The Cleaner (Chicago Bratva 7)

“Spasibo.” Ravil’s broad smile returns as he accepts the gift.

I melt, same as I do every time I watch this man with our son.

Catching my enamored smile, he reaches for me and tugs me onto his lap. “Ready to make another one?” He bites my breast through the emerald wrap-around dress I wore to work today. I’m in private practice now–only taking the cases that interest me since money isn’t a concern and neither is the race to make partner at my former firm.

“No!” I laugh.

“When?” Ravil demands.

“Isn’t one enough?” I’m getting older, which means future pregnancies could be harder.

“Is it?” he asks mildly.

I think about how Ravil would parent a daughter, and everything in me melts again. I’m still afraid that Ravil’s past and sometimes still questionable present will bite us, but I know he’s careful. Especially now that he has a family.

“Give me another six months,” I say. “I need to wean this one first.”

Ravil drags a hand up my inner thigh, drawing the hem of my dress up as he goes. “We’d better start practicing, then,” he rumbles.

“Like we haven’t been?” My laugh is husky.

Having a baby has been intense, but our sex life never took a hit. We have tons of help. Valentina, our Russian nanny and housekeeper, is on deck every day, and there are plenty of adoring bratva uncles and aunts in the penthouse as well.

“We need to step it up,” Ravil insists, his fingertips brushing across the gusset of my panties.

I rotate and straddle his waist. “You’re right,” I murmur against his lips. “The more practice, the better.”

Adrian

I doze for an hour and a half, then get up, leaving Kat sleeping as I carefully secure her wrists to the bed without disturbing her.

When I check my phone, I see a text from Ravil: Call me.

I’m not going to. I can’t. Still, I regret pissing off my pakhan this way.

I get dressed and head out to the drugstore to pick up a few things, including something to eat for our dinner.

I hadn’t planned on entertaining at the place.

On my walk back, I return the call I got from Feodor, my local bratva contact.

“Feodor, it’s Adrian,” I tell him in Russian. “Everything set?”

“Da. They received the half-payment. Your place on the freight ship is confirmed. It docked last night. Tomorrow, all new cargo gets loaded.”

“Spasibo. And the van and crate?”

“I’ll drop them by tonight and leave the keys on the driver’s side tire. Be at the dock by ten a.m. I’ll text you the number of your shipping container. When you get there, ask for Rodion and bring enough in pounds for him to bribe the inspectors not to check your container. Get in it, and they’ll load you up. Once the ship has sailed, they’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out, and they have a bunk room for you.”

“Thank you, again.”

“Bratva take care of bratva.”

I thank him and end the call then go inside, where I find Kat in a semi-hysterical state, trying to rip her hands free. She’s not screaming, though, which was my biggest fear. I left the television cranked, but I was worried she’d try to rouse a neighbor.

“Take it easy, dietka.” I drop the bags on the counter and go to her, cutting the tie that holds her bound wrists to the bed.

“You have to take these off me,” she huffs, her eyes wet with angry tears.

“I wish I could trust you, Kateryna, but I can’t.” I hold her wrists, hating how constricted and sore they look. “Come here. Are you hungry? I got some food for dinner.”

I tug her to the half-kitchen to show her the food I picked up. It’s crappy frozen shit, but it will do. I got some gourmet ice cream for afterward–hopefully she’ll like that. “Which one do you want?”

She rummages through the bags with her bound hands and pulls out the bottle of hair conditioner I bought. When she turns to me, she looks so serious. “You bought conditioner for me.”

“Da.”

“You bought… “ She swallows. “That was very nice of you.”

“Don’t call me nice.” I snatch it from her hands and set it on the counter. “I’m not that guy.” She pulls out the box of condoms I bought, and her lips curve into a satisfied smile.

I take out the food options and wave a hand across them. “Which one do you want?”

She points to the packaged frozen pasta, and I tear off the plastic cover to put it in the microwave. “Ooh, Häagen-Dazs.” She unveils the ice cream and inspects the carton. “Chocolate–my favorite.”

I grunt, but inside I’m relieved I picked something she likes.

“May I take another shower?” she asks. “I mean, tonight? With the conditioner? Otherwise, my hair will get so snarled I’ll have to cut it off.”

I’m pretty sure she’s fucking with me, but what do I know? I’ve never had long hair.