The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4)

by Suzanne Steele

  At the end of the hall, I pause and place my hand flat on the master bedroom door, savoring the moment. I’m nobody’s victim. Not anymore. The door is ajar so I push it open, just enough for me to slip inside and approach the bed. I can make out her silhouette where she lies on her side, curled into a ball like a child, facing the door. The air around me begins to feel heavy as my body thrums with anticipation.

  Steady, rhythmic puffs of air escape from her lips as she sleeps. I shake my head in contempt, marveling at the blissful ignorance that lets her sleep so soundly. She has no way of knowing that all hell is about to break loose, that her life as she knows it is already dead and gone. Bye-bye, Linda.

  I grip the syringe, striking decisively when I jam the needle into her neck. Her eyes fly open and I savor her brief look of recognition and horror as I depress the plunger with my thumb, releasing a powerful paralytic drug into her veins. Her muscles go lax and her expression goes blank. The SUX I mixed with the tranquilizer does its job and she can do nothing but stare up at me helplessly.

  “Linda, you look like you could use a little help,” I scowl with mock seriousness. “But you can’t even yell for help, can you? See, here’s the thing,” I continue conversationally from where I sit on the edge of the bed. As the drug takes hold, she’ll suffocate within a few minutes, so I settle in for a little girl talk. “I needed help, remember? I asked you and Karen for help – I fucking begged for help – but you didn’t lift a finger to help me, no one did!”

  I cap the needle and stow it in my pocket. “So, you see, my friend, what goes around really does come around. It only seems fair that you aren’t able to lift a finger tonight to help yourself.” Adrenaline blasts through my veins, raising goosebumps on my arms as I pull the knife from my pocket.

  “I bet you’re wishing you’d brought that K9 home with you after all. Too bad,” I hiss as I drive the blade home again and again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Natasha

  “Shh, be quiet and get up, baby. Throw on some jeans and a t-shirt. I’ll tell you what’s up when we get to the car.” Nikita nudges me repeatedly until I finally sit up in bed and huff indignantly.

  “Seriously, Nik, what the fuck is with you?” I grumble as I scrub my hands over my face and try to wake up.

  “There’s no time to talk, malysh. Move, now.”

  I shuffle into the bathroom and don’t bother looking in the mirror. At this ungodly hour of the morning, I really don’t give a shit what I look like. I brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair and throw on some clothes before joining Nikita in the bedroom. I snatch the travel mug of coffee from his hand and grunt my thanks with a scowl as we venture out to the car. We’re cruising along the downtown streets as he fills me in.

  “This time they’ve called you directly to the crime scene. Blood and gore, no waiting.”

  “Oh, hell yeah!” I’m wide awake now, anxious to see where this is headed.

  “The FBI is in on this now,” he says, glancing over at me quickly as he maneuvers through the streets of Louisville. “You haven’t met Agent Turner. I have. Trust me, they aren’t going to be happy about either of us being on scene.”

  “They?”

  “He and his partner, Agent Rene Murphy. I’m telling you, the best thing you can do is just listen. Don’t speak unless they ask you a direct question -- and under no circumstances do you say anything about us getting the computer and the notebooks.”

  “This ain’t my first rodeo, you know. I learned how to keep my mouth shut when I started working for your family.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Been a long time since you said that,” I purr as I lean my head back against the head rest and run my hand up his thigh.

  “It’s been a long time since I tied your ass to my bed. I think I’m overdue for some kink, don’t you? One other thing, I get the impression that this is a pretty gruesome crime scene.”

  “Like I said, not my first rodeo. Your father is a sadistic bastard, you should see some of the messes he makes. Brutal, absolutely brutal.”

  “I can’t hear you…”

  We both know when it comes to his awareness of his father’s criminal activities, it’s on a need-to-know basis. It’s probably why Glazov has us assisting the authorities with this case. I’m certain Nikita will be deeply involved in Glazov’s Russian diamond venture. It will be good for him to work beside his father on a legit business venture. Glazov may very well find that he can make more money dealing in diamonds instead of guns. In the meantime, having Nikita and I forge positive relations with law enforcement can only help.

  When we pull in, I see two strangers who must be the FBI agents Nikita was talking about. They waste no time confronting us as soon as we get out of the car.

  “I’m not sure why the governor saw fit to bring in the Glazov clan on this, but that’s his call. Just know that I’m watching you. One hint of this case being jeopardized by either of you and I swear you’ll end up under the fucking jail.”

  Nikita’s expression is stoic when he speaks. “I can assure you that neither I nor the forensic specialist the governor has requested have any criminal ties to this case, or any other case for that matter.”

  He almost looks like he’s indignant at the suggestion of criminal activity. Damn he’s good. If I didn’t know better, I might think the man is a straight-laced, law-abiding citizen.

  “On the other hand,” Turner mutters, “the governor assures me she’s damn good.”

  A surge of pride courses through me. I could go straight if I wanted to. Hell, I’d probably fit right in. But what fun would that be?

  I brace myself for what I’m about to see as we follow the agents through the house. As soon as we enter the bedroom it’s obvious our serial killer’s taste for violence is escalating. Jesus. This is on a par with the aftermath of any Bratva scene I’ve ever cleaned. I take a deep breath and approach the medical examiner. In a surreal gesture of professional etiquette, given the circumstances, he introduces himself. I immediately know I’m going to like him.

  “Natasha, right? I’m Herb Foster. I’d shake your hand but, well…” he says as he holds up his bloodstained, gloved hands. “Grab a pair of gloves and let’s get to work. It’s just you and me, kid. This is a high-profile case as you already know. Feel free to chime in.”

  I follow his gaze to a point above us where the body is gruesomely suspended from a hook on the wall.

  I think out loud, “She was alive when he gutted her; there’s too much blood for it to be post mortem. No defense marks, so she was subdued in some way. Didn’t cut her throat this time. He skinned her instead. The cause of death was probably that stab wound between the second and third rib which more than likely punctured the heart. He used a different knife to gut her, though, probably a sling blade or something meant for large prey.”

  Though what I’m seeing is gruesome, it isn’t the most troubling thing about this case. The writing on the wall is the thing that draws my attention more than anything.

  Dead bitch!

  Cop Killer

  “That’s his signature.” We all look up as a grim, uniformed cop speaks. “We were just discussing this week how she didn’t feel safe in her own home. She was convinced some small objects had been moved around in her house.” His Adam’s apple bobs noticeably as he puts his hands on his hips and looks down at the ground, composing himself. After a long moment and a deep breath, he continues, “I, uh, told her she was just being paranoid. And I suggested she take a K9 home with her, to help her feel more secure at night. She didn’t, though, and I’ll always wonder if it would have made a difference.”

  The statement catches Agent Turner’s attention. “Is there anyone who could corroborate what she told you about her suspicions that someone had been inside her house?”

  “Well, yeah, maybe. But the only other person she would have ever discussed something like that with is dead. She and Karen were close.”

  Agent Murphy speaks
up for the first time. “The first murder suggests that the killer has ties to law enforcement. This one does nothing to dissuade me from that theory. This victim was close friends with the first victim; that has to account for something. This is starting to feel personal, like a vendetta. ”

  Her partner stares up at the body, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed. “Well, if it’s personal, then that means the killer’s more likely to make a mistake. When he does, we’ll be ready. For now, though, it looks like the governor may be on to something. It’s possible our killer is a cop or someone with ties to law enforcement, and now he’s killed two cops who were best friends. I don’t have a clear motive yet, but pieces are starting to fall into place.” He slowly shakes his head and rubs a hand over the back of his neck, muttering to himself, “Why would he target these two women? What did they ever do to him?”

  “You know,” I say on a long exhale. “We’ve been assuming the killer is a male. I’m not so sure.” I don’t know if it’s my words or just the sound of my voice that does it, but I’ve drawn the gaze of everyone in the room. I clear my throat and forge ahead, “I think we could be looking at a very personal vendetta among friends, or maybe among people who used to be friends. So we’ve got to take a step back and think about who would go to such lengths to settle a score by targeting these two close friends?”

  Agent Murphy nods sagely and murmurs, “Another friend, that’s who.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Cop Killer

  In some ways I’m no different than any other criminal. For example, I enjoy inserting myself into investigations, observing the mayhem I create. But I hadn’t counted on them bringing in the FBI – and the cream of the crop, at that: the notorious Agent Turner and his partner, Rene Murphy. This is a revelation, that my actions have been deemed noteworthy at the highest levels of the law enforcement community.

  The other revelation is that killing comes much easier to me than I ever expected -- so much so that I worry that I’m not putting my newfound abilities to their best use. The acts I’ve committed are heinous, yes, but my belief in my righteousness is absolute. It is in righting these wrongs that I have found my highest purpose. But is it right that I use my newfound skills to serve only my personal needs?

  Deep inside, the dark soul of a vigilante stirs within me, uncoiling, stretching languidly as she rises to her feet, yearning to pursue justice for the countless victims that society all but ignores.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Nikita

  Her body arches sinuously as she pulls against the restraints. She’s laid out on my bed spread eagle, every inch of her body at my mercy. I chose these black scarves because they’re soft yet strong…like her.

  Her body mesmerizes me as she moves languidly, meeting the rhythm of the symphony I’m creating. Each touch of my hand and my tongue elicits a response…a shiver…a moan…a plea for the nerve-shattering release that only I can give her. I lean down close to her ear and an animalistic, feral growl rumbles deep in my chest as I nuzzle her neck.

  “What did I tell you I was going to do to you?”

  “Make me beg,” she gasps.

  “And beg you will, my little Russian doll.”

  The crop connecting with the tender flesh of a nipple causes her to cry out in anguish. I flick my tongue rapidly over the pink whelp on the tender flesh, smiling smugly as her pain turns to pleasure. This is how we play, alternating pain, control, dominance, pleasure, and surrender until eventually they all bleed into the same breathless concoction of ecstasy.

  I nip at her breast and she jumps in surprise, her blindfold rendering her helpless and unable to anticipate the sensations as they bear down on her relentlessly.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t punish you for deciding you were no longer going to fuck me because of your job?”

  “Oh, shit,” is her only response, realizing too late that she is at my mercy. Properly addressing the long list of her transgressions will take us well into the night. Yeah, she knows she’s in trouble.

  I grab a handful of her hair and she jerks away obstinately. My stubborn girl. “I love it when you fight me, it makes the taking of you so much sweeter. Who. Do. You. Belong. To?” I demand of her, tugging on her hair harder with every word.

  “You,” she gasps. “You, Nikita. It’s always been you.”

  “Mmm, such a good girl when you want to be.”

  My fingers trail lazily down the side of her breast as my tongue follows, lapping gently over her perfect skin, down the middle of her abdomen to the top of her perfectly bare pussy. Her body begins to dance again as she tries to align her clit with my tongue. I spread her lips apart with my thumbs and slowly lick through her wet slit. “Is that what you want, baby?”

  “Fuck, yes, you know it is. Nikita, please!”

  “Please what? Please forgive you for your asinine idea that you wouldn’t share my bed anymore?”

  “Nikita, I’m sorry,” she cries out as I twist a tender nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

  “No more talking. Unless you’re begging me to let you cum, or to give it to you harder, I don’t want to hear it.” I slowly wedge my finger inside her snug opening and savor the view as my finger sinks inside and her hips rock against it.

  “That’s it, baby, give me a show,” I tease her, wedging a second finger inside her slick heat and flicking my tongue lightly over her clit as she frantically fucks my fingers.

  “I’ll do anything, Nikita, just please…give me more. I’ll do any fucking thing you want,” she mewls, her head thrashing back and forth, “just take me there…take me there...”

  “Damn straight you’re gonna do whatever I want. I want to taste you, baby. I want those sweet juices of yours in my mouth.” I drive my fingers deep inside her and curl them back toward me to work her G-spot. All the while, I suck and pull at her swollen clit with my lips, gently at first, then more forcefully.

  I hook my arms under her legs, forcing her to take what I’m giving. Her body jolts up as far as the silken ties will allow when her orgasm hits.

  She’s right where I want her when I untie the scarves and fold her legs back, pressing her knees into the mattress as I settle my hips between her legs. I clasp her jaw harshly in one hand, our eyes locked on each other as I push my cock into her still clenching pussy. Surrounded by her tight, wet heat, I’m overcome by the urge to thrust, to fuck, to mate, to claim this woman again and again.

  A few deep breaths help to stave off my caveman urges long enough for me to tell her what she just agreed to. My primal instincts are too strong to ignore, so I roll and thrust my hips to emphasize the words, our skin slick with sweat as we grind against each other.

  “Don’t. Ever. Fucking. Threaten. Me. Or push me away. Or let Bratva come between us. Bratva’s not a problem -- Bratva is our reason for living. You are my reason for living. You’re property—my property. You carry my mark.”

  I’m referring to the tattoo I insisted on years ago—a red rose that drips my name in blood with Born Bratva written above it. My mark tells the world they better stay the fuck away from her.

  “I’m gonna fuck that stubbornness right out of you.” I raise up on to my knees to achieve the deeper angle my cock is begging for. A few strokes in and the fire starts building in the base of my spine. I grind my pubic bone into her clit over and over until she’s screaming my name, her honey gushing all over my cock even as she drains me dry.

  I collapse on top of her, eventually clearing my head enough to untie her wrists. Her fingers weave through my hair and her words soothe my soul.

  “I’ll never leave you, Nikita. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, baby. So fucking much,” I manage to say as I struggle to catch my breath.

  “We’ve got our hands full, don’t we?” she asks absently, obviously still enjoying the afterglow that comes from hard fucking.

  “We do. But if I have my way, this is just the first of many jobs we’ll work on together, espe
cially if my father’s serious about his business aspirations.”

  She chuckles as she stretches in my arms before curling into my side with a sigh, her fingertips tracing the ink on my chest. “How in the hell is cleaning up your father’s messes going to fit in with the diamond business?”

  My tone is grim when I answer her. “Change is coming, I can feel it. The only constant is you and me.”

  She smiles wickedly as her hand wanders south, “I can work with that.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Natasha

  After we took a shower and called down for a fruit and deli tray with a couple of bottles of Merlot, we wasted no time diving back into the notebook, picking up where we left off. For an unfinished manuscript, it’s making for some riveting reading. The love of learning and reading are deeply ingrained in both of us, so to discover a work in progress – especially if it indeed pertains to this case – would be exciting. A glass of wine and a good book is what I call an awesome date night, for us anyway.

  The Pakhan always had high expectations where our education was concerned. Whenever I or one of his children bitched about school, he would glare at the culprit with those arctic blues of his, arch that imperious eyebrow and declare that he wasn’t raising uneducated street thugs. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned about all the low-life thuggery that’s rampant on the streets of our city these days. He’s a well-read, cultured man and he shares his intellectual passions and love of the arts with his family, including me. Even when my father was still alive, it was Glazov who insisted I be homeschooled with the other Bratva ‘brainiacs’.