The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

Not that bratva rules don’t get broken.

Especially by those higher up.

Igor, our pakhan in Moscow, reportedly has a beautiful, red-haired daughter. He didn’t marry the mother—she’s been kept as his mistress all these years, but he essentially has a family. Of course, their whereabouts are unknown. He has to keep them safe. When he dies—and word is his cancer is spreading rapidly—he may try to leave his very large financial interests to them.

In which case, that pretty red-head probably won’t survive his funeral. I’d give her three months after his death, max.

And now I will have a child to protect, as well.

Am I going to claim him?

Lucy seems to think I have no right. That I’m unfit.

“The child is mine,” I say darkly.

No one takes what’s mine.

“Send me every bit of information you can find on Lucy Lawrence,” I order Dima. “What she does. Where she eats. What she buys. Who she calls. Everything.”

Chapter 3

Lucy

After stopping at a cafe near work to eat a quick dinner, I take a cab home. My feet are too swollen to even consider taking the El and walking the few blocks to my place.

I limp out of the elevator and open my apartment door, dropping my work satchel inside the door. My place is small but immaculate because I need order around me to manage everything on my plate. I turn on the lamp by the door. I have one heel already kicked off before I catch sight of my luggage standing near the door.

What the—?

I suck in a sharp breath, filling my lungs to—

“Don’t scream.” He barely speaks it. Just a low intonation from the shadowed figure in the armchair in my living room over by the window.

My heart stutters and thuds painfully when I identify him, one elegant leg crossed over the other, lounging back like he owns the place.

He unfolds his large form from the chair with grace.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” I catch the back of the sofa with my fingertips to steady the swoop of the room. Damn blood volume.

He doesn’t answer, just saunters toward me with a devilish smirk in place. Like he knows everything that’s about to happen and enjoys that I don’t.

Damn Russian.

“I came to get what’s mine.” He advances slowly.

The floor stops tilting enough for me to take my hand away from the couch and jab it into the purse still slung over my shoulder to find my phone. I might be able to call 911—

Ravil catches my wrist and takes the phone away, pocketing it.

Or not.

He divests me of the purse, which he drops on the floor by the satchel.

If he looked angry, if his touch had hurt me, I’m sure I would have screamed. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

In reality, I’m trapped in his azure gaze, memories of how he commanded my body so masterfully the last time we were together flooding back.

I find indulgence in his eyes... not rage. Only a hint of danger.

I put a hand protectively over my belly and take a step backward toward the door.

He catches my wrist again and pulls me back. Places my palm back on the sofa. “I liked you where you were, kotyonok.”

Kotyonok. His pet name for me.

Kitten.

He picks up my other hand and puts it on the back of the sofa, and I have no doubt why he enjoyed this position. I’m perfectly presented for a spanking. He presses down on the backs of both hands, his body crowding mine from behind. “Don’t. Move,” he murmurs against my ear.

I instantly rebel, pulling one hand up and away.

“Hmmm.” He’s patient. He catches my hand and pins it down again. “No safe words for you this, time, kitten. But I’ll be gentle.”

He bands one arm around my waist and splays his hand over my growing belly. “You shouldn’t have kept this from me.”

I go still, breath clogged in my throat.

Ravil’s aggression is leashed. Suave. He’s no more threatening than a handsy date, and yet I’m not foolish enough to underestimate him. He’s confident he holds all the cards here, and until I know what those cards are, I must be cautious. He rubs a slow circle over my baby bump.

I don’t insult his intelligence by attempting to play dumb. Say I didn’t know how to contact him. We both know I could’ve figured it out.

Keeping his hand over my belly, he uses the other to drag up the hem of my skirt in the back.

I’m wearing thigh-highs for hose—not to be sexy but because regular pantyhose are too hot to wear in July. Especially for a pregnant woman.

I hear Ravil’s intake of breath when he discovers them. “Fuck,” he chokes. “Who did you wear these for?”

I’m suddenly tempted to lie. To tell him there’s someone else. That I’m back together with Jeffrey, or maybe, I met someone new. Maybe that would stop his sexual advances.