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©The Profilers
©Born Bratva—The Lost Years
©The Lost Years Series
©Born Bratva Series
Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Steele
Published by Suzanne Steele
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of Fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales, are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The author acknowledges the trademark status of various products and locales referenced in this fictional work, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. All rights reserved. No part of this book can be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Edited by Eda Price Editing
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To the Reader
The men I write about are Alpha males in every sense of the word. They are the men society warns us about. They are dominant males with controlling tendencies. They are the men you know you should stay away from, and yet are drawn to like a moth to a flame.
If you are looking for a sweet romance, you won't find it here. What you will find is dark passion. My heroes often carry what would be considered an obsession for the women they love. Each character I create has demanded their voice be heard. I have been true to that calling. I have stayed true to their personalities and to the beliefs that drive the choices they make, with which the reader may not always agree. The world my characters occupy is dark and often their love is dysfunctional but, nonetheless, their stories must be told.
Stalk Me…
Suzanne Steele’s Blog: http://suzannesteelesblog.wordpress.com/
Suzanne Steele’s Twitter:
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Suzanne Steele’s Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/suzannesteele
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Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I want to thank God; without him, none of this would be possible.
I want to thank my family, who carry the weight of everything so I can write. I love you guys and I couldn’t do what I do without you.
I want to thank Eda Spivey Price, my editor, who came at a time when I needed her most. Eda, you are a Godsend and I will forever be grateful to you for believing in me at a time when I wanted to give up. You were just what I needed to keep writing and pursuing my dream.
I want to thank my readers. You keep me writing when the literary world gets crazy. You guys are amazing and I love you.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
Chapter Fifty Two
Chapter Fifty Three
Chapter Fifty Four
Chapter Fifty Five
Chapter Fifty Six
Chapter Fifty Seven
Chapter Fifty Eight
Chapter Fifty Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty One
Chapter Sixty Two
Epilogue
Prologue
The pale light of the quarter moon settled around Alexander Glazov like a shroud, as if giving testimony that this night wasn’t going to end well.
Fyodor Stanislavski Sergeyevich, better known as Ivan The Terrible in the Born Bratva brigade, stood by stoically with his massive arms folded in front of him as he awaited his Pakhan’s orders. The evening’s events had progressed quickly, awakening his deep-seated thirst for blood. He stood ready to exact vengeance in his Pakhan’s name. As a trusted Bratva guard, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his Pakhan.
“You stupid little man.” Glazov looked down with contempt at the man kneeling before him in nothing but underwear. The man’s face was bruised and bleeding from the brutal beating he’d suffered. A gag ensured that the only way he could beg for mercy was with his eyes.
There would be no mercy.
Glazov’s cousin and righthand man, Mathias Novak, stood watching his boss intently. A slight frown marred his typically impassive features as he exchanged a grim look with Ivan. Nothing about this felt right. Novak didn’t want the Pakhan to ever be this up close and personal to murder. His every decision was shaped by the need to make sure Glazov was untouchable, to see to it that he remained firmly beyond the reach of law enforcement. As Novak’s eyes darted back and forth between Glazov and their cowering guest for the evening, he felt that control slipping. Everything in him wanted to scream ‘Don’t do this!’ but he never talked business in front of others. And, after all, Glazov was in charge.
Glazov’s voice pulled Novak from his anxious thoughts. “You’re not the first person to try to write a book about my…professional activities. But to have the audacity to include my wife? My children? That makes you a dead man.” Glazov’s veins practically simmered with rage. It was bad enough that this fool was trying to make bank on Glazov’s life story, but to include details about his family was unacceptable.
Each time he’d watched the man making the rounds on the television talk show circuit, Glazov had felt violated. It was as if someone had broken into his home and rifled through his personal belongings. The violator had opened the drawers and closets of the most sacred things in the Pakhan’s life and exposed them to the world. The masses had watch
ed with glee as tidbits and teasers of the Glazov family saga had been put on display for the world to see. As the cameras panned the studio audiences, you could see they were chomping at the bit to know more. It was the first time in Glazov’s life he’d ever felt defiled. He didn’t like it. He was a private man. When he revealed information about himself, it was by his choice and only when such disclosures served his purposes. That choice had been taken away. Killing Jim Cooper was his way of taking back what he craved: control. There would be no slap on the hand for this offense.
Novak cringed as he watched Glazov break the unwritten rule of never carrying out a hit on his own. As if in slow motion, Glazov pulled his Glock from his holster and shot the whimpering man right between the eyes.
Novak released a long, slow breath and shook his head.
“It’s disrespectful,” Glazov growled, as if it would justify the man’s death coming by his own hand.
“True, my Pakhan.” Ivan nodded his bald head in agreement.
Novak squared his jaw, wanting nothing more than to knock the guard out. All brawn and no fucking brains. Novak barely bit the words back. He was convinced this was the beginning of the end. The hit would bring down heat on Glazov; specifically, the heat of his enemy, FBI Agent David Turner. It could very well bring down the Born Bratva brigade.
Once again, Novak shook his head as he grappled with the enormity of the evening’s events. How could the Pakhan allow his emotions to put his business empire and everyone in it in jeopardy? Didn’t Glazov know that this could put them all out of a job? That it could tear Glazov away from his family?
Novak’s lips were pressed into a hard, thin line. What was done, was done. What Glazov had just set in motion couldn’t be stopped. Novak had seen enough in this life to know that a storm was likely coming and there might well be nothing anyone could do about it. Damn it!
“Ride with Yafon,” Novak hissed in Ivan’s direction. Ivan lumbered over toward Yafon’s car. He knew better than to defy Novak when he was in a mood. Though Ivan was three times bigger than Novak’s tall, leanly muscled frame, the beefy bodyguard had no doubt that Novak could beat his ass in a fight. Not only was Novak highly trained, but Ivan was convinced he was batshit crazy.
As soon as Yafon and Ivan were gone, Novak spun around to face his cousin, his body bristling with barely leashed anger. “What the fuck were you thinking, Glazov?”
“He’s been on talk shows promoting that damn book he was writing. Like I said, it was disrespectful.” Glazov might have been talking about the weather as he holstered his gun. “You might want to think about that yourself. Be very careful.”
“You could have just had Ivan or Yafon shoot the bastard. Hell, I would have offed him for you.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes. I trust you, Ivan, and Yafon with my life. An unauthorized biography…” Glazov muttered contemptuously as he shoved Cooper’s body over with his foot.
“You’ll immediately be suspected of this. You had to know that.”
It was true. Jim Cooper had announced to the world he was writing a tell-all book about the Glazov family. He had flaunted his knowledge of the man, strutting from one interview to the next like a damn peacock. The only problem was that it was Glazov’s glory he’d trespassed upon. Making a name for himself by riding the Pakhan’s coattails was the last mistake Cooper ever got to make. There were no gray areas in Glazov’s way of thinking. You were either for him or against him. Jim Cooper had crossed a sacred line and paid with his life.
“Glazov, I’m just saying that you’ve given Agent Turner all the ammunition he needs to finally take you down. It isn’t like you to make such a fatal mistake. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“The thought of that bastard writing about my wife and children…” Glazov snarled as he pointed at Novak. “It. Just. Pissed. Me. Off.” He schooled his features, looking at his cousin with the arrogance Novak had come to know so well; the look that demanded, even assumed, absolute compliance. He shrugged. “The FBI has no way to link me to this.”
Long ago, Novak had vowed to always tell Glazov the unvarnished truth, even when it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He was nobody’s ‘yes man’. “That’s not the point. Your personal animus toward Cooper is well known, so you will be the first person they look at. They won’t care if you did it or ordered someone to do it, they will come after you. One search warrant is all it would take, cousin. Just one. If that ever happens, a tell-all book will seem like a walk in the park. I want you insulated from the fallout on this one.”
As he contemplated his cousin’s silhouette in the dim light of the moon, Novak felt a frisson of dread. For the life of him, he still couldn’t wrap his head around what had just happened. “This is so out of character for you, Glazov. Turner’s gonna be gunning for you.”
Glazov looked down at the bloody remains of what used to be Jim Cooper. “What a mess. Have Ivan handle disposal. We’ll cross the Agent Turner bridge when we get there,” Glazov declared and began walking toward the car.
“That’s the problem, Glazov. We’re there!”
Chapter One
FBI Agent Rene Murphy discreetly studied her partner. Agent David Turner was a good-looking man. He had deep brown eyes and brown hair that might have had a bit of wave to it if he had worn it longer. But he was old school FBI and wore his hair in the agency’s classic short, nondescript haircut. No salon required. A barbershop was just fine, thanks. So was the FBI’s standard black suit and heavily starched, button-down white shirt. Despite his traditional attire, Rene thought he stood out from the crowd as a man among men. He took care of himself and it showed. Most of his peers at the FBI were already getting soft. The washboard abs of their youth were giving way to pot bellies that protruded over their belts because of too many donuts and too many hours sitting behind a desk.
The duo had been fucking each other from almost the first day they began working together. They discovered early on that they shared an affinity for BDSM. In the beginning, Rene had taken the lead as his Domme, insisting he call her Mistress when they were alone, but eventually they had discovered they enjoyed switching it up. Lately, her lover had developed a penchant for dominance. She found the power exchange refreshing and even liberating.
He was a man with a sharp mind and a quick wit. When he set his sights on a criminal, they were sure to end up in prison. Right now his sights were set on Alexander Glazov, the head, or Pakhan, of the Russian Bratva syndicate in the U.S.
Turner had never gotten over how, a number of years earlier, Glazov had faked his own death and disappeared into the shadows in Russia. Turner had even tried to warn that woman off when she inexplicably had gotten too close to the Russian crime boss, to no avail. The two were married now and practically living in his backyard. Glazov had moved his operation from New York to Louisville some time ago, ostensibly to lessen law enforcement scrutiny. But sometimes Turner wondered if he’d done it just to mess with him. Louisville was his home. His turf.
Glazov had made Turner look like a fool in countless ways, and Turner found it impossible to just forgive and forget. It was one thing to be ridiculed by criminals; it was quite another to be laughed at by the men and women you served with.
Perhaps much of his embarrassment was due to his own imagination. The OCD tendencies that pushed him to strive for perfection weighed heavily on him, so it wasn’t difficult for his thoughts to wreak havoc in his head. He just couldn’t shake the fact that the Pakhan had humiliated him and made him look like a fool. He knew he should leave it alone, just let it go. To do otherwise would be the equivalent of playing Russian roulette with a crazy man. But he was in too deep. When it came to Alexander Glazov, Turner was like a dog with a bone.
“You two may be interested in this one,” Richardson said as he tossed a piece of paper onto Turner’s desk. Rene and Turner weren’t the only ones working late, it seemed. “So far, the I.D. is unofficial, but one of the cops on the scene is familiar with the guy. They
’re saying it’s that writer, Jim Cooper, who was doing that tell-all book on your Bratva nemesis. Surprise, surprise, his body just washed up on the banks of the Ohio River.”
Agent Turner jumped up so quickly, Richardson had to step back awkwardly to avoid spilling his coffee. “Well, I guess that means you’re interested,” Richardson huffed as he lumbered away. “Ain’t nothin’ fake about this one, Turner. He’s as dead as dead can be.”
Turner squared his jaw as he strode from the room. “I’m driving,” he snapped over his shoulder.
“No doubt,” Rene said under her breath as she grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and moved quickly to catch up with him.
With lights and siren clearing a path through the Louisville traffic, the agents made good time. Rene rolled her eyes at the sight of the uniforms talking amongst themselves. She retrieved a roll of yellow crime scene tape from the trunk and began to cordon the area around the body, which should have been done before they’d arrived. As she worked, she took note of the usual details one encountered whenever the water gave up its dead.
The body didn’t appear to have been in the water very long, but the skin was a sickly gray. Rene knew she would never forget the eyes. They were open wide, and the face was a mask of eternal fear. He wore nothing but white briefs that were now a dingy brown after soaking in the murky depths of the Ohio River. A single bullet hole between the eyes removed any possibility of the death being accidental. This had been a hit. An execution. The question was, who had carried it out?
Rene leaned in so the officer couldn’t hear her and spoke to Turner in a soft whisper. “We have other cases, like the serial killer case we’re supposed to be focused on.”
Turner looked back at her. God, she was a marvel. Long, waist-length red hair, bright green eyes—and, when shit got real, balls as big as his. “Rene,” his tone was more a growl of warning. She lifted her hands and let her partner get back to work.
CSI pulled up in a van, confirming what they both already knew: they were going to be here for a while.
The Profilers (Born Bratva The Lost Years Book 2) Page 1
