Page 95 of Bratva Baby

“You always did mistake breathing room for victory.”

His eyes flick toward the folder in my hand. “Is that it?”

I raise a brow at him. “No greeting for your cousin? No concern? You used to have manners.”

His smile thins. “You used to have sense.”

“I still do. That’s why you’re standing in a yard at midnight trying to trade hostages for paper.”

He takes one step closer, and two men shift near the shed. One of them carries his gun openly. The other watches the road. Maks has brought enough force to feel safe and not enough to look panicked. That tells me the lie is still working.

“Where is Anton?” I ask.

“Alive.”

“I didn’t ask for poetry.”

His face tightens at the insult, but he keeps his voice pleasant. “You’re in no position to ask for much.”

“I’m carrying the thing you want, so yes, I am.” I lift the folder an inch. “Anton and Kolya walk.”

Maks’s mouth curves. “You bargain well for someone who arrived alone.”

“I didn’t arrive alone. I arrived pregnant, angry, and better informed than you. That’s crowded enough.”

For the first time, something real flashes in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or the old irritation he always had when I refused to stay in the shape he preferred. He steps close enough that I can smell his expensive soap and the cold leather of his gloves.

“Give it to me.”

“Call your men first.”

He pulls out his phone, dials, and keeps his eyes on me while the line connects. “Let Reznikov and the others move off the dock. Don’t fire unless they fire first.” He listens for a second, then adds, “That’s all for now.”

For now. I hear it and file it away.

He ends the call. “Satisfied?”

“No, but I’m less irritated.”

“That’s almost charming.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

I hand him the folder.

He doesn’t take it right away. He watches my face as if he expects me to flinch, and I let him look and see the fear because hiding all of it would be stupid. Fear belongs here. It belongs in my hands, in my throat, in the child under my heart. What doesn’t belong here is surrender.

Maks takes the folder and opens it.

The first page gets a glance.

The second gets a frown.

By the fourth, his face has gone flat.

He flips faster, then slower, then pulls one page free and holds it near the yard light. Old shipping copy. Dead vendor number. A transfer sheet that looks official until someone who knows the system notices it leads nowhere useful. Paper without teeth.

His eyes lift to mine.