The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4)

by Suzanne Steele

  He continues to stroke her like a pet, first her hair then her neck and down to her plump breasts, fully aware of his audience. He kneads one luscious tit, testing its weight in his hand. Kat’s eyes glaze over and become unfocused, her breathing is labored. A smirk curves his lips when he steals a glance at Natasha and sees the heated blush on her cheeks.

  He strokes his thumb across a hard nipple, pinching and pulling as he croons, “You know you have my protection. I will never let that bitch touch you, mamacita. Let her try -- I’ll put a bullet right between her eyes and they’ll never find the body.”

  With a final squeeze of her tit, his massive hand retraces its sensual path up her torso to wrap around her slender neck. I recognize the move, having used it myself during a few particularly vigorous fuck sessions with Natasha. He exerts just enough pressure to cause her eyes to widen in alarm as he growls, “Now, you may thank me.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Cop Killer

  Last night was a major fuck up. I’m well aware things don’t always go as planned. Up until now there have been no major problems, though. I’ve managed to get in and get out of each situation without being seen.

  This was supposed to be the most gratifying, euphoric kill of all. I’ve dreamed about the day I would kill Bob Finley. Right or wrong, I’ve been looking forward to it. But the best laid plans don’t always go as expected.

  When the bastard hit that woman, something in me snapped. I swear, my soul split in two, unleashing a raw, black surge of rage. That’s when I fucked up. I allowed that burst of emotion to overwhelm me. It made me sloppy and impulsive, and that one slip could very well cost me my freedom.

  There’s a witness now. This changes everything. Realistically, there’s no way she won’t talk, but I’m not inclined to track her down. If she wants to talk? Let her talk. It’s obvious to me now that destiny or fate is at work here, and I’m going to let it play out.

  There’s only one way this story can end. I refuse to go to prison for righting these wrongs, so death is my only choice -- either by my own hand or someone else’s. But I’m not going down alone. I know enough about Bob’s underhanded moves to be able to take a lot of very important people down with me. The world will be all the better for it.

  For years, I endured physical and emotional cruelty at the hands of the one person who was supposed to protect me. It’s okay though. I’m not that woman anymore.

  Because last night…I killed my husband.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Natasha

  “What the fuck was that, Natasha?!?” Nikita complains as he slams the car door shut and buckles up.

  “Do not start with me.”

  “Maybe I need to take you home and spank your ass.”

  “Seriously? Is that supposed to be a deterrent?” I asked in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Anyway…we have a female serial killer on our hands, who up until now has killed only women. Last night, she targeted a man who was also a decorated career cop. Statistically, there are far fewer female serial killers and many of them kill their spouses along the way.”

  “It didn’t look to me like anyone else lived there, but I guess that doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  “A little online research will tell us what we need to know, I’m on it. In the meantime, let’s keep this theory to ourselves, no need to involve the governor or the feds. We’ve got a real shot at cracking this case first, Nikita. When we do, the governor will be indebted to Glazov. We can consider it an early wedding present, from us to him.”

  “Spoken like a true Bratva wife,” Nikita says with pride. “But you know the feds are bound to question Kat.”

  “Of course they will, and she’s going to do what Diego told her to do after he…finished,” she says with a shudder. “She knows to only give a vague description but leave out any suggestion that it was a woman. We want people owing us, not us owing them. Diego knows it benefits him to be on good terms with the Bratva. He’ll get a kick out of knowing something the FBI doesn’t know. Diego takes pleasure in fucking with people.”

  “That he does,” Nikita drawls, “and he doesn’t mind having an audience while he’s doing the fucking.”

  “I don’t think I will ever lose the image of those two going at it just now. It’s like it’s burned into my brain. Seriously, who does that?!”

  “I don’t need you picturing Diego getting off while you’re getting off. That fucker, he did that on purpose just to fuck with me. Swear to God, it’s like he wanted to find a way to be in the same room with you the next time you get off, even if it’s just in his twisted mind.”

  “Never gonna happen. I can barely think straight anyway when we’re alone together. No worries, baby,” I tell him as I stroke his thigh reassuringly.

  “Hmmph…” he mutters sullenly. “But, seriously, if the killer’s a woman, how was she connected to this guy? And why would she kill two women and then kill him?” he mused.

  “Maybe he was fucking around on her and she killed the women he was screwing. I mean, I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same thing if you ever strayed.”

  “I have no desire to do something like that. You’re all I know, all I want. Even when you pushed me away because you were working for my father, I was true to you.”

  “You’re a smart man, Nikita.”

  “I’m a lucky man, that’s what I am,” he declares as he reaches down to squeeze my hand.

  He parks in front of the mansion and turns to me, but says nothing.

  “What, Nikita? Just tell me already.”

  “I just can’t get this out of my head,” he closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head. “What do we do if we find that this woman had a good reason for what she’s been doing? I know we’re helping law enforcement with this one, but I can’t abandon my Bratva upbringing and my sense of justice.”

  “Shit, Nikita, I don’t know. How do we justify her killing those women?”

  “You and I have seen justice carried out in far bloodier ways than that. Isn’t it possible that she’s justified? You tell me, because a minute ago you said you could see yourself doing the same thing.”

  “Good point…”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Nikita

  “We need to check in with Dad.” I don’t bother waiting for an answer. She knows the drill. We make a beeline for my father’s office. I can feel adrenaline pumping in my veins, the way it always does when I’m in his presence.

  I’m surprised to find my mother in his office. He’s sitting in his elegant, antique chair that he’s pushed away from his desk. He has a hard grip on her hips as she stands between his legs. When we cross the threshold, he’s all but snarling at her. She begins lowering herself to her knees, her heavy-lidded gaze roaming from his face to areas south.

  It’s obvious we’re interrupting something but I can’t look away. He glances in our direction and taps his fingertip under her chin in a gesture that she immediately understands as a signal to rise to her feet. My parents still act like two horny newlyweds, not like an old married couple. May I be so lucky.

  “Mother, you’re as beautiful as ever,” I murmur as I round the desk and kiss her cheek, trying hard not to feel awkward.

  “And you’re a good son, knowing all the right things to say, my love.”

  “My father taught me well.”

  I lean down and kiss his cheek as mother moves a few feet away. I manage to not look down at my father’s trousers, which I’m certain are tented. Frankly, I’ve already seen more than I ever wanted to.

  “Sit, sit,” he urges us. “Tell me what’s on your mind, son.”

  “You’re not going to believe this. The killer is a woman.”

  “Really…” His eyes widen in surprise and I know I’ve got his attention.

  “One of Diego’s women was there when the killer showed up. The killer told her to leave and threatened to kill her if she breathed a word about it.”

  My father’s sinister laughte
r tells me that I may not be alone in my growing appreciation for our killer’s nerves of steel.

  “If she had known whose woman she was threatening, she would have reworded things. The cartel doesn’t play around when it comes to their whores. And your point is…?”

  “Dad, what happens if we find that this woman had a valid reason for what she’s done? You raised me to appreciate justice even in its bloodiest forms. It’s hard to set that aside while we work this case.”

  Oh shit, here he goes with that leaning in, piercing gaze thing.

  “I am not responsible for that woman,” he fires back, “only my blood family and my Bratva family. I have no intention of putting either on the line for any-fucking-body.”

  He pauses and leans back in his chair, patting his thigh and my mother returns to her previous position between his legs. As he speaks, he slides a hand under her skirt and strokes the back of her thigh, as if touching her skin somehow soothes him.

  “We never under any circumstances cross the line of an agreement. Ties with the governor and being in good standing with the FBI are far more important than a female serial killer who means nothing to us. So put your emotions away and do your fucking job.”

  Ouch…Spoken in true Glazov fashion.

  “I understand, Dad.”

  I learned a long time ago that ‘I understand’ is a universal phrase to use in business when you either don’t know what else to say or you don’t want to say what you’re really thinking. In this instance, I hesitate to say what I’m thinking because I disagree with my father’s stand on the subject. As always, he sees right through me.

  “You understand, eh? Do you really, I wonder? Don’t patronize me like I’m one of the mindless city officials I pay you to blow smoke at. Yes, it is unfortunate if that woman has been wronged. But the world is full of assholes and it’s not my job to rescue her or redeem her. Don’t let a stranger pull on your heart strings, Nikita.”

  His eyes narrow as he looks from me to Natasha before drawling sardonically, “Then again, perhaps I should be addressing your woman. She’s the cold blooded killer here.”

  She meets his gaze without flinching. That just pisses me off. “I’ve never let you down or put anything or anyone above my family or this cell.”

  His turns his attention back to me, his lip curling as he raises his chin imperiously, saying “That’s the son I raised.” He gives Natasha a long look before declaring, “You have my blessing to kill that vigilante bitch if it comes to that.”

  “Yes, sir,” she says, her expression stoic. She will do as her future father-in-law has decreed without a second thought. She understands that there is no room for a conscience when it comes to an order given by the Pakhan.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Natasha

  “Well, that went well,” I mutter under my breath when we return to our room. “I swear, Nikita, no matter how long I know your father he still scares the shit out of me. I don’t know how your mother does it—dealing with all that intensity.”

  “The same way you deal with mine,” I say with a smirk. “He doesn’t give her a choice.”

  He pulls me to him and covers my mouth with his, stifling the retort that was about to spill from my lips. His tongue overpowers me and my mouth welcomes the intrusion. Abruptly, he steps away although he continues to eye me with heated masculine appreciation.

  “We’ve got work to do, but make no mistake -- you’ll be getting that spanking later. Maybe I’ll make you count while I smack that ass, one for each time you sucked up to my father.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Bring it, baby,” I gloat. “And I didn’t suck up to him. He just understands me and knows what I’m capable of. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “You really are an adrenalin junkie, aren’t you? Keep trying to be the Pakhan’s little pet and I’ll make sure you can’t sit down for a week.”

  “Yeah, fear is a high for me, I get off on it. Maybe your mother and I have more in common than you realized.” I shrug it off like I’m not concerned with what he’ll do—but deep down, I am. I never know what to expect from Nikita. He’s unpredictable and that keeps me on edge—and he knows it, the bastard. He never could resist a good mind fuck.

  “Back to the matter at hand, go ahead and boot that computer up while I get comfortable.” True to his nature he’ll get my mind off of the spanking and when I least expect it…oh, well, that’s my Nikita.

  “You got it, boss man,” I smirk, as I deliberately sashay away. I can’t resist looking over my shoulder to see if he’s watching me. He is.

  I boot the computer up and throw on a button-down shirt and boy shorts. When he saunters back into the room wearing nothing but drawstring pants, I force myself to look away.

  “Let me get me in there to research the cop,” he orders, “and you go through more of those journals. We’ll get more done if we split up.”

  I sit down on the floor and pull the box from beneath the bed to get started. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I find it. I begin flipping through the notebooks when one of them catches my attention. After reading a few lines, I finally understand why she began to write things down. I have found that there are usually two reasons why people write things down -- people who aren’t authors, anyway. Either they need a release from the things plaguing their mind and emotions, or they’re leaving a warning in the event of something dire happening to them. This notebook appears to be the latter and the title on the front of it bears witness to that fact. I read silently and quickly become captivated by her story.

  In The Event Of…

  If you’re reading this then I’m probably gone. I’m writing it in hopes I can help someone else avoid the traps I fell into.

  It started when I married a cop. Things were fine in the beginning. Like any couple, we spent our weekends at cookouts, traveled, and just enjoyed being together. I had two close female friends who worked with Bob. We were our own little community and needed no one else.

  Once you’re weaved in so tightly that there’s no escape, that’s when the nightmare begins—at least for me that was the case. Knowing what I know now, I can see how he did it—and hindsight really is 20/20. First, he began to systematically separate me from friends and family, which isolated me from any outside help. I liken it to a form of Stockholm syndrome, where you’re forced to look to your abuser for your day-to-day needs. Along the way, he never missed an opportunity to put me down or prey on my insecurities. I was never good enough, but I tried over and over to meet his expectations. Things went along like that for years, until I finally realized that I would never have his approval. All the future held for me was more humiliation and insults. Things like ‘You’re fat’, ‘You’re stupid’, ‘No other man will ever want you’ became so familiar that I started believing his bullshit.

  “Hey! Hey, Natasha!” I glance up from the notebook and can tell that Nikita must have been trying to get my attention. I’ve been so engrossed in this woman’s journal that I haven’t heard a word he said.

  “Sorry, Nikita. The more I think about it, I don’t know if this woman was writing a book after all. She may have started out with that in mind and wrote some of the entries as if they were scenes written from a character’s perspective, but I don’t think she intended to follow through on it. No, I think she abandoned these notebooks, left them in the care of one of her friends, maybe even both of them. They were intended as a warning for others. Sounds like her marriage was hell, it’s a real shame. So, what have you uncovered? Was the dead guy married?”

  “Yes, he was married to an Emily Finley, and get this -- she disappeared six months ago.”

  “Whoa. Really…What do you mean by ‘disappeared’?”

  “I mean there’s been no trace of Emily Finley for six months. Poof. Gone.” He folds his arms across his chest and takes a deep breath, exhaling harshly as he shakes his head in frustration. “She’s either dead or hiding from something.”

&n
bsp; “Or someone.”

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Cop Killer

  When you’re living your life ‘off the grid’, your survival instincts become rapier sharp. I was in survival mode for years before I finally left Bob. He was a cruel, calculating animal with flat, dead eyes and a taste for torture. And he was smart, even calculating. When I finally stopped believing his lies and constant insults, the devil in him knew something in me had changed. I took great pains not to change my behavior, in hopes that he would think I was still at his mercy. But somehow he knew I wasn’t the same.

  He had always kept a close eye on me but his controlling nature went into overdrive. He watched for any changes in my habits. Sometimes he would go out of his way to be an asshole just to see how I’d react. Most days, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  At my lowest, I considered taking my own life. I had it all planned, had the pills lined up in a tidy row on my nightstand. But at the last possible moment, I had an epiphany that changed everything and set my feet on a far more meaningful path: if someone was going to die because of this man’s cruelty, it didn’t have to be me.

  He was successful in killing off a piece of me; just not the one he had expected. He tried to destroy my spirit, but it reawakened and raged within me like an inferno. My love for him – or the childlike adoration that I had mistaken for love -- was the only part of me he crushed.

  But there were other casualties, like the close friendships that I had counted on to be my saving grace. Any loyalty I had ever had for my two so-called friends was snuffed out when my pleas for help fell on deaf ears, when they averted their eyes and awkwardly told me that everything would work out somehow.

  The judicial system is supposed to be there to protect its citizens. But it’s only as strong as the people who make it run: the judges, the magistrates, law enforcement. When I tried to turn the judicial system against one of its own by seeking a restraining order, no one took me seriously and I knew it was hopeless. Bob found out, of course, and promptly beat the shit out of me.