The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

“All right, you do know,” he concedes, his lips twisted in a grin. “I will think of something only semi-evil, then.”

I can’t stop the smile that tickles my lips. I tap my lips with my finger, trying to punch down my anxiety over not having my files. I hate feeling unprepared. Damn, Sarah.

She probably did this on purpose to make me look bad.

I flip open the folder I brought. I can bluff with it.

My phone rings—it’s Gretchen. I slide it to decline.

As I feared, we get called into the courtroom before any courier arrives. I shoot Sarah a text. The Motion to Suppress did not arrive. You’re fired.

I probably don’t have the authority to fire her, and she will surely go running to suck Dick’s dick and make sure it doesn’t stick, but I sincerely hope she sweats it.

We go inside and take our places. I try to push the Motion out of my mind. I can bluff through this. Pretend I have the motion in my briefcase and demand they drop the case.

I can do this without the actual paperwork.

Brett Wilson, a prosecuting attorney I have tangled with many times before, gets up and presents his evidence. I start to slow my breath. Good. As I suspected, they have nothing but the illegally obtained evidence.

I get up to cross-examine the arresting officers and ask about the warrant. The officer gives me his reasons for not needing one, but I cut through his arguments.

“Your honor, I brought with me today a Motion to Suppress the evidence as it was obtained illegally.” I swivel to face the district attorney. “And without that evidence, I don’t believe you have a case. Do you still want to keep this thing going?”

“Adrian Turgenev had a beef with his employer and torched the place.”

“You have nothing to prove that.”

Wilson opens his mouth, but the judge shoots him with a look that says he’s not buying it.

“Fine.” Brett Wilson sighs and closes his eyes. “Prosecution moves to dismiss the case without prejudice, your honor.”

Yes!

Thank you, baby Jesus.

We stand, and Ravil beams at me. I can tell he wants to embrace me but knows it would look strange.

I shake both his and Adrian’s hands like we’re nothing more than attorney and client.

And then I have to pee again.

Gretchen calls again while I’m in the bathroom. I decline again—I don’t have time to talk now—and head out.

Ravil takes the three of us out to lunch at a pizza place where I definitely eat enough for two.

Gretchen calls again as we approach the Kremlin. I don’t take it, but I text her, Can I call you later?

She texts back, No!

But it doesn’t matter because as we pull into the Kremlin’s parking garage, we’re suddenly surrounded by cop cars. “Stop the car and get out with your hands up,” they say over a loudspeaker.

I look around to find cop cars swarming the garage. Dima, Nikolai, Pavel and Oleg are in handcuffs, being put into the backs of them.

Ravil twists around to glare at me, the betrayal in his eyes nearly burning me alive.

I want to deny it. Tell him I didn’t have anything to do with it, but I can’t find my voice, and the cops are dragging open the doors, guns pointed, everyone yelling.

I’m dragged out and hustled into the back of a car.

Adrian and Ravil are put face down on the filthy concrete, their hands cuffed behind their backs.

“No,” I finally manage to say. “Wait. This is a mistake. What’s happening?”

My phone rings again.

Gretchen.

Fuck!

With a trembling hand, I bring the phone to my ear. “What’s happening?” I warble into the mouthpiece.

“Lucy! Where are you? Can you talk?”

A sob wells up and lets loose. “Gretchen,” choke on the next breath I can manage. “You made a mistake.”

Chapter 17

Lucy

“Honey, they say you’re not cooperating. What’s going on?” Gretchen says.

I shake my head, tears spilling down my cheeks. I’ve been at the police station for hours. I’m so tired I want to pass out, and I’m hungry enough to eat my own hand.

“I’m hungry,” I complain.

“I’ll be right back.”

She leaves and returns with a granola bar and a mini-pack of Oreos, obviously from a vending machine.

I rip into the cookies because God knows, I need a blood sugar fix.

She sits beside me and squeezes my shoulders in a side hug. “Hey. Talk to me.”

I just shake my head and drain the Dixie cup of water they gave me last time I whined about food and water. I haven’t answered any of their questions. As an attorney, I know better than to say anything at all that might be incriminating. Even if I don’t press charges, they can still build a case if they want to.

“You know about Stockholm Syndrome,” she says gently.

“Yes, I know about Stockholm Syndrome,” I snap. Dammit. Do I have Stockholm Syndrome? Why am I protecting Ravil? He did kidnap me, afterall.