The Director (Chicago Bratva Book 1)

by Renee Rose

  “No, Mom,” Lucy snaps. “They already think I’ve had everything handed to me because Dad is a partner. If I make partner, it’s going to be on my own merits not because my mother called and pitched a fit.”

  Barbara sniffs. “Well, who do you think they want to be partner?”

  “I don’t know. But Dick stopped by my office to tell me again how representing members of organized crime is destroying the firm’s reputation. Nevermind that nearly all my cases are referrals from the Tacones. Nevermind I made as much or more for the firm as any associate last year.”

  Nick turns his wheelchair to face me directly and tries to speak again.

  Lucy darts a glance at him then me.

  I don’t play dumb. The truth is, I see the man’s obvious frustration with being unable to interact.

  I grab a stool and sit myself right in front of him, meeting his defiant glare. “I care about your daughter, Nick,” I tell him. “I was surprised but happy to learn about her pregnancy. We are committed to seeing if we can work things out to raise our baby together.”

  Lucy goes still. Nick studies me intently, like he’s trying to read the rest of the story.

  “Wh-where did you say you two met?” Barbara asks.

  “Washington, DC,” Ravil answers. “I was there on business. Neither of us actually realized we both lived in the same city until I was in her office this week.”

  “Lucy?” her mother warbles. “Is this… all true?” The woman appears shocked. I’m sure Lucy engaging in a one night stand in Washington, DC is completely out of character for her daughter.

  “Yes,” Lucy murmurs. “It’s true. Ravil actually showed up as a client Monday,” she tells her father. “Well, I’m representing a young man he posted bail for. He hired me.”

  I take her hand and squeeze it.

  “Well, lots of people learn to co-parent without becoming a couple,” Barbara offers.

  Christ. Do I really seem that unsuitable? Offense taken.

  “Indeed.” I stand. “Well, we can’t stay long. We have a birthing class to attend.”

  “Lamaze?” her mother asks.

  “Bradley Method,” I answer. Lucy hides her surprise because this is the first I’ve mentioned the class or the method. “But we’re also considering hypnobirthing. Harnessing the power of the mind to create a relaxed and painless birth. It’s up to Lucy, of course.”

  She gives me a tight smile.

  I lean over to shake Nick’s left hand again. “I’m going to take good care of Lucy, don’t worry.”

  Lucy leans over and kisses his cheek. “I love you, Dad. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.” She hugs her mom again. “Bye, Mom.”

  As we walk out, I take her hand and find it trembling. She sniffs. I stop, realizing she’s holding in tears. A deep sense of horror ripples through me. Like my body physically can’t stand seeing her upset.

  “Lucy…”

  She jerks her hand out of mine and waves it at me. “It’s all right. I cry every time I leave here. It’s the pregnancy hormones. And I hate—” she chokes a bit— “seeing him like that.”

  “Oh, kitten, I know.” I stop and pull her gently into my arms. She doesn’t exactly resist, but she doesn’t hug me back. Her back shakes with another sob. We stand in the hallway, and I rub a slow circle over her back, holding her body flush against mine, the curve of her belly pressing against my hips. After a moment, she softens and presses her face into my shoulder.

  “It’s just not fair, you know? He’s such a smart man. And I can tell he’s still there, but he just can’t speak any more. It kills me.”

  “It’s possible for the brain to rewire,” I tell her although I’m not so sure. His skin was gray. His breath sometimes labored. Her father didn’t look healthy to me. Like the stroke might have been the first of many signs of deteriorating body due to old age and a stressful career.

  “I want him to meet Benjamin,” she says, as if she was thinking the same thing.

  “I’m sure he wants that, too. I’ll bet he’ll make sure to hang on for that, kitten.”

  She pushes away and wipes at the smudge of her mascara on my white button-down. “I’m sorry.”

  I cover her hand. “I’m not.” It’s true—comforting Lucy feels like a privilege. I kiss her temple. “Come on, I’ll bet you’re hungry again.”

  She sniffs and gives me a watery smile. “Actually, I am. I really want an Oreo Blizzard from Dairy Queen.”

  I smile. “Coming right up. Let’s go, beautiful.”

  Lucy

  In the car, I arrange my purse on my lap, digging in it for some lip balm. I swear, pregnancy makes my lips drier than the desert despite the fact that I drink and drink all day long.

  I’m still emotional from seeing my dad and mixed up about Ravil.

  “I have a present for you,” Ravil says.

  “You do?” It’s funny how the promise of an unexpected gift has an instant lightening effect. Some carryover from childhood when gifts meant everything, I’m sure.

  Ravil reaches into the back seat and produces a white box with a pretty light blue bow.

  “What is it?”

  Ravil’s smile is indulgent. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Open it.”

  I tug the ends of the silky ribbon, and they unravel and fall open. I take the lid off and peer inside. “Matryoshka dolls!” I lift out a beautiful wooden doll painted as a woman in traditional peasant dress, only her face looks remarkably like mine. “Is this me?” I gasp, opening the doll to reveal the next one.

  “They are all you until the last one,” Ravil says.

  I crack them all open until I get to the baby. A little boy, judging by the light blue swaddling.

  “In Russia they are a symbol of fertility and family. An honoring of how mothers carry the legacy of family into the future.”

  My eyes mist. “I love it. Thank you.”

  Ravil starts the car. “I honor the gift you are bringing me. Us,” he amends.

  “Were you mocking me when you said those things to my father?” I restack the sweet nesting dolls, admiring their craftsmanship. How well they open and close.

  “I spoke the truth,” he says quietly. “Every word.”

  Tears threaten again, and I’m not the crying type. Damn hormones!

  “What about the birth class?”

  He nods. “We are really going. Svetlana holds a weekly class in the building on Saturdays. The new session starts tonight.”

  “Bradley Method?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Well, it’s the one Svetlana likes best, after hypnobirthing. And she’s passionate about birth education.”

  “Will it be in English?”

  Ravil’s lips twitch. “It will.”

  “And other couples will be there?”

  “Yes.”

  I sit back, somewhat buoyed by this information. I look over at Ravil, my handsome Russian captor. “Are you finished being mad at me?”

  His lips twist wryly, and he keeps his gaze on the road. “I’m getting there.”

  The baby kicks, and I gasp and smile, putting my hand over the place.

  Ravil reaches over to lay his hand there, too. I cover it with mine and press it into my belly to show him where I feel the tiny bubbles of movement.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He looks over.

  “For taking me to see my dad. It means a lot to me.”

  “I know, kitten,” he says. And I believe him. Because he does seem to know what’s important to me and what isn’t.

  “Take me home,” I say, even though my instincts scream at me to hold back. That it’s too soon to make that request. Of course, I’m right.

  “Your home is in the Kremlin,” he says firmly. “Our son’s home is in the Kremlin.”

  I drop my head back against the seat back. Dammit.

  I need to ask him about the sex trafficking, but I’m too terrified about wh
at I’d find out. Things are finally settling between us. I know that’s cowardly, but protecting my mental state has some value when I’m growing a baby.

  He pulls through a Dairy Queen drive-thru and orders me the Blizzard.

  It wouldn’t be true to say I’m not getting somewhere with Ravil. He took me to see my parents, which he hadn’t agreed to before. He’s taking me to birthing class. He’s starting to show some trust.

  I need to be careful and not violate that trust. Because Ravil told my father he cares about me. And he told me every word he said in the rehab was true.

  So if I can build his trust, if I can win his forgiveness for trying to keep the baby from him, I believe I can eventually appeal to his more magnanimous side. This is a guy who gives the teens in his building a lecture about sex and offers them condoms. I believe he can be reasoned with.

  Not today.

  But I can bide my time.

  And in the meantime, I’m not suffering. I’m in luxurious surroundings with daily massages, delicious food and more orgasms a night than I had in a year before Ravil.

  And as for Ravil—well, I know he’s a criminal. I don’t believe he made the money to buy a multi-million dollar building overlooking Lake Michigan legitimately.

  But I haven’t seen anything terrifying yet. He doesn’t seem mentally unstable. I have no reason to believe he’d be a bad father, if he promised to keep his business away from our child.

  That would have to be the stipulation.

  But we’re not ready to negotiate yet.

  First, I surrender.

  Give him what he wants—the security of having me under his thumb. Full access to my body at all times—I can’t say I mind that part—and the control over his son’s future that I tried to take away from him.

  Later—much later—I will bring him to the bargaining table and negotiate for my freedom.

  I scoop a spoonful of the blizzard and hold it out to him. “Would you like a bite?”

  Chapter 12

  Lucy

  Svetlana holds birthing class in a conference room on the third floor of the Kremlin, where there appears to be various offices. I see a sign on a door that says, “quiet, massage in session,” and guess that must be where Natasha sees her clients.

  There are a few other couples sitting around the large conference table and a mother with a baby on her hip standing up, talking to them.

  “Lucy, Ravil, welcome,” Svetlana says in English with a relatively thick accent. “I’m delighted you could come.”

  She gives me a hug like we’re old friends. Like the last time she saw me, she didn’t stonewall me by speaking only Russian. Of course, that was Ravil’s fault.

  Svetlana pulls down a projector screen and plugs her Macbook in. She starts by having us introduce ourselves.

  Hi, I’m Lucy, and I’m a prisoner in this building. The father of my child is a dangerous criminal who wants to control every aspect of my pregnancy and birth.

  Wonder what they’d say if I led with that?

  But no. Trust-building, I remind myself. Surrender.

  “Hi, I’m Melissa,” a very young woman with long dark hair and olive skin says. “We, uh, got pregnant on our honeymoon. It was sort of unexpected, but we’re happy.”

  “I’m John,” her husband says.

  “I’m Larry, this is my wife Jane. This will be our third home birth with Svetlana, so we don’t really need the class, but it’s an excuse to get away from the other two kids and have a date night together,” a bearded man says. His wife laughs and snuggles against his side. “Plus, we love the videos,” Jane says.

  “Oh yes, the birth videos,” the woman with the baby says. “I’ve seen them twenty times, and I still cry every time.”

  Everyone smiles.

  “I’m Carrie. I don’t have a birth partner,” a hippie-looking blonde says. “But I’m planning on hypnobirthing. I’ve been listening to my audios.”

  Hypnobirthing. Ravil mentioned something about that to my parents. At the time, I was fairly certain it was yet another crazy thing he was throwing at me to keep me off balance. Now, it sounds more like a real thing. I make a mental note to research it.

  “That’s all right. I will be your birth partner,” Svetlana says. “Or Genevieve.” She indicates the mom, who is now nursing her chubby baby in the corner. “My assistant.” Genevieve lifts her hand and waves. “I’m Genevieve. This is Sammy.” As if the baby knows he’s being talked about, he pops off her breast, leaving it exposed to the room, turns around and gives us all a dazzling smile. Milk drips from his reddened lips.

  My own nipples tighten at the sight, as if my body is willing to nurse him, too, if something happens to his mother.

  Everyone laughs, waves, makes baby-faces and coos over the adorable Sammy, Ravil included. It’s sweet. I relax a little.

  These aren’t my people—they all seem like the crunchy, granola type, which makes sense, if Svetlana is their midwife and/or birth coach. But we’re all here for the same reason. The same result.

  To have our own fat, happy, adorable baby at the end of it.

  “Hi, I’m Lucy,” I say, kicking myself for sounding every inch the stiff, frigid lawyer.

  “I’m Ravil,” he cuts in, like he realizes I don’t know what else to say.

  Svetlana fires up her computer and goes through a Powerpoint on proper diet during pregnancy. It’s basically the same checksheet she left with me on Tuesday.

  Then she starts talking about birthing techniques and baby positioning. How important it is to have the baby head down, face down for the birth and what we can do toward the end of our pregnancies to ensure that happens, like crawling on our hands and knees, or doing handstands in a swimming pool.

  Part of me wants to roll my eyes and blow this all off as a bunch of hippie nonsense, but the other part of me can believe there might be some old wisdom here, passed down through the ages through women like Svetlana, before the time when doctors took over births and giving birth in hospitals became the normal thing.

  That doesn’t mean I want to forego the hospital birth. Lord knows, I want the epidural and the oxygen and everything else that might be necessary to keep me and my baby safe. Especially considering my age.

  Svetlana puts on a video of a home birth. I’m a little shocked at first to see a pregnant woman fully naked on her hands and knees on a bed.

  Moaning.

  She circles her hips and sways from knee to knee as her birth partner strokes her back.

  “He is using very light touch, making figure-eights on her back,” Svetlana says in her Russian accent. “This helps her relax.” The woman’s moans get louder.

  “She’s having a contraction. See how she doesn’t stop breathing? Instead she lets out a low sound. This low sound helps relax the pelvic floor. What the mouth does, the pelvic floor does. Relax your mouth, relax the pelvis. Baby comes out.”

  I’m embarrassed watching it. It seems like such a private moment, and yet here we all are, intruding on it, watching the poor woman struggle through the most intimate of acts. “I can’t believe she let someone videotape this,” I mutter.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Jane pipes up. “You think you’re going to care who sees you give birth or sees you naked, but when the moment comes, none of that really matters. You’re willing to share it because it’s beautiful and natural and your baby is a miracle.”

  John squeezes her closer to him. “That’s right,” he agrees. “Jane even let my mother in the room.”

  “It’s okay if you want it private, too,” Svetlana interjects. “Your comfort is the only thing that matters.

  The couple on the screen change position. She squats on the floor in front of the bed, her partner sitting on the bed, supporting her beneath the armpits.

  A woman—Christ, it’s Svetlana, herself!—sits in front of her, hands outstretched. Svetlana speaks to the woman in Russian. A dark head appears, and we all gasp. In the next few seconds, shoulders appear, the
n the rest of the baby slips out.

  “Oh!” Carrie covers her mouth with her hand, tears in her eyes.

  I’m not feeling it, but maybe I’m too shocked by the whole scene. I sneak a peek at Ravil. He is also unmoved.

  Svetlana puts on another video. “This is a water birth. I know some of you are considering it.” She darts a look at me.

  Like hell we are.

  “Waterbirth was pioneered in the 1960’s by Igor Charkovsky in Russia to reduce or eliminate birth trauma to the baby. It became popular in Russia in the 1980’s. I have assisted one hundred and twenty-nine waterbirths,” she claims proudly. “I think you will see the appeal when you watch the video.”

  A pregnant woman is in a giant plexiglass tub, like a whale in an aquarium—totally on view to the camera and audience. Her head and shoulders are out of the tub, and her husband strokes her neck and shoulders, murmuring to her in Russian.

  She moans and holds her belly. You can literally see it tighten, the muscles squeezing the baby down and out.

  It goes on for a little while—long enough that I start to wonder how much longer we have to watch and then, suddenly, the baby’s head appears. Svetlana reaches her hand into the tub, not to catch, but to gently massage a circle on the baby’s head. There’s no shouting or yelling like in the movies. Svetlana and the birth partner speak in murmurs, the mother moans in a low, guttural tone.

  The rest of the baby slips out. Still, Svetlana doesn’t catch him. She lets him gently float a moment while the mother cries her tears of joy.

  It’s the mother who scoops the baby up and out of the water to hold against her chest, and only then does Svetlana nudge in to surreptitiously hold a stethoscope to the baby’s back while the parents weep with joy.

  I burst into tears. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The birth was so peaceful. The parents’ joy is so palpable. The miracle of it all so intrinsic.

  Ravil drapes his arm across the back of my chair and strokes my shoulder. When I hiccup, Jane looks over at me, her eyes and cheeks wet. “Right?” she says.

  I sniff and nod. “Yeah. That was beautiful.”