The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

“The man is dying, and you won’t take his call?”

Maxim waits until the phone stops ringing then tucks it into his pocket, his shoulders sagging. “He wants me to come back to Russia.”

“To take his place?”

“Fuck if I know, but there’s no way I’m going. I prefer it here. With you.” He elbows Ravil who rolls his eyes.

Ravil’s phone starts ringing. He looks at the screen and sighs. “Igor.” He points a finger at Maxim. “You’re the cocksucker.” He answers the call in Russian. His voice grows gentle, and I realize they weren’t being figurative about the man dying. Ravil speaks as if he’s soothing the man.

“Who’s Igor?” I whisper.

“The bratva boss in Moscow,” Maxim says in a low voice. “He has pancreatic cancer. Everyone’s jockeying to take his place.” He holds his hands up. “But not me. You couldn’t pay me enough to move back and run the show there.”

“Is he Ravil’s boss?” I try not to sound too interested. Or that my interest is more than mere curiosity.

Maxim gives a casual shrug. “Da. But he won’t be called back because he’s done so well here. Our real estate mogul owns six buildings here.”

Ravil hangs up and looks at Maxim. “You’re in luck. He’s already named Vladimir as his successor. There will be challenges, but none of that concerns us.”

“So why does he want me out there? I’m not going to play advisor to Vladamir. That rat doesn’t deserve my strategies.”

“He said he wants to give you something before he dies. In person. It sounds like it’s very important to him. Get on a fucking plane tomorrow, I don’t think he’ll last much longer.”

Maxim scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Fine.”

“And call him the fuck back. I told him you were in the shower.”

“The shower? Really? That was the best you could come up with?”

Ravil smirks. “Call him, mudak.”

“Oh that’s cute. Are you cursing in Russian so you won’t offend the lady?”

“Get out of the kitchen.”

Maxim’s hand shoots out, and he snags another perogie before Ravil gives his backside a shove with his foot.

I reach for a perogie and bite into the meat and potato goodness.

Maxim steps into the living room and uses his phone.

“Mmm. Do you think it really is Benjamin who loves perogies?”

Ravil gazes at me fondly. “I think you both will always like them.”

Something light flutters in my chest. The idea of always. And our baby Benjamin. And Ravil looking at us both the way he looks at me now.

Chapter 14

Ravil

A week later, I watch Lucy slice through the water, her body lit only by moonlight. She’s spectacular—a clear, concise, strong swimmer. I imagine she swims the same way she does everything. With attention to detail and little extraneous noise.

She woke at midnight to pee and then stood at the great window staring out at the moon and the water. When I asked if she wanted to bathe in the moonlight, she said yes. She didn’t even bother with a swimsuit, which means I’m now harder than stone watching her. After exactly ten laps, she swims to the edge where I sit with my feet in the pool.

Water droplets run down her smooth porcelain skin. “Ravil?”

“Da?”

“How did you get into the bratva?”

I dip my hand in the water to cup her heavy breast. “The bratva found me on the streets of Leningrad when I was eight. What is now St. Petersburg. My mother was a prostitute and a drunk, and I’d already been fending for myself for as long as I could remember. Stealing food, hustling for money. They gave me little jobs—running errands, sitting lookout, picking up their clothing from the washer woman, and they paid well.

“By the time I was twelve, I’d sworn loyalty. When I was thirteen, I found my mother dead in a pool of her own vomit and blood.”

Lucy wraps her hand around my calf and looks up at me, compassion swirling in her brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Something in her expression tears a hole in my armor, and I don’t like the resulting vulnerability. Throwing my barriers back up, I say, “At seventeen I went to prison for strangling a man.”

Lucy attempts to hide her shock.

“Is this more than you wanted to know?”

“No.” She shakes her head, but I still see traces of horror on her face.

I experience a stab of defensiveness at her shock. But I’ve always been ashamed of my beginnings. It’s what made me determined to succeed at all costs. “You’re afraid I’ll raise our son to be part of the brotherhood,” I accuse.

She swallows. “Will you?”

Her mistrust of my intentions for our son angers me. It’s stupid. It’s not like I’ve told her differently. But pride makes me refuse to grovel and prove my worth. If she can’t see my honor by my actions toward her, she’s blind.