The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

I nod.

Ravil regards me, a shadow on his normally impassive face. He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the doorframe, his posture deceptively casual. “Get rid of him.”

I raise my brows. “You obviously read the emails. I did my best. I’m following your guidelines, Warden.”

Ravil shakes his head. “Get rid of him completely. Out of your life.”

“Or what?” I snap, annoyed.

“Or I will.” He’s the sort of man who lowers his voice when making a threat rather than raising it, and it sends icicles through my veins.

Genuine fear for Jeffrey makes me grip the edge of the desk. I don’t know much about Ravil, but I imagine he might be capable of terrible things. Including murder.

I stare back at him. “Fine.”

The idea of saying something that would completely cut Jeffrey out of my life turns my stomach sour. We left things amicable—we were kind to each other during the break up. He helped me move into my new apartment when I said I was moving out. There was no fight or hateful things said.

But it’s over. And I don’t want to endanger him.

“I’ll take care of it.” I narrow my gaze at him. “Get out.”

Ravil’s lips purse, and he leaves without comment.

I’m not surprised when he reneges on his plan to let me out for lunch and sends Valentina in with a tray of food instead.

Ravil

I’m not jealous. I’m simply not a jealous man. I learned as a young boy not to covet what someone else has but to work all the harder to surpass them.

Still, it takes me all day to get over being pissed off about Jeffrey.

Blyat.

Dima already had a data file on him, and I review it. I want to kill the man, and all he’s done was show he still cares about the mother of my child. But it brings home again the fact that my lovely attorney deemed me unfit for our child.

And that twat was good enough?

Fuck that.

True to her word, Lucy does send him an email ending things definitely.

Jeffrey,

Thank you for reaching out today, but it’s too confusing and painful for me to open things back up with you. Please respect my wishes and give me the space I need to move on.

Thank you,

Luce

Luce. She’s fucking Luce to him. A spike of irritation rams straight through my forehead at reading the pet name. And painful? Seriously? Was she still mourning that prick?

She Googled Russian porn, I remind myself. She’s over him. At least sexually. At least I have that with her.

And for the rest? Well, fuck. I haven’t even decided if I want more than to use her body for my own pleasure while she’s here. It’s not like I’m trying to win her heart.

Maxim’s summation comes back to me, though. Make her fall in love.

Fuck that. She’ll learn to surrender. That’s all I need from her.

I don’t need her love.

In the afternoon, I call Natasha’s mother, a midwife and birth educator, to come check on Lucy.

Unlike Natasha, who was thrilled with the guaranteed work from me and the fact that I bought her a pregnancy massage table, Svetlana sees the bigger picture and gives me hell. “Why can’t I speak English to her? Why is she locked up?”

“It’s for her own protection,” I reassure her. “She’s carrying my child; if my enemies found out, they’d both be in danger.”

It’s a stretch. I tend to eliminate my enemies pretty quickly. Unless the Ukranians turn into trouble, the only threats I face are from within my organization, and they’d take me out, not my unborn child.

Svetlana narrows her eyes at me. “So you keep her prisoner? Against her will?” The woman knows she lives in a bratva-owned building. That she benefits from it in a multitude of ways simply by being Russian. She’s been happy to accept my generosity and protection without questioning any of my methods until it comes to a pregnant woman.

Her domain.

“Are you refusing to help me?” I ask the question mildly, but the color drains from her face.

“Nyet. Of course, I will do as you ask.” She draws herself up. “But if I see your treatment of this woman endangers the baby, you cannot count on my silence.”

I hold her gaze in silence, and unease seeps back into her posture. I’ve known great violence in my life, but I prefer to simply use the aura of danger to get my way. I don’t have to actually do much, I simply suggest a threat.

I learned it from watching American movies. The ones that keep you most on the edge of your seat—the ones that really instill fear are the ones where the danger is unknown. It’s the sound of scrapes and bumps in the dark, the music that makes you jump or keeps you on edge, not the actual plot. The most tension occurs before the audience actually sees what’s making the sounds. Once the danger is actually identified—when the audience has seen the alien or the girl in the well or whatever it is—it loses much of its power.