, forcing myself not to think the worst.

My boss’s red hair, which normally flowed down her back like a Titian goddess, was wrangled into a sleek bun today. I ran my hair over my own golden brown ponytail to make sure no ends were sticking out. Once inside her office, she motioned for me to close the door behind me.