The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

Ravil looks at him coolly. “Come by my apartment tonight around eight, Leo,” he says.

Leo’s eyes widen. Out of the pool, he stands taller than I initially thought, but he’s still lanky. Probably no more than fifteen or sixteen. He holds his free hand up. “I’m really sorry. Being here when I wasn’t supposed to was really disrespectful. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Ravil nods, setting our towels down on a chaise lounge. “Apology accepted. I still need to see you tonight. Eight o’clock. Understand?”

Leo grabs a towel and opens it for his girlfriend in a decidedly gentlemanly move. “Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t bother drying off himself, just shoves his feet in his flip flops, grabs his towel and girlfriend’s hand and starts toward the doors.

He turns back. “Mr. Baranov?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to tell my mom about this?” His voice cracks a little on the word mom.

“No,” Ravil says. “We’ll leave her out of it. Unless you no-show on me tonight.”

“I won’t,” the young man swears.

“See that you don’t.” Ravil’s already given him his back, kicking off his flip flops and heading for the pool steps.

I watch the couple leave before I join him. The pool is beautiful. The kind that’s made to look like a natural water feature, with a gentle hourglass shape and a spa that cascades down soft rocks into the pool.

“It’s salt water,” Ravil says. “Perfect for your waterbirth.”

My waterbirth.

This man must be insane.

I am not giving birth on a roof in a pool.

I slip off the robe and step in. The water is perfect— refreshing on a warm summer afternoon.

“What did you say to Leo when you spoke in Russian?”

Ravil’s lips twitch. “I asked him if he had sex in my pool.”

I laugh despite myself.

Ravil’s eyes trace my face as if he finds my laugh fascinating.

I quickly tuck my smile away. “What’s going to happen at eight?”

Again, Ravil’s lips curve at the edges. We stand in the shallow end, the water rising to our ribs. “I’m going to have the sex talk with him. Give him condoms and make sure he knows how to treat a girl.”

My lips part. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t that.

“You are?” I say, inanely.

Ravil nods. “He lives with his single mother. I have a responsibility to step in for these man-to-man talks. Especially when I catch him stripping his girlfriend in my pool.”

I can’t help it. I laugh again. It’s so damn sweet. Here I was thinking Ravil was going to make some wicked threat to the kid. Instead, he’s… well, fathering the boy.

“Is he a relative?” I ask.

“No,” Ravil says. “But the Kremlin is my village. And I’m their leader. I have a duty to look after all of them... if I can.”

Something uncomfortable twists under my ribs. An unease.

Maybe I misjudged Ravil.

Maybe horribly.

But no. He’s a criminal. His tattoos prove it.

You claim to have complete knowledge of my profession—exactly what I do and how I manage my business? You researched this thoroughly?

I didn’t. I essentially racially profiled him. Although he did choke a man at Black Light for insulting me. That was a huge red flag for me.

Still, I have no other proof against him that he’s a bad man. Unfit to be a parent.

So perhaps that’s where I must begin. To build my case against him. Or for him. Either way, I need to build a case. Look at the evidence, weigh it.

I duck my head under the water and breast stroke to the opposite end of the pool. It feels great to be weightless. To exercise without the discomfort of my new shape. Without that bone tired feeling I sometimes get when I haven’t eaten enough protein or red meat for the baby.

I swim laps back and forth. Ravil sits at the edge of the pool and watches.

Eventually, I get tired and come up for air near him, water streaming down my face and hair.

“Why did you become a defense attorney?” he asks.

I squeeze my hair out and labor to climb out and sit beside him. “My father is a defense attorney. He represented some of the biggest organized crime leaders in Chicago. Some people said he must be soulless to represent them. That he lined his pockets with blood stained bills. But the thing is—my father believed, as do I, that every man has a constitutional right to a fair trial.”

Ravil raises a brow, and I catch the accusation in it. I didn’t offer him any such due process. I tried and convicted him based on hearsay. I tried to keep him from his own flesh and blood based on my own prejudice.

I drop my gaze to my bikini top and adjust it to keep my breasts covered.

“I grew up hearing my father defend his choice at the dinner table or family gatherings. People inevitably ask, why would you defend a criminal? Especially if you know he’s a criminal?”