The Director (Chicago Bratva Book 1)

by Renee Rose

  I didn’t. I essentially racially profiled him. Although he did choke a man at Black Light for insulting me. That was a huge red flag for me.

  Still, I have no other proof against him that he’s a bad man. Unfit to be a parent.

  So perhaps that’s where I must begin. To build my case against him. Or for him. Either way, I need to build a case. Look at the evidence, weigh it.

  I duck my head under the water and breast stroke to the opposite end of the pool. It feels great to be weightless. To exercise without the discomfort of my new shape. Without that bone tired feeling I sometimes get when I haven’t eaten enough protein or red meat for the baby.

  I swim laps back and forth. Ravil sits at the edge of the pool and watches.

  Eventually, I get tired and come up for air near him, water streaming down my face and hair.

  “Why did you become a defense attorney?” he asks.

  I squeeze my hair out and labor to climb out and sit beside him. “My father is a defense attorney. He represented some of the biggest organized crime leaders in Chicago. Some people said he must be soulless to represent them. That he lined his pockets with blood stained bills. But the thing is—my father believed, as do I, that every man has a constitutional right to a fair trial.”

  Ravil raises a brow, and I catch the accusation in it. I didn’t offer him any such due process. I tried and convicted him based on hearsay. I tried to keep him from his own flesh and blood based on my own prejudice.

  I drop my gaze to my bikini top and adjust it to keep my breasts covered.

  “I grew up hearing my father defend his choice at the dinner table or family gatherings. People inevitably ask, why would you defend a criminal? Especially if you know he’s a criminal?”

  I meet Ravil’s pale blue gaze and swallow.

  “He would say, every man I defend is someone’s son. Someone’s brother. Someone’s father. If you were a doctor, you wouldn’t refuse to treat a man because he’d been accused of a crime. You’d do your job. My job is to help him through our legal system, which would be difficult for him to navigate on his own. Just because I stand up in court and touch his shoulder and make him relatable to the jury doesn’t mean I approve or condone what he’s done. But I am going to do my job representing him.”

  “And you feel the same?” Ravil asks.

  I draw an unsteady breath and nod. “Yes.”

  “But you do judge them. Even when you represent them? You won’t condone a criminal?”

  The late afternoon sun’s dropped behind a building. The breeze against my wet skin suddenly makes me cold.

  The truth is, despite what I just resolved to do—to research Ravil’s background and deeds—I’m not sure I want to know. I’m afraid of what I’ll find.

  Which must mean… I’m starting to care about the man. And I don’t want to know if he’s as bad as I originally imagined.

  I don’t want to know how many graves he’s dug.

  Or women he’s kidnapped—apart from me.

  I shake my head. “My judgements and feelings are irrelevant. My job is to guide them through the legal system.”

  “Do you work harder if you believe they’re innocent?”

  I look down at my fingernails. I keep them short but polished with a French manicure. They’re getting chipped. “Honestly? I don’t think that way. Sometimes, the less I know, the better. I make my case based on the prosecutor’s. It’s not about working harder. It’s more about how solid or weak the case is. If any procedures were violated on the part of the police or prosecution.”

  “So you don’t care if Adrian set the fire or not?”

  “No,” I answer immediately. “Honestly? My assumption is he did. That won’t stop me from doing my best to get him off.”

  “Will you be able to get him off?”

  I lift my shoulders. “I have a good chance. Their case isn’t great. I can probably show bias based on the fact that he’s an immigrant. Of course, a jury might have the same bias. But if we’re lucky, I can stop this thing before it goes to trial.”

  “Was he working for you?” My throat tightens as I ask the question. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

  “Are you building your personal case against me?”

  Yes.

  “No.”

  “Do you believe your laws are perfect, Lucy?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you think there may be reasons to break your laws that still fall under a code of what’s right and wrong?”

  I go still, knowing he’s telling me something here. I’m not sure I want to hear it.

  “Yes,” I admit. “I’m sure there are. I’ve argued cases like that before.”

  Ravil simply nods and climbs to his feet. “I’m sure you’re getting hungry.” He offers me a hand.

  I take it and let him help me to stand. “Famished.” I sigh because I’m almost always famished these days.

  “What do you want to eat tonight? I’ll take you out... if you like.”

  Huh. Guess the warden is not that much of a hardass.

  “I’m tired, actually. And…” I give him an impish grin. “Are there any perogies left?” I’ve been thinking about the damn meat pies all day long. They are definitely my new pregnancy craving.

  Ravil’s lips twist into a grin. “I think there are. I’ll make sure we always have some on hand for you, kitten.” He holds a towel open for me just like young Leo had for his teen girlfriend.

  Maybe it’s the sweetness of that image or maybe all my thoughts about Ravil are rearranging, but I suddenly can’t see him as the terrible villain any more.

  Chapter 10

  Lucy

  Friday, a text comes in from Gretchen. What’s up? Call me!

  We’re both busy attorneys, so me not picking up her calls or having time to return them isn’t totally unusual. I knew she wouldn’t take offense if I didn’t call right back.

  But I still don’t know how to manage a call with her.

  Part of it is my own ambivalence. If I were going to give a coded message to anyone, it would be her. We lived together all three years of law school. That was some serious bonding and gives us tons of history to draw upon. Plus, she knows about Black Light and Ravil. I could probably improvise something. Given a little time, I could certainly craft something in particular to send to her.

  But should I? Would I really be risking being sent to Russia and possibly separated forever from my baby when he’s born? Is it worth losing the growing trust between Ravil and I? Trust I plan to use to negotiate for an arrangement we both can live with?

  I’m not sure.

  I’m definitely not ready to take that risk today.

  I text Gretchen back. Sorry—I’ve been slammed! I’ll call you when I have a chance to catch up.

  There. That should hold her off for a few days if not another week. It will give me time to figure out if I’m going to lie to her or try to alert her to my situation.

  My phone rings again. It’s Sarah, the summer associate helping me with Adrian’s case. I pick up.

  “Hi, how are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. “As I said, bed rest is precautionary. I’m at full capacity, I just have to stay at home.”

  “Right, right,” she says. “Of course. I have all the materials you requested, so do you want me to courier them over?”

  Well, shit.

  “No,” I say quickly. “Please just scan them all and send them digitally.”

  “Ew. I really don’t have time for that, and I don’t think Lacey does either.” Lacey is the legal secretary that four associates share.

  “Fine. I will send a courier to pick them up.”

  “Okay. I’ll put them at the front desk.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn’t question why I don’t want her to send our usual courier service out with it. Ravil will have to send one of his guys to do it. Or book a real courier.
/>   “Listen, I found something else out about the case. Dick seemed worried about us representing the Russian mob, so he had me do some digging.”

  Dick? She’s on a first name basis with him? Jesus, is the summer associate fucking a partner? Sounds like it.

  “Anyway, word is the FBI is pissed about the fire because they had that building on watch. Seems like a suspected sex slavery ring is or was being operated out of there. Or something like that. So you just might want to think about who you’re representing.”

  I draw a slow breath. “Defense attorneys represent their clients, period. In this country, we have a constitution that affords all human beings the same rights, and one of those is a fair trial.”

  “I know, I know. No offense. I just thought you should know.”

  “Well, thank you. I will figure out if it’s of any use to me.”

  I’m pissed now. Because I see exactly where this thing is going. Dick’s screwing the new law student and using her to build his negative smear campaign against me for the partnership debate.

  Well, screw them.

  Screw them all.

  I hang up without a goodbye, my teeth clenched. Only after I sit in silence for a moment do I start to unpack the information she gave me.

  Human sex trafficking.

  Is it possible Adrian burned down the building to destroy evidence because the feds were getting too close to an illegal operation?

  Despite what I told Sarah, the idea makes me sick.

  Especially because this case is tied to Ravil.

  Does this mean Ravil’s a sex trafficker?

  A wave of nausea blows through me, and a splitting headache comes on.

  Screw it. I’m not going to even bother trying to work through it. I’m officially on bed rest.

  I’m going to bed.

  I grab a paperback out of the box of books Ravil brought to me—a mixture of Viking romance and the latest non-fiction bestsellers. I suspect he reviewed my Kindle purchases.

  I crack open a book featuring a man with a bare chest and washboard abs on the cover. I used to think reading romance was too low-brow for me. I mean, I read them as a teenager but stopped when I went to college. But screw that. Romance is exactly the thing a pregnant woman should read. Love, sex and happily ever afters. There’s no reason to put anything negative in the mix.

  Especially not the real-life negative news Sarah just laid on me.

  Chapter 11

  Ravil

  Against my better judgement, Saturday, I drive Lucy to her father’s rehab center as a reward for her good behavior.

  She settled into an uneasy routine for the rest of the week. We took daily walks and swims, shared meals. Shared long, intense sex sessions. Natasha came by to massage her every day. To my amusement, she requested perogies every day and devoured them like they were the finest delicacy. She practiced her Russian with the guys, whom I still have not allowed to speak English to her, despite the fact that she knows they can.

  Dima and I closely monitored her phone calls and communications, but she didn’t seem to make any secret or overt pleas for help. Gretchen, her friend from DC—the one she came to Black Light with—called a couple times, but Lucy didn’t answer or call back.

  For whatever reason, she’s being compliant. I’m not foolish enough to believe she’s accepted her fate. I know she’s biding her time.

  “Thank you for this,” she says, staring straight forward through the windshield of my Jaguar I-Pace.

  “You will not make me sorry.” It’s a warning.

  “Are you going to come in?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And you won’t leave my side for a single moment.” I can imagine her trying to slip a note in her mother’s purse or leave it somewhere in the room. Or even blatantly call for help. Bringing her here is a terrible idea. And yet, denying her something so important also felt wrong.

  She chews on the inside of her lip, considering me.

  “Who do they think is the father of their grandchild?” I ask.

  “An anonymous sperm donor,” she says.

  I allow a smirk to play on my lips. “Which isn’t that far off. It was nearly anonymous.” We hadn’t exchanged real names at Black Light.

  She appears relieved by my reaction. Or non-reaction. “Yes.”

  “Except you told me you’d take a morning after pill. Did you know then that you didn’t plan to?”

  I can tell by the way her gaze slides away that she did.

  “I’m glad,” I offer. “Families are forbidden to bratva. We live by a code that requires us to remove ourselves from all previous family, to never marry and to swear allegiance only to the brotherhood. So I didn’t think I would ever have a child.”

  “And now you can?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I’m not in Russia anymore. I am the leader of this cell. I am changing the rules.”

  “Will our son be in danger?”

  “Neither of you will be in danger. I promise you that. If there’s a challenge, it will be for my seat, and the danger will be solely mine. But there will be no challenge. I have no interest in the power struggles back in Russia, and here there are none.”

  She stares down at her fingernails. The pale paint is starting to chip. I make a mental note to bring someone in to give her a mani-pedi. “I was afraid I wouldn’t have children. I broke up with Jeffrey because after eight years, he wouldn’t commit. He loved me, but for some reason, he just wasn’t sure about the marriage and family thing. And I knew I wanted it. And I was scared—” her voice chokes, and she stops speaking.

  I reach over and pick up her hand, squeezing it.

  “I was scared it might never happen for me. I’m thirty-five. I put law school and my career first. I thought I’d have time to have babies once I was established. But then Jeffrey never got on board. And by the time I realized he never would, it seemed like it was too late to meet someone new. So when your condom broke… well, it seemed like an opportunity I might not have again. So I took it.”

  I release her hand, remembering that she took it without telling me. And that she still believes she made the right choice. She would still prefer me out of our child’s life.

  We arrive at the rehab home, and I park the Jaguar. “Leave your purse in the car,” I tell her, in case she has a note prepared. I check her pockets before taking her hand and leading her in.

  We sign in at the front desk where the pretty young attendant greets Lucy by name and looks at me curiously. “You can go on back. Your mother’s already there,” she tells Lucy.

  The place is nice—definitely on the higher end for a rehab home but still with the medicinal smell that stings my nostrils. Lucy leads me down the hallway to a room where the door is open. She enters. “Hi, Dad,” she says overly brightly.

  An older man in a wheelchair looks over, and the left side of his mouth lifts in a smile. The right side of his face remains slack and unexpressive. Controlling the wheelchair with a joystick, he spins it to face us.

  “Hi Mom.” Lucy gives the elegant but depressed-looking woman in the room a hug. “How’s he doing?”

  “Who is this?” her mother demands without answering, her gaze resting on me.

  I step forward and shake her hand. “Hi Barbara,” I greet her by name. “I’m Ravil Baranov. I’m the father of Lucy’s child.”

  Lucy and her mother both suck in shocked breaths. Her father spins the wheelchair to face me, one bushy gray brow down.

  “What? How did this happen?” her mother exclaims.

  Lucy clears her throat. “Ah, I think that part would be rather obvious, Mom.”

  Her mother still stares in confusion, not understanding. “I thought donors in this sort of thing sign away all their rights.” She looks to Lucy’s dad for confirmation, even though the man is no longer capable of speaking.

  “We met last Valentine’s Day,” I say. “The baby was conceived naturally.” I’ve learned that sticking close to the truth is always the best strategy. “
We’ve only recently become reacquainted.” I hold my hand out to Lucy’s father although I’m not sure he’s capable of shaking it. His right hand is curled into a ball on his lap. “Ravil Baranov.”

  He offers his left, working hand. I quickly change hands and clasp it. He squeezes too hard—far too hard. I can’t tell if it’s a message or he can’t modulate his grip.

  Judging by the way his alarmed gaze takes in the tattoos on my knuckles, it’s a message. That’s when I realize Nick Lawrence has all his faculties intact. He’s just trapped in a body incapable of speech or walking. Lucky for me, I guess, or he’d be raising the alarm about Lucy’s freedom.

  “How’s Dad?” Lucy asks again, obviously trying to change the subject.

  “Your father’s had his physical therapy already today, and the speech therapist was in. They have him using this iPad to communicate, but he doesn’t seem to like it,” her mother reports. “How are things at the firm?”

  Lucy shrugs. “They want to replace Dad with a new partner, and I don’t think they want me.” She shoots a wry glance at her father, who frowns even deeper. He opens his mouth a couple times, his lips rounding like he’s trying to form words, but he eventually gives up, shakes his head in obvious frustration.

  “They can’t pick a new partner without your father’s vote,” Lucy’s mother says.

  “Oh, I think they plan to,” Lucy says. “I think that’s precisely why they chose now to act.”

  Her father makes some unintelligible sounds.

  “They’d have to buy out his share,” Barbara says. “And I’ve had no offers.”

  Nick lifts his good foot and plops it down on the wheelchair foot pad, like he’s stomping it.

  “I know, dear. I wouldn’t accept them anyway. You plan on going back.”

  I hide my wince. In my unprofessional opinion, there’s no way in hell Nick Lawrence will practice law again. But you never know. Miracles do happen.

  “But he still has a vote and a voice in any decision they make. I will call Dick myself and tell him I’ll stand in as his proxy until he recovers.”