When those in positions of power become the enemy, there is no playing by the rules. There is only survival. Much like an animal being pushed into a corner, I am being forced to fight for my life.
Bob was a blow-hard who was always shooting off his mouth, always bragging about his high-ranking connections. And that is how I came to know the names of every dirty cop in town.
They’ll do anything, including murder, to keep their secrets, to protect the flow of their dirty money and illegal drugs. So, really, the more I think about it, fair is fair.
Ironically enough, the mercy I showed that hooker the other night will probably be my downfall. I thought every shred of mercy had been torched from my heart, but the fear on her face and the physical abuse he inflicted on her was too much. I couldn’t bring myself to kill her, but her presence on this earth guarantees my demise. When the authorities realize I’m a woman, it won’t take them long to figure out who I am.
When a criminal can’t face the prospect of jail time, a surefire way to avoid it is to kill a cop -- or make it look like you’re about to. Pull a gun on a cop, and he and his friends will take you out in a barrage of bullets. There’s a lot to be said for that scenario. It’s quick. It’s decisive. Permanent. That works for me. Yeah, when I leave this world, it’s going to be on my terms—in a blaze of glory.
Chapter Thirty Seven
Nikita
I’m considering doing something that would mean certain death for anyone else in our cell—disobeying the Pakhan. I’m not sure if it’s because he migrated here directly from Russia as a child or if it’s innate, but I don’t think any of us could be as unscrupulous as my father. I am considered an effective and bare-knuckled litigator, but my father is known for being utterly ruthless.
You have to understand that to cross the Pakhan is death. To so much as question him is inviting obliteration. The fact that I’m flesh of his flesh offers very little protection. My father is a different breed and I don’t know that my punishment wouldn’t be more extreme, in order to send a message. I have no intention of being made an example of.
Belief in the Pakhan’s supernatural powers goes back centuries. The elders in our cell believe unequivocally that to even think of crossing the Pakhan invites the grim reaper. There have been times when he has displayed an almost mystical ability to read someone’s intentions, so I don’t judge. Anything is possible, I guess. I can’t help but think of the tightrope my brother Kodiak walked with my father concerning his woman, Logan. He made it through, yes, but there were times when we all feared for him.
The more I investigate Emily Finley, the more I’m convinced that she’s the one offing all of these cops. She was pulled into a set of circumstances that would have broken a weaker person. Regardless of how she came to be in this situation, I believe she’s a cop killer three times over now. She doesn’t stand a chance if the police nab her. It’s the same thing as being considered a rat or a snitch in my world. Bang, bang, you’re dead.
Society will condemn this woman for her crimes, but me? I feel a burgeoning respect for her balls-to-the-wall approach to justice. Being born Bratva, I can definitely relate to that. I wish there was some way for her to know that the whole world isn’t against her, that someone is at least attempting to understand.
“People don’t disappear unless they want to, Natasha.”
“Well, I may be holding the reason why she did right here in my hands. This notebook I’m working on now, was deliberately written to be found. Take a look at this,” she says as she hands me the notebook she’s been reading. It does appear to be a message of sorts, telling of the subtle and not-so-subtle warning signs of emotional and physical abuse.
“She killed multiple cops, which has the feds checking out old reports of police corruption, just trying to establish a possible motive. You know that’s got to be freaking out the local PD. But I don’t think this woman is as much concerned about corruption as she’s concerned about warning other women about how insidious emotional abuse can be,” she says as she shakes her head sadly.
“Then why kill those two women?” I ask impatiently. The pieces are just not adding up for me.
“Down, killer…The hell if I know. What we do know is that they were her friends. If they were truly close female friends, then -- take it from a woman -- there had to have been one hell of a betrayal to prompt her to take them out like that. Remember that part of the journals about the meeting in the restaurant with two women? I’d be willing to bet those are our first two victims.”
Well, shit. That makes sense to me. After years of abuse a psychological breakdown can take place. Hell, there’s ample case law about women committing murder because of battered women’s syndrome; cases that have been won. As happens every time I find the key to a difficult legal case, my battle instincts fire up, delivering a shot of adrenaline that sizzles from my head to my toes.
I let the surge of testosterone roll through me and decide, for now, to focus on other, more pleasurable, pursuits. I don’t utter a word, just get up and ensure the bedroom door is locked before I prowl across the room to my woman. I take her by the hand and she follows me to the bed, where I sit down and drape her across my lap, face down. I run my hand over the curve of her ass before I fist her hair and yank her head back, forcing her to look up at me.
“Do I need to gag you?” I’m not particularly interested in her response, I just want to piss her off and get her blood flowing. Judging by the seething look she gives me, she damn well knows it.
“What the fuck do you think?” she hisses defiantly.
You have to know Natasha like I do to understand her answer goes far beyond simple rebellion. She’s a master at enduring torture. My father put her through intense training and we’ve never talked about the things that were done to her, but her body bears the scars. I run my finger along a thick, jagged scar on the back of her upper thigh that’s about four inches long.
“Tell me about this one,” I murmur seductively.
“It’s from a jagged piece of metal that was sliced through the back of my thigh during training.”
I’m on a roll, so I continue. I run my fingertip over a perfectly circular, deep scar on the back of her right calf.
“I was branded there with a piece of metal that had been heated over an open flame.”
I lift her shirt and stroke the scars on her back that bear witness to the bite of a whip. There are things I have always wondered about but have never asked. But I find that I must know.
“Did they…?”
“Your father wouldn’t allow anyone to touch me sexually; said he’d kill them if they did. He said no fucking up my face, and no defiling his son’s future wife. You know I’ve never been with anyone but you.”
Bratva training is usually intense, ruthless -- no holds barred. Natasha’s training would have been particularly grueling due to the nature of her grisly role within the cell. The thing about it is, it wouldn’t change how I feel about her—I would, however, hate my father for permitting such an atrocity. And knowing my father the way I do, that is why he did not allow it.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Natasha
I don’t know why I’m giving him the details about the torture I endured during my Bratva indoctrination. In the past it has been something I didn’t want him to be subjected to. How strange to feel the need to protect this big, strong man from the heinous things I’ve been through. Nikita is a shark when it comes to business—a killer in the boardroom. Me? I’m just a killer, period.
I asked Glazov to put me through the most intense training of our cell; it wouldn’t be fair for Nikita to bear his father any ill will for obliging me. The people we deal with are sadistic, thirsty for the blood of their enemies. My training was a necessary evil, at least for me it was. I had to know I was prepared for the worst, and now I am. Mission accomplished.
The sting of the first slap on my ass is so hard that I bite my lip to fight back tears. I welcome the first r
ush of endorphins being released in my system, best fucking high ever.
“I said, count.” His growl breaks through my euphoria of pleasure and pain.
“One,” I bite out through clenched teeth. The second slap is so hard that my legs kick out without any prompting from me.
“Two!” I gasp, unable to stop my hips from rolling toward his hand.
He recognizes the beginning of my journey into myself and his silky voice reveals the pleasure it brings him. “That’s it, there she is.”
His large hand smooths over my ass, stroking and massaging the tender skin that stings and burns from his attentions. I start to squirm with my arousal at his dominance, and his hand immediately grips my ass cheek firmly in warning. No sooner do I register the hard length of his impressive erection against my middle, than his palm slams down on the opposite cheek. My hands clench into fists until I am white-knuckled, a small act of defiance that yields a throaty chuckle from my tormentor.
“You’re a fucking kiss ass toward the boss. Are you trying to make me look weak in front of my father because I think this woman is a victim?”
He pushes two long, manicured fingers into my slick heat, immediately pulling them out to slide them over my clit. I inhale sharply and release the breath with a groan, surrendering to his desire to make me pay for the earlier encounter with Glazov.
“Oh, fuck! We’ll find a way around it if that’s the case. It’ll be our secret.”
He wedges his fingers back inside me, pulling his fingertips back at an angle that presses into my G-spot while he rolls his thumb over my clit. His intimate knowledge of my body guarantees my pleasure, and he’s smug about it.
His voice is a husky, fervent whisper, “Come for me, baby, and then come sit on this hard cock of mine like my good girl.”
At his words, I relax and let the orgasm take me. This is the ultimate form of domination at every level, so much more than just physical. It is the union of two people who are so deeply attuned to one another that it no longer matters where one ends and the other begins.
Nikita
When she languidly pulls her body up and over me, it’s all I can do to make my hands follow strict instructions from my brain (okay, yeah, probably from my dick) to yank off my drawstring pants. My cock is so hard it hurts and I know I won’t last long.
She slides down on me, sheathing me in her tight warmth. I hold her hips, locking her down onto my cock so she can’t move. I bury my head in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, and the words are out of my mouth before I even realize the thought is in my head.
“I want to put a baby inside you, Tasha. I want the bond between us to take human form. I want that with you.”
Her only reply is to begin sliding up and down on my cock. Her fingers tug at my hair, pulling out the band that secures my ponytail. She clenches a fistful of my hair and arches her back with abandon as she climaxes again. That’s all I need to send me over the edge.
As my cock pulses with my release, a feeling of immense satisfaction settles inside me. It’s so much more than just sexual satisfaction. Once again I’m connected body and soul to the only woman I will ever love. As we cling to each other, our lips and hands slide along angles and curves of slick, damp skin, stroking and soothing as our breathing slows and the ripples of pleasure recede.
“I’m going to jump in the tub, meet me there if you want to.” She says softly, getting up and sashaying to the bathroom. Her firm backside sways as she moves and somehow her scars make her even sexier.
“Give me just a minute and I will.”
She looks back over her shoulder at me and my heart clenches as she turns the corner and saunters into the bathroom. I pull my pants up, zipping them as I leave the room and head downstairs to the cellar for a bottle of wine. From the hallway, I hear voices in my father’s office. I slow my stride when I recognize the voices as my father, Novak, and the governor, and stop completely when my father’s voice goes menacingly quiet.
“Anthony…I don’t give a fuck if you’re the goddamn president of the United States. You very well may be one day -- but that doesn’t mean I’m going to kiss your ass. I thought we had this clarified.”
“Glazov…What are you saying?”
“I’m saying don’t play me for a chump. You went into this saying you had a feeling the killer was a cop -- when you knew damn good and well that at least one of the dead cops was dirty.
“You and I know how that works. When a dirty cop is killed, all their secrets come slithering out of hiding and take down everyone involved. Depending on how deep the corruption goes, I imagine there are some nervous badges down at the precinct.
“Now, far be it from me to judge anyone for not following the letter of the law, but I don’t appreciate you not being straight up with me. That title you have won’t protect you if you ever cross me. Now, do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”
Another one of my father’s rhetorical questions—that’s never a good thing.
I hear the governor breathe in deeply, as if he’s digesting my father’s veiled threat.
“There’s no need to get agitated, Glazov. You are correct in your assumption, we suspect that there is indeed a ring of cops who are operating as if they’re above the law. They pull people over and take their drugs, clean out meth houses and skim the cash, things of this nature.”
I know what my father is doing when he answers—
“Perhaps someone in the streets is simply giving them their just reward.” I can hear the apathy in my father’s voice.
“Look, I’m putting so much effort into this because I believe that these aren’t the random acts of some psycho. There is a clear pattern here if we can just clue in to what the killer is trying to accomplish. We don’t know if they’re motivated by greed, revenge or a twisted sense of justice. But if I don’t find them before the cops do, we’ll never find out.”
“Such an inquisitive man…” my father drawls. Judging by the governor’s response, he picks up on the sarcasm right away.
“Glazov, you’re right. I should have been more forthright and I will be from here on out. Please forgive my indiscretion.”
I hear the creaking of leather and can picture the Pakhan leaning back in his grand chair, very much the king of all he surveys.
“You hide anything else from me and my soon-to-be daughter-in-law won’t be doing shit for you.”
At that, I pad down the hall to the wine cellar. I’ve heard enough. I’ll let Natasha know later that my instincts were correct, that the killer has some sort of strategy. Though it hasn’t ignited any mercy in my father, I think I’ll have a leg to stand on, so to speak, because the governor wasn’t straight up with my father from the start. If I play my cards right, I may be able to help this woman without crossing the Pakhan. A win-win.
I will need Natasha’s help to accomplish all that needs to be done, but what’s one more secret between friends? One more secret that we’ll take to the grave.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Natasha
I keep my eyes closed and my head resting on the inflated pillow as I luxuriate in the oversized jetted tub. The jets feel heavenly pulsing on my sore muscles. In addition to the rigorous sexual play that I enjoy with Nikita, I also exercise relentlessly. When you deal with life and death the way I do, you’d better be in shape.
“It’s not like you to be careless, Natasha, you didn’t even open your eyes when I walked in. I could be anyone, have a weapon – hell, someone could have slit your throat and you’d never even know who did it.”
“I knew it was you,” I say without opening my eyes.
“How the fuck did you know it was me if you didn’t even open your eyes?”
“I can smell you.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asks indignantly, and I can’t suppress the grin that curves my lips because I know he’s discreetly sniffing an armpit. “I take great pains to smell good.”
“Ye
s, darling, I’m well aware of your ongoing love affair with Clive Christian colognes, but it’s got nothing to do with that. I’m talking pheromones. That, and your natural gait.”
“What’s my natural gait?” he asks sarcastically. The rustle of his clothes as they land in a pile by the tub is followed by a light tap on my shoulder, a signal for me to scoot forward. I open my eyes and am greeted by the sight of a glass of Merlot in his hand. I accept the wine and take a long, delicious draw as he settles in behind me. I rest my back against his chest and tuck the top of my head into the side of his neck. Mmmm…perfect.
“Well, you’re sneaky, I’ll give you that. Your gait is soft, light-footed from years of eavesdropping—a habit you have no doubt developed due to your position.”
“My father may not want me to know certain things in an effort to maintain some distance between me and the more…unsavory aspects of Bratva, but I see no problem in using any information I may stumble upon during the course of a given day. I’m smart enough to know when it’s time to excuse myself, but you know my father…”
We both say it at the same time—“overprotective.”
“It can’t be easy being the most trusted advisor of the Pakhan as his councilor,” I offer quietly as I rest my hand on his thigh and draw small, slow circles on his flesh with my thumb. “It’s a true contradiction in terms that you must find maddening. I mean, you know things no one else knows, yet he feels that some things have to be kept from you. You do a good job of walking the tightrope you’ve been allotted by birth.”
I’m hoping my words will encourage him, maybe help him understand why his father keeps certain things from him. I listen as his continues, and let the hot water and Merlot relax my mind and soothe my sore body.
The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) Page 12
