The Fixer: A Dark Bratva Billionaire Romance (Chicago Bratva Book 2)

by Renee Rose

  Dima and Nikolai both clear their throats and look away in classic twin mirroring.

  Pavel, our brigadier, says loudly, “Is that my phone ringing?” and gets up from the sofa and leaves.

  “Nobody is tracking your data anymore,” Ravil says smoothly, coming up behind her and spreading his hands over her swollen belly. The two of them arrived on the same page while I was away in Moscow, but things were rocky there for a while. I was afraid Ravil put our entire organization at risk over his unborn child by bringing Lucy here as his prisoner. And he’s usually the most level-headed of all of us.

  He kisses her neck. “I promise.” He sends Dima a warning glance. “Tell her.”

  Dima holds his hands up in surrender. “I just do what I’m told.” His appeal is to Lucy, alone.

  She twists to look over her shoulder at Ravil. “And you told him—?”

  “I’m telling him now. Stop tracking her data. Except for the locator.” He nibbles her ear lobe. “I need to know where you are, kotyonok. For safety.”

  “And safety, of course, is the only reason I’m tracking my bride’s location at all times,” I plead as if Lucy is our judge. In a way, I suppose she is. As an outsider of the organization, an American, and a female attorney, she brings an entirely new perspective and sensibility to the penthouse.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t intend to keep her locked up here, do you?”

  “Not at all. I intend to help her make a life in Chicago. And not be killed by those who want her father’s fortune. She’s an actress. Do you have any theater connections?”

  I spent most of the plane ride trying to figure out how to make things work with Sasha, and the one thing I came up with to keep her happy was to get her involved with theater. Give her some creative outlet to help her get over the burn of her father’s unshared plan for her.

  “No, but I can ask around.” Lucy walks into the kitchen and rummages through the refrigerator for the perogies Ravil keeps on hand at all times for her.

  “Where’s my phone?” I turn to see Sasha standing in the doorway to our bedroom, wearing a pair of jean shorts and—

  “Fuck no,” I growl, launching myself toward her.

  Fear and excitement flare in her eyes as I storm closer to my bride, who’s wearing nothing but a goddamn black lace bra on top, her tits spilling out like a joyful celebration of youth and sex.

  I toss her over my shoulder and carry her back into the bedroom, kicking the door shut with my heel.

  “Fuck no,” I repeat.

  “What?” she asks, breathless, as I drop her onto her butt on the bed. “You said they could look.”

  “I changed my fucking mind,” I growl. I scrub a hand over my face, pacing at the foot of the bed. She’s dewy and flushed and beautiful. Like a woman about to be ravished.

  By me.

  She opens those bee-stung lips to say something, but it dies on her breath when I grasp her ankles and yank her legs down until they form a wide V around my waist. I switch my grip to her wrists, pinning them down beside her head as I grind my erection in the notch between her legs.

  “That policy is predicated on me not having blue fucking balls,” I snarl.

  Her eyes widen, and she goes very still like she knows I’m a goddamn feral animal about to strike. About to claim my prey in a brutal manner.

  I thrust against her, making her draw in a sharp breath. “And on me being at your side.”

  “Got it,” she whispers, breathless.

  “Yeah?” I’m still pissed—unquenched lust making my brain short-circuit.

  “Yes.” She licks her pouty lips. “Sorry.”

  I relax, half-sorry, myself, that I cowed her enough to apologize. I don’t like seeing her diminished. I don’t mind the push-pull between us—I like her fire. I don’t even mind her games—to a certain extent.

  I brush my lips across hers, then bite the lower one and drag it between my teeth until it emerges with a pop.

  “This problem between us could be easily solved,” I tell her. When her eyes search mine, I nudge between her legs again with my hardened cock.

  Her legs tighten around my waist as she inhales. “Nyet.” She turns her face away, and I instantly pull back.

  I honor a woman’s no.

  “Your loss, caxapok.” I offer my hand to help her off the bed. “Just be careful. At some point, my leash will snap.”

  When she takes my hand, I sense a tremble in her fingers. The blush on her cheeks enthralls me, but I act the part of the gentleman, pulling her to her feet and leaving her to get dressed as I hit the shower to rub one out for the second time this morning.

  “You’re killing me, printsessa,” I call out from the bathroom as I step under the spray.

  “That’s my plan,” she sing-songs back.

  Chapter 7

  Sasha

  Never leave an attention-hungry mafia princess home unattended.

  I smile to myself as I whip out Maxim’s credit card at O’hare airport and board the first plane to L.A.

  Since my phone hasn’t started ringing, I’ll bet Maxim hasn’t even figured out I’m gone yet.

  Guess who’s back in the States, bitches? I group text Ashley, Kayla, and Sheri, my three former housemates and besties from college. I’m on my way to your place. Party tonight?

  OMG!!! Sheri is the first to respond. Hell to the yes! Where are you now?

  About to board a plane for L.A. I text back.

  From RUSSIA??!

  No, Chicago. Be there in a couple of hours.

  Kayla is the next to reply with a string of alcohol emojis and, EEEEEEK! I get off at six. Can’t wait to see you!

  Then Ashley: Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? I am so down with partying tonight. Can’t wait!!!!! I’m home now. Her text is followed by five lines of happy faces, cocktail drinks and party hat emojis.

  There are several more additions and confirmations and party girl .gifs. I sit back and smile. My four years at USC were the best time in my life, and the place I made lasting friendships with women as nutty as I am. Getting to see them again is one good thing about my new situation. And honestly? I’m thrilled to be back in the U.S.—Moscow suffocated me.

  I have no doubt Maxim will catch up to me before the night is through. Even if he didn’t put a tracer in my phone, which I’m certain he has, I just used his credit card to buy my ticket.

  But that’s the point. To be a pain in his ass and make him chase. It’s what I used to do to the bodyguards and spies my dad sent to watch over me. I intend to drive the man crazy. After all, he should earn the millions he just took control of, shouldn’t he?

  Still, I nibble my lower lip, hoping I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew. Maxim has a way of getting under my guard that throws me off-balance. Which, if I’m truly honest, is the real reason I’m running off.

  It was getting too intense back there.

  For both of us.

  After the coming out in my bra incident yesterday, Maxim made himself scarce, leaving me with nothing to do but watch television with his housemates.

  He didn’t come back until dinner time when he took me out to a nearby cafe for dinner, and he disappeared again when we got back. Well, that’s not exactly true. I couldn’t keep my eyes open because the time change caught up to me, and I went to bed early, leaving him in the living room.

  This morning, he jogged with me but then was working with the twins at the computer all day. This afternoon he disappeared again.

  I like to think his avoidance is because of his blue-ball situation. Something I’m not the slightest bit sorry for. But I didn’t like the way it felt. To be ignored. Dumped. Locked in.

  So the first time the living room emptied of people—what seems to be a rare occurrence there—I bailed. I grabbed my purse—the giant one I pre-packed with a few things and shut my bedroom door like I was locked inside reading. They may not notice I’m gone until Maxim returns.

  The front door guy tr
ied to stop me, but I got up in his face and pulled the bratva brat act. “Do you know who I am? No? I am Sasha Antonov, daughter of Igor Antonov, Ravil’s boss and wife of Maxim Popov. I can tell you my husband would not approve of you touching me or detaining me, right now.”

  The guy dropped his touch on my arm like I was made of fire. “One moment, Mrs. Popov. He told me not to let you go out unattended.” The guy looked around, desperate for someone else to help him out—I’m sure he was debating whether it was worse to leave his post or to let me go.

  I switched tactics and turned on the charm. “It’s okay. Maxim knows I’m just running to the store to grab some feminine hygiene products.” I whisper the feminine hygiene part.

  He pulled back even more. “I’ll tell Maxim what a great job you’re doing manning your station down here. Thanks so much!” I waved my fingers individually and scooted out the door.

  Dodging my security is a talent I’ve perfected.

  Now I have my phone off, so Maxim can’t reach me, and I’ll be in L.A. by nightfall. Ready to tear up the town like old times.

  Although with Maxim, there will certainly be consequences. I think of the way he tossed me over his lap and spanked my ass back in Russia and my lady parts warm. I’m totally warped because I’m actually hoping he does it again.

  It excited me far more than I care to examine. But he excites me far more than I care to examine.

  I pop my earbuds in my ears to watch reruns of Game of Thrones. After my Downton Abbey binge on the way over here, I’m still in the mood for period pieces. Game of Thrones seems fitting for my life now. That’s what we’re all playing with each other, after all.

  Maxim

  I return to the penthouse with an emerald ring in my pocket with enough bling to be seen from the moon. It has tiny diamonds all around it and down the band, and I engraved it with our names. I hated seeing Igor’s ring on Sasha’s finger, the constant reminder of what a sham of a wedding we had. I hated the symbolism of it, too. Like she was really married to her father not me.

  I open the door to the penthouse with a spring in my step, thinking I’ve finally done something right when it comes to her.

  She’s not in the living room. Nikolai and Dima are there, arguing heatedly over the best way to segment and match data from the airlines.

  “Where’s Sasha, in my room?”

  Dima spares me a glance. “Da. She’s been in there for a while now.”

  A niggling of foreboding comes over me. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her alone. I stride across the living room and throw open my door.

  No Sasha.

  And her big carry-on purse is gone.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  I check in the bathroom even though I know she won’t be there.

  Gospodi. Women can never be trusted—they are always full of lies, deceit and tricks.

  Unbidden, the memory of my mother’s cruel deception replays like the horror movie I can never unsee.

  I know she’s lying, but I don’t want to believe it. I prefer to pretend everything is as she says.

  “This is just a temporary thing, Max. I’ll be back in a week or two—a month at the longest. Be good and do as you’re told.”

  The director of the orphanage puts an arm around my shoulders, gently tugging me away from her.

  Panic wells. I grasp my mother’s arm and try to hold on as she pulls away from me.

  The tears in her eyes glitter as proof she’s lying.

  She’s not coming back.

  I don’t cry because she told me not to. I am a good boy. I do as I’m told. I eat. Sleep. Sit and learn.

  I wait.

  I wait and wait.

  Five years of pretending her words were true.

  Then I stop pretending, pry my window open and run away.

  I take to the streets with the gems I learned: always watch your back, rely only on yourself, and most importantly—women can’t be trusted.

  Now I’ve been saddled with a bride who deals in trickery and deception, too.

  “Trace her phone!” I boom to Dima and Nikolai as I come out.

  “Oh fuck, really?” Dima says. “I’m sorry, Maxim. I thought she was in there.” He squares his shoulders off to his computer, and his fingers fly over the keys.

  I want to shout and rail at them for losing my bride, but really I’m at fault. I should’ve stationed Oleg at the door like Ravil did when he captured Lucy. I didn’t want her to feel like a prisoner, but she’s already proven herself a runner.

  Hopefully she’s just out shopping with my credit card. Proving to me and herself she’s not a prisoner, and she can do what she wants.

  “Blyat.” Dima curses in Russian. “She’s in Los Angeles. I’m sending the tracker to your phone.”

  Los Angeles.

  Again, fuck me. That was where she went to college. She probably went to visit her friends. Or her old haunts.

  I kick myself for not knowing more about her. I should have visited her when she was in college in the States. But I had no interest in tangling with her again. Not when she’d fucked me over so badly.

  Besides, despite being kicked out of Igor’s cell, I still belonged to him. Which meant she was still considered way off-limits. Not that I had an interest in seducing her.

  Or being seduced.

  And I knew from experience that even a friendly visit to her could go way off the rails.

  Dammit. Looks like I’m going to L.A.

  I’m sure she loves this game of chase.

  Well, she’s going to discover there are consequences to playing the brat.

  I pack a quick bag and put my pistol in a gun case to be checked.

  “You want us to go along?” Nikolai asks.

  “No. She is my problem. I can deal with her.”

  The idea gives me a slight surge of satisfaction. Punishment might be just what we need. I’m a dominant man in bed. I know how to inflict a little pain with pleasure. I could certainly make Sasha pay in a way that’s a win for both of us. Break down her walls and make her beg for satisfaction from me.

  Maybe I have too much confidence, but I believe once she surrenders to me sexually, our battle of wills will cease. Right now, her walls are up too high. As long as she refuses to receive pleasure from me, she can continue to fight.

  I grab a cab to the airport and get on the next flight out to Los Angeles.

  Sasha

  “The Russian is in the house!” I holler when Kayla throws the door wide for me. Just seeing the short, perky blonde makes me happy.

  I prance past her and into the apartment like the queen returning to her castle. It looks very much the same—the bright red sofa and armchairs I bought with my father’s credit cards, the rug under the coffee table. Even the paintings on the walls are the ones I hung.

  I didn’t buy my friends—at least I don’t see it that way. They gave me so much—but we did live completely off Igor’s money senior year. My friends enjoyed the free ride and, in exchange, opened their hearts and world to me.

  “Don’t prance past me without a hug!” Kayla chides, giving me a girly slap on my butt. I turn, and she throws herself at me, squeezing hard. “I missed you so much.”

  Ashley and Sheri are right behind her. “I can’t believe you’re here! How long can you stay?” Sheri asks. They are also degrees of blonde—it is California, after all—amplified with expensive highlights. Both could be models. When the four of us went out on the town together, we attracted massive attention.

  A tall brunette I don’t recognize clears her throat pointedly.

  “This is Kimberly,” Kayla says. “I met her doing dinner theatre. She took your room.”

  “But not my place in your heart,” I say immediately, striking an old-time Hollywood actress pose.

  “Never,” Sheri laughs. “So how long, girl? Do you have a place to stay? You can sleep in my room if you want.”

  “I doubt I will stay the night. I ran away from my keeper, and he wi
ll probably catch up with me,” I say ruefully. “Hopefully not before we get to party.”

  “Oh my God, you are so bad!” Ashley smacks my arm. “You gave Daddy’s bodyguards the slip again?”

  I wasn’t under guard while I was at school—not like I was at home. But every once in a while, I’d catch a guy in familiar black tattoos following me. Taking photos to send to my dad. My friends and I used to toy with them, running over to throw ourselves at them, sit in their laps or lick their necks. Just to make them uncomfortable and throw the balance off. It was fun. I played that game on my own before, but my friends made it into more of a tournament. It became our goal to make my watchers squirm.

  “Well, this time Daddy didn’t put a bodyguard on me.” I hold up my left hand. “He arranged a marriage.”

  “Oh shit,” Ashley murmurs.

  “What? Seriously?” Kayla sputters. “How does that work? Why?”

  “What’s the deal?” Sheri prods.

  “So he died last week. And I guess he didn’t feel comfortable leaving me with his fortune without a man to control it. So I had to marry this guy or inherit nothing.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Kimberly says in a low voice. I don’t even know her, but I appreciate her sympathy. “Are you okay? That is so intense.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sasha,” Kayla says, turning her big, babydoll brown eyes on me. “That’s insane. And I’m sorry about your dad dying, too,” she adds as an afterthought.

  I shrug. “Yeah. I’m more upset about the marriage part, too.” I know there’s some grief over my dad, too, but it’s so tainted I can’t experience it.

  “So is he Russian? Why are you here?” Sheri wants to know.

  “He’s Russian but he lives in Chicago. His name is Maxim.”

  “Is he old and ugly?”

  I smirk. “Not old.” I shake my head, thinking of Maxim’s handsome face. The GQ way he dresses and carries himself, only the tattoos belying his poor upbringing. “Not ugly, either.”