The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

I’m not sure.

I’m definitely not ready to take that risk today.

I text Gretchen back. Sorry—I’ve been slammed! I’ll call you when I have a chance to catch up.

There. That should hold her off for a few days if not another week. It will give me time to figure out if I’m going to lie to her or try to alert her to my situation.

My phone rings again. It’s Sarah, the summer associate helping me with Adrian’s case. I pick up.

“Hi, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” I say, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. “As I said, bed rest is precautionary. I’m at full capacity, I just have to stay at home.”

“Right, right,” she says. “Of course. I have all the materials you requested, so do you want me to courier them over?”

Well, shit.

“No,” I say quickly. “Please just scan them all and send them digitally.”

“Ew. I really don’t have time for that, and I don’t think Lacey does either.” Lacey is the legal secretary that four associates share.

“Fine. I will send a courier to pick them up.”

“Okay. I’ll put them at the front desk.”

I breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn’t question why I don’t want her to send our usual courier service out with it. Ravil will have to send one of his guys to do it. Or book a real courier.

“Listen, I found something else out about the case. Dick seemed worried about us representing the Russian mob, so he had me do some digging.”

Dick? She’s on a first name basis with him? Jesus, is the summer associate fucking a partner? Sounds like it.

“Anyway, word is the FBI is pissed about the fire because they had that building on watch. Seems like a suspected sex slavery ring is or was being operated out of there. Or something like that. So you just might want to think about who you’re representing.”

I draw a slow breath. “Defense attorneys represent their clients, period. In this country, we have a constitution that affords all human beings the same rights, and one of those is a fair trial.”

“I know, I know. No offense. I just thought you should know.”

“Well, thank you. I will figure out if it’s of any use to me.”

I’m pissed now. Because I see exactly where this thing is going. Dick’s screwing the new law student and using her to build his negative smear campaign against me for the partnership debate.

Well, screw them.

Screw them all.

I hang up without a goodbye, my teeth clenched. Only after I sit in silence for a moment do I start to unpack the information she gave me.

Human sex trafficking.

Is it possible Adrian burned down the building to destroy evidence because the feds were getting too close to an illegal operation?

Despite what I told Sarah, the idea makes me sick.

Especially because this case is tied to Ravil.

Does this mean Ravil’s a sex trafficker?

A wave of nausea blows through me, and a splitting headache comes on.

Screw it. I’m not going to even bother trying to work through it. I’m officially on bed rest.

I’m going to bed.

I grab a paperback out of the box of books Ravil brought to me—a mixture of Viking romance and the latest non-fiction bestsellers. I suspect he reviewed my Kindle purchases.

I crack open a book featuring a man with a bare chest and washboard abs on the cover. I used to think reading romance was too low-brow for me. I mean, I read them as a teenager but stopped when I went to college. But screw that. Romance is exactly the thing a pregnant woman should read. Love, sex and happily ever afters. There’s no reason to put anything negative in the mix.

Especially not the real-life negative news Sarah just laid on me.

Chapter 11

Ravil

Against my better judgement, Saturday, I drive Lucy to her father’s rehab center as a reward for her good behavior.

She settled into an uneasy routine for the rest of the week. We took daily walks and swims, shared meals. Shared long, intense sex sessions. Natasha came by to massage her every day. To my amusement, she requested perogies every day and devoured them like they were the finest delicacy. She practiced her Russian with the guys, whom I still have not allowed to speak English to her, despite the fact that she knows they can.

Dima and I closely monitored her phone calls and communications, but she didn’t seem to make any secret or overt pleas for help. Gretchen, her friend from DC—the one she came to Black Light with—called a couple times, but Lucy didn’t answer or call back.

For whatever reason, she’s being compliant. I’m not foolish enough to believe she’s accepted her fate. I know she’s biding her time.

“Thank you for this,” she says, staring straight forward through the windshield of my Jaguar I-Pace.

“You will not make me sorry.” It’s a warning.