Page 39 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“Divide and conquer, I’m guessing.”

Max lets out a heavy sigh. I can almost feel his anguish. I’d give anything to be there, to hold him and run my fingers through his rich, brown hair, comforting him. But I know they want me to stay away from this whole situation. It makes sense. I’d want me away, too, especially after SSA Smith’s last visit.

“I’ll be in touch once I know more,” Max says before excusing himself and hanging up.

I can’t just sit here and do nothing. However, I can speed up the algorithm’s process for a few possible solutions, so I do that instead. An hour passes before I manage to come up with a reasonable resolution. I’ll have to explain it to the guys when it’s done, but I decide to do it anyway. There’s a lot that Max, Ivan, and Artur don’t know about me.

Maybe it’s time I start letting them in.

After all, if I’m to have their baby, there should be a higher degree of intimacy between us on every level of an already insanely complex relationship.

When I arrive at the precinct, I recognize members of the press gathered outside. I approach them tentatively, thankful that I’m not easily recognizable. My dad may be a camera sweetheart, but I ‘ve done my best to stay out of their range ever since he first ran for public office. Wrapped in a camel brown overcoat, I make my way up the steps and chat up one of the photographers.

“Who are you all waiting for?” I ask with a soft smile.

He gives me a hard look at first, but when I refuse to budge or stop smiling, he softens, ever so slightly. “What’s it to you?”

“Just curious,” I reply and slip a one-hundred-dollar bill in his jacket pocket.

“Ivan Sokolov. One of the uniforms from the reception desk tipped us off,” he says, softer and a hundred bucks richer. “They set bail, but apparently all of the Sokolov accounts have been frozen, and the Feds are doing their best to stop Sokolov’s brother from getting him out.”

“That’s pretty bold of them, don’t you think?”

The guy shrugs, checking his camera settings. “I guess. I don’t know what they expect to gain, though. You can’t take the Bratva down, not like this. It’s never going to be that easy.”

“Because of their influence?”

“Because of their history. The Russian mob were here long before the FBI was even founded. These are hard bastards. A warrant and a couple of nights in jail won’t make any of them crack. These Bratva folks will kill you if you look at them the wrong way. And no one will even know you’re dead. They’ll just make you disappear. Poof. Like you never existed.”

I know this as well, yet hearing a stranger tell me such stories causes shivers to run down my spine. We’re talking about the three men that I am profoundly intimate with. I’m pregnant by one of them. And in a few moments, I’m going in there to help them.

Frankly, I don’t really know how I feel about that.

I bid the photographer farewell and go inside.

The inside of a police station is the last place I had on my bingo card for this week’s city travels, but as the situation beckons, I have no choice but to take a deep breath, keep my cool, and do my best to navigate what comes next. These are murky, perhaps even dangerous, waters.

More than once, I’ve heard Max and the guys talking about the level of corruption within law enforcement. More than once, they’ve let slip that they can’t trust the local Feds with anything. And if they can’t trust the federal government, how can they even think about trusting the local police?

“Hi. I’m here to post bail for Mr. Ivan Sokolov,” I say matter-of-factly to one of the uniformed officers at the reception desk. I manage to muster up a flat smile but I’m burning up on the inside, my stomach the size of a pea. Hopefully, they can’t tell.

“You’re here for what?” the guy blurts out, giving me surprised look.

“Bail. For Mr. Sokolov. I understand he’s being held here. I’m here to bail him out.”

“And who are you, exactly?”

I shrug. “Does it matter?”

“You’re in a police station, miss. When an officer of the law asks you to identify yourself, you are obliged to do so.”

“Actually, no, I’m not. Not unless you are charging me with something. I know my rights, officer. But since I would like to get out of here sooner rather than later, my name is Lyric Phelps.”

“And you’re here to post bail for Mr. Sokolov,” the officer reiterates, tapping away at his computer with a permanent frown in his brow.

“That is correct.”

“Why?”

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