The Fixer (Chicago Bratva 2)

I nod my agreement. “Do you trust him to take care of your mother?”

She goes still and gives me a sidelong look then slowly shakes her head. “No. I think my dad must’ve been losing his mind when he cooked up that arrangement. All of the arrangements.”

“Meaning you don’t trust me, either?”

She shrugs. “It feels like punishment. I was never the sweet, doting daughter he wanted me to be. Why else would he pin me to the one guy in his organization who has the biggest reason to hate me? He must be cackling from the grave right now.”

I make a non-committal sound and look out the window. Do I hate her for what she did? For lying about me and getting me thrown out of Igor’s cell?

Maybe I did when it happened. It solidified my feelings about women as lying, manipulative pains in the ass. I don’t know if I still do. Yes, I think she’s a petulant and spoiled mafiya princess, but I also know she is exactly what Igor made her.

Is it possible she’s not in any danger, and this was just Igor’s final punishment to us both? That he enacted some kind of rich irony to couple us together after we fucked each other over so well last time. That his money is not actually what’s putting Sasha in danger, it’s the glue that keeps us bound?

I suppose.

But I doubt it. I know the workings of the bratva. This is one of Igor’s many machinations, yes, but I still believe it was because he trusted me to keep Sasha alive.

He wasn’t sure about the men he kept closest to him in Moscow.

“I don’t hate you for the past,” I say, finally, still looking out the window. “But I’m not above punishing you.” Igor planted the seed that I would exact retribution with her. After experiencing how pleasurable it was to spank her gorgeous ass, I’m not inclined to let her off the hook.

I sense a shiver run through her. I steal a glance where she sits beside me. Her pouty lips are parted, and I see a flash of both excitement and vulnerability. A glimpse of that beautiful, underloved teenager, desperate for attention from any quarter and seeking it from me.

But the moment she realizes I’m looking, her mouth snaps closed, and she lifts her chin. “Maybe I’ll be punishing you,” she sniffs.

Fuck.

Me.

Maybe this all was Igor’s big, sick joke.

Sasha

Maxim pays someone at the curb to take our bags and check us in, so we can go straight to the security line. There, he pays someone for us to cut in line.

I’ve forgotten how nice it is to travel with a powerful man. It’s not that I didn’t have money in my purse when I went back and forth between California and Moscow. But it wasn’t the same. I’ve been sheltered my whole life. My years at USC were off the charts fun—having freedom and developing friendships—but I was still just a college student. I had no power.

I didn’t know how to grease wheels or who to bribe. But maybe that’s only a secret club for men, anyway. Women rely on their beauty to get special favors. It’s always worked for me.

My minidress gets me plenty of attention. Honestly, it’s way more something I’d wear to go out dancing at a nightclub than something to travel in. Ditto on the platform sandals. I wore it to get under Maxim’s skin, still under the impression I’d be able to talk him out of dragging me to Chicago.

But here I am in the airport showing way too much skin. Oh well, I might as well own it. I toss my hair and cock a hip, pretending I’m a movie star, and that’s why we get to cut in line.

Maxim loops an arm around my waist and draws me closer to him. My breast brushes against his chest, my nipple puckering in my bra. My panties are still wet from his spanking in the car.

I arch a brow but don’t pull away. I was expecting a rebuke or the crankiness my father used to show when he thought I looked slutty. I like Maxim’s response quite a bit better. “Staking your claim?” I purr.

“Damn straight.” He looks around. “It’s either that or kill every man who looks at you, and I don’t think that would go over in an airport.” He gazes down, standing taller than me, even in the platform heels. “I seem to recall you have a streak of exhibitionism in you,” he says.

I blink, startled by the observation.

“So I figure I’d better accept it, or I’ll spend the rest of my life mopping blood from the floor.”

I’m even more surprised by his chosen response. Do I have a streak of exhibitionsim in me? My mother always said I was a show-off. My father told me to stop begging for attention.