The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

“Careful,” I say. “She’s smart. By next week, she’ll probably understand you.”

“By next week, she’ll have figured out we all speak English,” Dima says.

“Privet, Oleg.” Lucy makes a point of waving at Oleg, who, of course, hasn’t responded.

He lifts his chin a notch to acknowledge her.

“Oleg doesn’t speak,” I tell her. “The bratva cell he was in cut out his tongue to keep him from talking about the things he’d seen before they left him to take the fall for it. He spent twelve years in a Siberian prison before he was released and escaped to America.”

Lucy’s eyes round, and she swallows. “I’m sorry, Oleg. How do you say sorry?”

“Izvinite,” I tell her.

“Izvinite,” she says.

Oleg still makes little sign of acknowledgement, which isn’t unusual. The man is like a boulder. Huge, solid and about as expressive. I think when he lost his tongue he stopped attempting to communicate in any form other than with his fists and sheer size.

“Need anything?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I have work to do.”

I lead her to the bedroom. “Of course. I programmed my number into your phone. Text me when you’re ready for lunch.”

She shoots a hardened look at me. “I’m not eating in the room again.”

I pause in the doorway and pick up her hand, bringing her wrist to my lips. I brush a light kiss over her pulse. “Care to rephrase that, kitten?”

A muscle ticks in her jaw. She doesn’t want to ask me for anything, that much is plain.

She huffs a little. Instead of asking nicely, she lifts her chin and meets my gaze squarely. “Don’t make me.”

That’s about as close as she’ll come to begging, I imagine.

“I’ll fetch you for lunch, then. Twelve o’clock.”

She turns into the room without a word.

“Text me if you’re hungry sooner.” I can’t have her blood sugar getting low.

She flips me the bird over her shoulder, and I smirk because the gesture’s more juvenile than I’d expect from the bad ass professional, but I love it all the same.

I shut the door and call Oleg to sit outside it again.

To watch over my beautiful bird in her cage.

Chapter 8

Lucy

I spend the morning working on my cases and communicating with the office—trying to make sure everyone understands I’m still available and working just as hard even though I’m not on site.

With the partner position being voted on soon, I can’t afford any slip-ups.

Despite the insanity of my present situation, feeling the baby kick buoys my spirits. I don’t get into the whole spiritual “it was meant to be” thing the way Gretchen, my best friend from law school does, but it did seem like a message from the universe that everything is okay.

Or not to sweat the small stuff, and it’s all small stuff. Because in the big picture—I’m having a baby, and that baby is healthy. And really, that’s all I can worry about at the moment. As for how I will get myself out of this prison or what will happen after the baby’s born… I can only take it one day at a time.

Learning Russian already makes me feel better about Ravil’s threat to send me to Russia. I have a penthouse full of people to practice the language with. Every word I learn frees me from his tyranny.

And I’m settling into the certainty that he won’t hurt me. He has looked after my physical needs with massive attentiveness. I have zero complaints other than wanting my freedom.

So maybe this happened for a reason. Some reason I can’t see yet. That’s what Gretchen would say.

As if Gretchen senses my thoughts, she chooses now to call. I stare at the screen. I’m dying to talk to her. She’s the one person who knows about Ravil. She knows how I met him and what he is. But that means talking to her and keeping my present situation a secret would be too difficult. I’d want to tell her everything.

I let it go to voicemail with a sigh.

I choose to dig into Adrian’s case since I’m here, wrapped in Ravil’s world. I open his file again. He lives in the Kremlin, too. What a surprise. I review our interaction, which had been brief. At the time, all I could think about was the fact that the father of my baby was in my office and knew my secret.

Now, I examine the few words we exchanged.

He spoke in Russian and Ravil corrected him. It sounded like something they’d discussed before—a reminder. I tap my lips with my index finger. That doesn’t fit with the man who told me no one here speaks English.

To me, it sounds like the opposite. Like he’s insisted they learn and use it. So my guess is that Ravil’s trying to put one over on me. Keep me helpless.

A little rush of smugness filters in at figuring it out. My instinct to learn Russian was dead on, but it may not even be necessary. I just need to trick one of them into answering me.