The Soldier (Chicago Bratva 4)

Blyad’. I’ve got it bad.

I head into Ravil’s office and knock on the door. He’s sitting behind his desk, looking at something on his laptop. His gaze is predictably cool. I learned everything I know about mastering a situation from him.

I enter, shoving my hands in my pockets and leaning in the doorframe. “May I interrupt?”

“Yes. Come in.”

I don’t come in. I stay where I am. Maybe because I’m not fully committed to what I’m asking. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. Or if my reasons for doing it are pure.

“I was thinking about moving my mother to America. To live here.” I drop that bomb and watch it land.

Ravil raises his brows. He knows my history. Why Igor sent me to America. “All right.”

“She doesn’t speak English. I don’t know if I could get her to learn it, either. But we have a nice community here.”

Ravil’s lips twitch. “I’m sorry, did you just say the words nice community?”

My lips quirk in return. “Not that I’ve ever participated in it. But you know, I thought my mom might find some friends here.”

“Sure.”

“You’d let her live in the Kremlin?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” I push away from the door frame but hesitate before I leave. “I’m just curious—have you ever let anyone go?”

It’s a vague question, but Ravil knows exactly what I mean. “The only way out of the brotherhood is in a box,” he tells me. Of course, I know that. It’s bratva code.

Except he’s broken the code himself. He took a wife, which is forbidden, and he allowed Maxim to remain in the cell after he married.

“What about… sending a brother to a new location? Like how Igor sent you here to the United States?”

Ravil lifts a brow. “Igor sent me here for a good reason—to set up a smuggling route. I would have to have a good reason to diminish the numbers of the Chicago Bratva. Especially those in my inner circle.”

Well, fuck.

I don’t give up, though. Ravil can be a hardass, but underneath is an unmatched benevolence. “I can’t decide if you’re giving me a hard time to watch me sweat or you’re shutting me down completely,” I tell him.

Ravil has a champion poker face—nothing shows at all in his expression. But then he says, “No one is going to hand you the life you want, Pavel. You have to take it.”

My pulse picks up at the challenge. Am I going to take it? The life I want? Kayla, as mine forever?

“Let’s say I wished to relocate—not back to Moscow. To stay in your cell, but operate in a different city. Would you let me set up an operation there? Paying my dues and answering to you, of course?”

“I’m not going to discuss hypothetical situations. When you make your choice, we’ll discuss your fate with the organization.”

I stare at him for a long moment, trying to decipher the meaning of his words. In the end, I decide he’s giving me permission. Because I can’t believe he’d put a bullet in my head without a clear warning, and this was murky as fuck. He means we’ll negotiate terms.

He means yes. I give a mental fist pump.

“Thank you.”

He nods.

“Spasibo,” I repeat my thanks in Russian because I feel so much fucking gratitude I almost smile—a very rare occurrence for me.

Kayla

I venture into the kitchen with a towel wrapped under my armpits to grab a can of soda. I have an audition this afternoon before my weekend with Pavel.

“You look great,” I tell my roommate Kimberly, who is dressed in a pair of short-shorts with fishnets underneath and a child-sized red T-shirt with the name of a new energy drink across her tits.

“You should be going with us,” she complains. Normally I would be dressed in the same shirt, going out with my three roommates. We’re a promotions team. Or we were. But most promotions fall on Friday afternoons or evenings, which means I’ve missed seven out of the last nine events. “I don’t know how you’re going to pay the rent when you’ve barely worked in a month,” she says.

I get it. They feel let down. Maybe they miss me. It’s not like they can’t do the jobs without me. Jagger, the company owner, just finds another woman to fill in for me.

“Well, I have enough to get by.” I don’t want to tell her that Pavel’s been giving me money. I don’t want them inferring that he’s paying me for sex. They already think our relationship is bizarre.

Kimberly puts her hands on her hips. At five foot ten and in six-inch heels, she towers over me. I’m barely over five feet, but as my agent likes to say, I make up for the size in talent and hard work. That’s the pitch, anyway. “How long is this thing going to keep going?” she demands, and I bristle.