The Fixer (Chicago Bratva 2)

I nod, unsurprised. Ravil is a smart man.

“Sasha won’t try to run again?”

She might. I’m not dumb enough to think I have her tamed or that she trusts me. We seem to be getting along, but I know firsthand how she can flip on a dime. Still, when she ran, she didn’t run far, and she knew I’d follow. In other words, she didn’t run in earnest, she was just making me work.

“I can handle her.”

The bedroom door opens, and Sasha comes out in her running shorts. “I’m going for a run.” She has that haughty air about her that she had when I first brought her back.

“Not alone, you’re not.”

She ignores me and walks to the door. “Better hurry, then.”

Fuck me. I’m already in my running clothes because I anticipated her desire, but I scramble to grab my keycard and wallet. I catch her in the hall outside the penthouse, wrapping an arm around her waist to drag her back to me. “Hey. Hey. What’s the deal?”

When she fights me, I nail her up against the wall and pin her wrists beside her head. “Caxapok. What happened?” I try to look at her face, but she’s looking through me. I drop my face into her neck and nuzzle. “Why are you making me work? What did I do wrong?”

Her breath rasps between us for a moment. “What were you saying about me?” There’s accusation in her tone.

Aw, fuck. I rewind, trying to remember what I’d said to Ravil. What she’d heard.

I hold her wrists firmly and pin her with my most direct stare. “I was not being disrespectful, I swear on your father’s grave.”

She makes a scoffing sound and starts to look away, but her gaze bounces back to mine. She’s unsure. I don’t know what made her so damn insecure. A half an hour ago, we were in post-coital bliss, her tucked against my side purring. But I get it. Nobody likes to be talked about. It probably perpetuates that feeling that she’s not in charge of her own life.

“Ravil asked if you were going to keep running. I said I could handle you. I’m sorry. I did not mean to fuck this up. Did I hurt your feelings?”

I press a kiss to her temple, her cheek. Her nose.

“How are you going to handle me?” she asks sullenly. She’s sulking, but I can tell whatever barrier she’d thrown up is dropping.

“Hey.” I shift in front of her when she looks away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything other than that if you run, I’ll chase. You already know that, don’t you, lyubimaya?”

“Why was he asking?”

I narrow my eyes. “What’s this about?”

“Don’t gaslight me. I want to know why you two were discussing me.”

I release her wrists and straighten, realizing there’s something more seriously amiss here. She’s genuinely worried about something.

“Ravil’s my pakhan. We were discussing business. You’re part of our business now. If someone comes after you, Ravil’s cell—my cell—will be the ones who have to take care of it. That’s all.”

She swallows and nods, but I’m not certain I convinced her.

“Listen, I know it’s hard to trust. This marriage blindsided both of us, and your whole life changed in an instant. I’m sorry about that. But I’m not planning any more surprises. I’m not going to make decisions on your behalf unless it’s to protect you. You have my word.”

The fight goes out of Sasha, and she leans against the wall like it’s holding her up.

“Are we okay?”

She nods, but it looks a little shaky.

“You still want to run?”

Her nod quickens. “Definitely.”

I hit the elevator button and gesture toward it when the doors immediately open. “After you, caxapok.”

Sasha

The fist in my solar plexus only loosens part way with Maxim’s promises. We step into the elevator together, and I have to breathe down my anxiety.

I hate living with suspicions. I wish mom had never suggested he might be after my money, that he might be trying to kill me because now the slightest thing gets me paranoid.

Not that hearing them talking about me in low voices can be categorized as the slightest thing. I think I had good reason to question him.

My mom texted me this morning from a new number to tell me she was still safe but not to contact her. She told me to get a burner phone, warning me that Maxim had access to all my call history, even if I deleted messages.

Of course, I know she’s right. I knew he’d put a tracker in my phone the moment he handed it to me.

The trouble is—how do I even get a burner phone when my husband won’t let me out of his sight? And even if my mom’s wrong—even if I can trust Maxim—is this any way to live?

I can’t be suffocated like this for much longer without going nuts. I know Maxim said it was temporary, but I don’t know if I can believe that. Or how long temporary will be.