Deadly (Born Bratva Book 5)

by Suzanne Steele

  “You’re relentless, I’ll give you that.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.” I close the bag and grab the hoodies and tennis shoes. It’s time to get out of here before anyone figures out what I’m up to.

  “What’s the deal with all of you driving black SUVs?” she asks me when we’re in the vehicle and on our way.

  “This is my work SUV. I drive this when I’m up to no good.”

  “Which is all the time.”

  “Exactly. I just don’t get it, trouble seems to follow me,” she says oh-so-innocently as she bats her eyelashes at me.

  “I think you just need a side-kick to watch your back.”

  “I’ve got Oleg.”

  “We both know no matter how close you are to a man there’s nothing like having a girlfriend to cut loose with.”

  “Ha ha, ‘girls just want to have fun’, right?”

  “You know it. I guess that’s why I’m not really interested in having a man right now; they’re too controlling.”

  Now it’s my turn to give her the side eye. “Do I look like a woman who’s going to let a man control me? The only place I’m going to be dominated is in bed, honey, and that is by choice.”

  “Sounds like you might have inherited your father’s penchant for kink.”

  “No… I just love to antagonize the shit out of Oleg until he fucks me to death—it’s fun.”

  “You like playing with fire.”

  “Don’t forget the explosives. I like playing with those too.”

  “How could I forget? You strapped me down with them when you sent me to my make-believe doom. Speaking of that, you could have told me they were props.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s all about trust in this game. We needed to know if we could trust you. There were plans in the making that the Pakhan forbid anyone to inform you of. Your life – your new life – depended on it. Always remember, sometimes ignorance really is bliss. You can’t tell the police, or anyone else, what you don’t know.”

  I park a block away from our destination. Before we get out of the car, I turn and look at her solemnly. “In this business you’ve got to listen to your gut. You could be having coffee with someone you’ve been dealing with for years and outwardly nothing seems out of the ordinary. But something’s off. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s in here”—I point at my stomach—“in your gut, you know something isn’t right. It’s just a feeling, like something is just not right. Then two seconds later you’re a dead man, or woman, as the case may be. Of course, while that’s obviously not good, when you get killed like that—before you ever know what’s hit you—it’s a blessing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean… you don’t ever want to find yourself in the hands of the enemy. You’ll end up in their warehouse and they’ll use an acetylene torch like you’ve seen Oleg do.” I unbuckle my seat belt and prepare to get out of the car. ”I can’t decide which is worse: to have the information they want or not. When you know the answers, it’s hell because you know you can’t tell them. Even the most loyal person’s strength is tested during torture. Answer them and your death is usually quicker, but you die with the taste of shame in your mouth. But if you don’t know, it’s still hell on earth because you know they won’t stop trying to break you and there’s nothing you can do about it, so death will be slow and there’s no way to speed it along. Trust me, convincing men like Oleg that you don’t know the answers to their questions is nearly impossible.

  “And as women, we face other horrors, things that will make you wish you were dead even if they do let you live. Trust me, leaving Emily Finley behind and starting your new life is a good thing. When it comes to our enemies, the lower you are on the Bratva food chain, the less danger you’re in.”

  Anastasia – so hungry for knowledge -- hangs on my every word. She’d better, because in her new life, it could very well mean the difference between life and death.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Anastasia

  I’m captivated by Roksana’s impromptu Bratva wisdom. For me, time stops and nothing exists beyond the bubble we’re in right now. The spell is broken when she opens the car door and announces it’s time to get to work. She reaches up to deactivate the interior light before she gets out. Hmm. Another detail to file away for future reference.

  I follow her as she ventures down alleys and side streets—even backtracking at one point to ensure we aren’t being followed. It’s obvious she has these back streets and alleys memorized like the back of her hand. She had her route planned out in her mind long before her feet hit the pavement.

  We slip into the back parking lot of the strip club and crouch between cars, almost crawling as we move from one to another. Some of the cars she puts a device on and some she doesn’t. I decide to ask her later how she knows which ones to target. I’m not satisfied with the answer I got earlier so I’ll try and get her to tell me more. She’s used to me asking questions, she’s already made that clear.

  When she seems satisfied that she’s put trackers on all the gangbanger cars, she motions for me to follow her and we edge up to the side of the building. Latin music poured from the nightclub, the pulsing rhythms reverberating on the concrete under our feet.

  My senses are on high alert. There’s no high like an adrenaline high. Roksana places a finger to her lips when we hear raised voices out front. She holds her hand up to keep me out of sight as she peeks around the building to see what’s causing all the noise. I can tell the man yelling at his girlfriend is so caught up in what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice us, so I look and listen too.

  He has his girlfriend backed against a bright orange Dodge Ram that is totally tricked out—right down to the gold spinners on his tires and the Venezuelan flag in the back window.

  “Bitch! What are you doing out here? Get your ass back in side and keep working that California surfer guy and the Mexican dude he’s with.”

  “I just came out to get some cigarettes, papi.”

  “Well, you’ve got them. Now get back your ass back to work.”

  “You know I don’t want any man but you. I wish you wouldn’t make me do this…” she whines as he follows behind her and I can only assume he’s making sure she does what she’s told.

  Roksana motions and I follow her to the back of the building. She waits until two girls come out and we slide through the door before it swings shut. We are at the head of a short hallway. A few tentative steps and we’ve landed in the strippers’ main dressing room. My heart thunders in my ears, but there’s no one in here but us.

  Roksana slips around a corner using the dark lighting in the hallway as camouflage. There are two doors; one is labeled “Main Stage” and other “Back Room”.

  “Which one do we want?” I ask quietly.

  “Are you kidding? The back room, of course.”

  We enter the back room and hide in the shadows as several cycles of strippers come and go. Usually there are three going at a time, one working it on the main stage and the other two twisting themselves into pretzels on their respective poles. Apparently, pole work is a full contact sport, much to the glee of the big spenders in the front row, several of whom manage to get a hand full or face full of luscious curves before their stripper heads backstage.

  Roksana pays very little attention to the onstage action. She silently watches Oleg and Dmitriy at their corner table, where they have been joined by two blondes. I can’t help but think Please don’t go over there, Roksana... Even if she does, I meant what I told her about having her back. I’m in this all the way; even if she does something crazy.

  Oleg pointedly holds up his left hand and Roksana gasps as he shows Bimbo #1 the wedding band on his left hand.

  “It’s the same bitch that was out front by that orange truck,” Roksana hisses.

  The blonde immediately turns her attention to Dmitriy, who picks up the slack by being charming and attentive to both women. I can’t help but watch him work his seduct
ive magic. His sultry Latino sexuality has the women captivated. All the while, Oleg remains his usual stoic self.

  Roksana nods in my direction and we leave the same way we came in. I can understand her being jealous. What I don’t understand is…why do I feel a tinge of it too?

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Roksana

  The jog back to my SUV is a lot faster than the walk to the bar was. I jump in and start the engine. I speed down to the opposite end of the street from where we were just moments ago. I leave the driver’s door ajar as I jump out and grab what I’ll need from the back.

  “Roksana! Roksana, what are you going to do with that baseball bat?”

  “Just wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  “No…that isn’t going to happen.”

  “Then put that fucking hoodie on and grab a bat.”

  I can tell by the look on her face she has reservations, but she picks up a bat and follows me. The determination in her eyes tells me she won’t let me go alone. By some stroke of luck the street is empty and in a matter of two minutes we’ve done what we came to do: send a clear message to that bitch that she needs to go sniff around someone else’s man. Oleg is off the market.

  Part of me hopes she understands that the message pertains to both Oleg and Dmitriy. So what if Anastasia isn’t interested in having a man in her life right now. Dmitriy can barely keep his hands off her and I’d have to be blind to have not noticed how jealous she was when he turned the Latino heat on those two women.

  The swings of our bats are swift, precise, and effective. The woman who was sitting with Oleg is the same one who was in front of the orange truck getting yelled at when we pulled up, so this is perfect. The truck now looks like the man has been two-timing and I wonder if that’s what she’ll think.

  The door to the bar opens and we race back to the truck. Gravel flies as we take off, laughing hysterically. There’s no better way for two women to bond than to work together to set another woman straight.

  I take my eyes off the road for a second. “Hey, thanks for having my back.”

  “I told you I would.”

  “Talk’s cheap. You find out a person’s real truth when the bullets are flying. Don’t ever forget that. In this life, if you have any kind of clout, people want to ride your coattails and be your friend. We’re no different than someone in the corporate world trying to climb the ladder of success; the only difference is that we’ll break fingers instead of stepping on them on our way up. If half the fuckers I know were honest when they got promoted, they’d stand up toast with their shot of vodka.”

  “What would the toast be?”

  “I just want to thank all the people I put six feet under to get this promotion—” she busts out laughing. “No, here you go: I just want thank all the little people I buried to get here.”

  “Are you saying you can’t trust your own people?”

  “I’m saying you can’t trust anyone, Anastasia, but especially our rivals. Betrayal in this lifestyle isn’t just deadly, it’s downright brutal along the way. You’re dealing with people who have made deception an art form. It’s very much like a story I read one time about a missionary who worked with a cannibalistic tribe. The cannibals deliberately befriended him and wooed him for years. When he least expected it, they killed him and ate him – and thought nothing of it.

  “The Bratva life has great rewards, but always remember where there’s great reward, inevitably there will also be jealousy and envy. I think we both know what jealousy and envy can do.”

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Oleg

  I storm into the house and hoof it up to our suite of rooms. I hear giggling as I get closer, but silence reigns after I open the door with such force that it bangs against the wall.

  The look on my face must say it all because Anastasia scurries off the bed where they’ve been sitting drinking shots of chilled vodka and laughing like girly girls. The door slams shut as Anastasia bolts from the room.

  “Sorry to interrupt. What the fuck, Roksana? Did you braid each other’s fucking hair and talk about boys after you trashed that guy’s car?”

  I stalk over to the bed and grab the full shot glass Roksana’s attempting to bring to her lips. I toss it back—pouring another and repeating the process before I slam the glass down on the nightstand.

  She reclines on the bed, leaning back against the headboard and looking every bit the mafia queen. One of her legs is stretched out straight and the other is bent at the knee—she slowly moves it back and forth as if she doesn’t have a care in the world—hell, maybe in that crazy head of hers she thinks she doesn’t. She has one arm draped seductively over the pillows, but I can’t see her hand because it’s tucked between two of those frilly pillow sham things she likes. I’d be willing to bet she’s white-knuckling her Glock and probably has her finger on the trigger. The thought is enough to stir my survival instincts, and that makes my cock hard as bone.

  I lick my lips as I take in the curves peeking out from beneath her black muscle t-shirt and lace panties. I love those shirts and the way she wears them, tight with no bra. I’d also be willing to bet she left the house like that tonight, and that just pisses me off.

  I pick up the weathered, scratched baseball bat that’s propped up against the nightstand. Tonight wasn’t the first time she’s used it, and it won’t be the last. My woman is jealous by nature and, as crazy as she is, it’s a turn-on every time.

  Her eyes are drawn to the wedding band on my left hand. The subtle shadow that passes over her face lasts only an instant; no one else would even pick up on it, but I know my woman. I have no intention of using the ring to make my point. The bat…well, now, that’s a different story.

  I run my fingers up and down the scuffed wood that has a long history of breaking bones and shattering glass. Tonight isn’t the first time she’s used it to exact revenge on an enemy. As I slowly circle the bed, I swivel my wrist to swing the bat around in low, small circles and never take my eyes off her.

  “So how did you do it?” I ask, my voice deceptively soft as I lift the bat and jab the end forcefully into the air. “Did you punch the window out like this, or did you swing it like you were going to hit one out of the park?”

  She doesn’t flinch when I swing it through the air, barely missing one of her crystal Russian figurines on the dresser.

  “Oh, you know me, I’m not a subtle kind of gal.”

  What the hell, then let’s take a walk on the wild side. I toss the bat in the air and catch it in both hands as I slowly walk toward her. I place the bat against her throat, pressing ever so slightly until her eyes light up.

  “Confession is good for the soul, Roksana. Explain yourself.”

  She moves her arm beneath the pillow, and the movement would be enough to send panic through a normal man. Not me. I press a little harder—tempting fate. She slides down the headboard laughing so I straddle her waist to ensure she can’t get away. I hold the bat in place with one hand and swiftly rip the pillows from underneath her, tossing them to the floor.

  “What a shameful fate it would be for a man like you to get shot by his lover. Don’t you trust the woman you’re being forced to marry?”

  “But it isn’t me being forced, is it? It’s you.” There’s that fire in her eyes every time the subject comes up.

  “I’m not being forced into anything.” She spits the words out through pinched lips.

  Keep telling yourself that, baby. “You’re so independent and yet you crave being taken by me.”

  She slams her palms up in an attempt to push the bat off her neck. I make a tsk-tsk noise and it infuriates her just as I knew it would. I toss the bat to the floor and fist two handfuls of flaming hair and use my body to pin her to the mattress.

  “Don’t fuck with me. Tell me what you did, Roksana.”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious what I did, dear.”

  “Don’t patronize me either, woman.”

  “Maybe I don�
��t like you being in strip clubs.” She says it with a soft look and overly demure tone that could only be meant to antagonize me.

  “Ah, I see,” I smirk. “This is about me not wanting you to be in bars without me.”

  “No, this is about possession. Marking my territory. You belong to me, Oleg. I won’t have some whore putting her hands on you. And while we’re on the subject, you’re lucky I didn’t bust up your car and her face.”

  I place my hand at the back of her head and pull her toward me until we’re nose to nose, foreheads touching. I close my eyes and press my lips into a hard line. With a deep breath, I tell her, “Don’t you know…I don’t have the ability to love anyone -- anyone but you? You. Are. My. Soul. I love you, you crazy, hotheaded woman.”

  Her fingers slide through my hair and release the band holding it in a ponytail. Her touch is anything but gentle as she slides her fingertips over my torso, ripping my shirt open and sending buttons flying. The tinny sound of them hitting the floor and bouncing off the wall is music to my ears. Her breathing quickens as she moves a hand down to my crotch, tracing the outline of my shaft with her fingertips as her tongue slips out to leave a glistening trail over her lips.

  “Take out my cock,” I direct her in a clipped tone.

  Her eyes lock onto mine. In this moment, nothing else exists but us, our world beginning and ending in this bed. She unbuttons my pants, freeing an erection that’s so hard it aches. With slow pumps of her hand she strokes my shaft, running her thumb over the sensitive spot where all the nerves in my body seem to converge.

  She stares up at me with eyes that are suddenly flat, almost malevolent in their intensity. Her hand grips me fiercely to reinforce her next words. “This…this is mine.”

  “That isn’t all that’s yours, Roksana. You own me as much as I own you. You’re in my head and you’re damn sure in this black heart of mine.” I take her other hand and press it to my chest for emphasis. “Betraying you is not an option—ever.”