The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

That goal takes some of the fear out of me ending up in Russia. Knowing the language would definitely make that scenario less terrifying.

I down the water, even though it guarantees I’ll be up in two hours to pee, and lie down with my back to Ravil. I’m just going to close my eyes until the food gets here.

Chapter 6

Ravil

Lucy doesn’t wake up when the food is delivered, so I send Pavel to bring it to the kitchen refrigerator, strip down to my boxer briefs, and climb under the sheets with her.

And then I lie awake, my hands behind my head. Thinking.

I didn’t get to my position at the top of the bratva by changing my mind once I’d made a decision. That doesn’t mean I don’t modify a plan in motion. Just that when I set my sights on something, I don’t stop until I get what I’m after.

In this case, I might not have been totally clear on what I am after.

Is it Lucy? Or only the child? Or is it mostly to punish Lucy for the offense? A good pakhan is capable of seeing his own weakness. Knowing his motives.

Blyat. I wanted to punish her.

Some sliver of that hungry boy from Leningrad still exists in me and believes that people like Lucy Lawrence are better than me. That when they decide I’m not worthy of respect and decency, they must be right.

And then the older me, the one who proved himself with knuckles and knives, has to smash those people into the ground to prove it’s not true.

And Lucy disrespected the hell out of me.

An hour passes. Then another. I ran every angle of every possibility again and again just to know my options. Decisions still don’t come.

Lucy stirs, then sits up.

“Hungry, kitten?”

She pads to the bathroom with one hand on her belly. “Um, yes.”

“Do you want those hot wings now?”

“No,” she groans. She closes the door, and I hear her pee on the other side.

I get out of bed. “What are you hungry for?”

“I don’t know. Food.”

“Very helpful, Counselor. Come. I’ll take you to the kitchen.”

“Ooh, my very own escort. I guess I should be thanking you for letting me out of my cell.”

“After the water throwing incident? Yes,” I say although it’s not true. I bear no grudge over that. I threatened her. She retaliated in her small way. I like her feistiness. Now we can move forward.

If only I was sure what forward should look like.

I take her elbow and lead her to the giant kitchen, praying none of the guys are up and around because I don’t want anyone seeing her in miniscule pajamas.

“Please tell me you have more than just Russian food,” she whispers as I flick on the low lighting over the stove. It’s a dream kitchen, or so I’m told.

I don’t cook. The kitchen is adjacent to the living room, open on one side, with a breakfast bar and center island, all in pink and black granite. The appliances are stainless steel. The cupboards are solid maple with the soft-close feature and built in lighting underneath. I flip the switch to turn that on, too. If I turned on the overhead light, we’d both go blind.

The soft glow lights up Lucy’s pale skin and hair. She looks beautifully rumpled. I want to caress the hell out of that swollen belly of hers, but we’re not really on those terms at the moment.

I open the refrigerator and peer inside. “You have something against Russian food?”

“Well, your culture isn’t exactly known for its culinary finesse.”

“Be careful or you’ll get nothing but borscht and perogies for the rest of the week.”

She blinks at me, and I expect another insult, but she says, “Do you have perogies?”

I smile, indulgently. “Does that sound good to you, kitten?”

“Maybe.”

I pull out a container. “You have to at least try these. They are the best perogies I’ve ever tasted. Made by Mrs. Kuznetzov on the fourth floor.” I pop the lid and drop them onto the tray for the toaster oven. I’ve learned the outer pastry gets soggy if you try to microwave them. “Just a few minutes.” I return my attention to the refrigerator. “What else sounds good? Some berries?” I pull out a container of organic blueberries.

“Mmm. Yes.” She reaches for it and brings it to the sink, rinsing the berries under a stream of water. I watch her ass. From the back, you wouldn't know she’s pregnant. She carries in front, so it still looks like she has a waist. Her ass is fuller than it was Valentine’s day—round and fuckable. Very hot.

It’s been a couple hours, and I’m ready to tap that ass again.

All night long.

Too bad she needs her rest.

Of course, an orgasm might help her sleep.

The toaster oven dings, and I check the perogies, making sure they got warmed all the way through.