The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

I make myself a cup of coffee, sit in front of the computer, and type in his name.

Constantine Rogov

There are fewer hits than I’d anticipated, precisely two, as the following dozen or so are all LinkedIn profiles of anyone but the man I met in prison yesterday.

I click the first article. My coffee goes cold as I read.

Thirty-four-year-old Constantine Rogov, originally from Moscow, convicted of first-degree murder. Rogov has a history of serving time for crimes of violence. His victim’s skull was fractured with a blunt object, though the cause of death was strangulation. Although Rogov pled not guilty, the jury unanimously found him guilty. Rogov will serve a life sentence.

I drink my cold coffee, my mind trying to piece this together. Yesterday, I’d thought to myself he was a man capable of violence.

But violence against someone he loved?

I keep reading.

“Their relationship was volatile, to say the least,” one source reportedly said. “They fought constantly, and last year on Valentine’s Day, she slashed his tires when she suspected he’d cheated on her. Sources say theirs was to be an arranged marriage, aimed at forming an alliance between the Irish Mafia and the Russians.”

So he beat her. Bludgeoned her with a wine bottle. Then strangled her to death. In my mind’s eye, I imagine him wrapping my hair around my neck and pulling.

Could you kill someone by strangling them with their own hair?

I swallow the bile that rises in the back of my throat, when my phone rings.

I don’t recognize the caller I.D. Blocked number.

“Hello?”

Click Click Click. A brisk male voice comes on the line. “Desolation City Corrections Facility. Looking for a Miss Nightingale.”

“Speaking.”

A chill erupts down my spine, sending the little hairs on my arms standing on end. This isn’t the number my supervisor uses.

“You have a requested call from an inmate by the name of Constantine Rogov. Will you accept this call?”

My knees grow weak, and I sink into a chair. I put all my energy into pretending that I’m not somehow both paralyzed with fear and dry-mouthed in anticipation.

“I do.”

I do, like wedding vows.

I close my eyes at the sound of more clicks.

Then it’s him. His voice is deeper than I even remember, huskier, his accent more pronounced.

“Hello, Miss Nightingale.” He pauses and I can actually hear the sneer in his tone. “Doctor.”

“It’s uncustomary for inmates to call their doctors, Mr. Rogov.”

“You accepted my call.”

I swallow, my hand on the phone trembling.

“I did.”

I do. I did. I got a doctorate for this?

“I won’t keep you, Miss Nightingale. I’d just like to issue you a warning.”

My pulse races.

“You’re due to arrive this afternoon. But that won’t happen. At ten a.m., they’ll find out the doctor who’s scheduled for the morning shift is unfortunately incapacitated and won’t be able to attend as planned. They’ll call you, Miss Nightingale. They’ll ask you to come in early.”

I force all the air out of my lungs just to answer. “Ah, will they, then?”

He doesn’t even bother to respond to me. “You’ll come in for the earlier shift. You’ll take it. Then you’ll make sure you see me.”

Click.

“Hello?”

The line’s dead.

I put my phone down gingerly on the nightstand and stare, unblinking, into the mirror. I don’t know if I was just threatened or baited. But I know I have no choice.

Chapter 3

Constantine

After I return to my cell, I spend a long time thinking about Ms. Nightingale.

Prison is torturously tedious, so the simple act of dwelling on another person is not, in and of itself, significant.

Still, I pass an unusually long time recalling the specific details of her person. The feathery fringe of her lashes and the way they fluttered up and down like a distress signal. The constellation of her freckles that she had unsuccessfully tried to dampen with powder. The exact tone of the gasping noise she made when I seized her.

So many sounds women make are inherently sexual, no matter the circumstances.

Sometimes violent circumstances only make them more sexual…

I lay on my back, my cock stiffening inside the loose prison scrubs until it stands straight up. I lift my hand to my face, inhaling the lingering scent of Clare’s perfume off my fingers.

Now my cock is throbbing hard, each heartbeat pulsing all the way up to the head.

This is a welcome distraction from the deep depression gripping me these last six months.

I reach inside my pants with my other hand, gently stroking my shaft. I imagine Clare’s slim, pale hand wrapped around my cock, how her fingers would hardly meet. I picture her plain, clear-painted nails, their delicate pink color, and the softness of her skin that I experienced when I put my hand around her throat.

I imagine putting my heavy hand on her shoulder and pushing her down to her knees. I can almost see her looking up at me with those big, dark eyes. Terrified mostly, but with a hint of something else in her gaze… Curiosity. Fascination…