The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

“All right.” I hear the manufactured doubt in his and, like usual, want to kick his shins with my pointiest shoes.

“I need to make some more calls, Dick. I will talk to you later.”

“Yep.” He hangs up.

I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I like your boss bitch voice,” Ravil says from the entry to the closet, squeezing his dick through his pressed trousers.

I stalk past him on my way to the bathroom. “I thought you liked being in charge.”

“It’s not a question of like, kitten. I am in charge.” He slides a Rolex on his wrist. “Always. But it’s more pleasurable to take charge of a strong woman. Winning your surrender is a challenge I enjoy.”

“You won’t,” I tell him as I shut the bathroom door.

“We’ll see,” he says mildly. “I will get your breakfast. Do you want eggs? They are a good source of protein when you are pregnant.”

Somebody’s been doing his research.

I’m not the fussy diva type, but it’s tempting to test how many demands I can make. Ravil’s pledged to take good care of me during my pregnancy. I’m curious how far I can push. I crack the door. “I’ll take a spinach omelet—three eggs—with cheese. Buttered toast and some kind of fruit.”

He nods without comment and leaves.

Okay. I’ll keep pushing then.

I take a quick shower. When I come out, I find he’s put my clothes away in his closet. I don’t know how he even knew what to pack, but he picked my favorite work clothes, minus the high heels, as well as a decent selection of my home wear. I want to complain, but really, there’s nothing to rail against. The man is somewhat uncanny in his ability to decipher me.

And I’m not even certain I know how to decipher myself half the time.

I wear a wrap-around dress—my favorite staple of pregnancy since it accommodates my growing breasts and belly. I make the rest of my calls to work, checking in with HR, the secretary I share with three other attorneys, and the summer associate who has been assigned to help me with a few cases. I have no idea what I’ll do about going to court, but I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

I try the door to find it locked from the outside—a fire hazard, I must note. I’ll be registering that complaint with Ravil immediately.

A knock sounds and Valentina is there with a tray carrying a spinach omelet, toast and cut up strawberries. I start to push past her, but the giant Russian—Oleg, I believe—is sitting outside my door, his chair facing me. He looks at me impassively.

I step out of the room.

He stands up.

“Okaaaay,” I say to him. “I guess you’re my prison guard?”

Nothing changes in his face. He doesn’t speak to me in Russian like the others have. He doesn’t even show he’s heard me.

I turn toward the kitchen and take a step, and he shifts to angle his body in front of mine, blocking my way. Christ, he’s big.

Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about the fire hazard. The giant would surely let me out.

If the smell of the food didn’t have my mouth watering, I might have stayed to wrestle my guard, but considering the food’s in the room and my body is busy growing a baby, I turn around and go back inside.

I can fight the Hulk later.

Valentina has set the tray on the bedside table, as if I really am on bedrest.

“I’m not going to eat in bed,” I tell her even though I’m guessing she doesn’t speak English, either.

She looks at me blankly. I point to the armchair and table by the window. Might as well enjoy the view. At least my cage is gilded.

She bobs her head and complies, setting the tray down and chattering to me in Russian.

I wish I had a clue what she was saying. I’m getting on that language app… right now, while I eat. I sit down and tuck into the food, which is delicious. Apparently there’s more than just Russian food in this place, thank God.

I wolf it down while getting started on my Russian practice. At least I have something to focus on. It keeps me from flipping out over my situation.

Still, when Ravil comes in, I’m ready to skin him.

Ravil

The desk arrives right on time, and I have the guys carry it in to set up in my room. I follow them in to act as the unnecessary translator.

“Where would you like the desk, Lucy?”

She shoots daggers at me with her glare. “In my own office. In my own home.”

Seeing she chose to sit by the window for breakfast, I direct my men to set it up in front of the window, so she can have the spectacular views of Lake Michigan while she works.