Page 44 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“We’ll all suffer the consequences gladly,” Artur jokingly corrects him, then plants a string of kisses down my back.

I soften in their hold, coming down from my own perfect cloud, my pussy aching yet yearning for more as I briefly glance out the window.

It’s not even nighttime yet.

Perfect. It means we have plenty of hours left before sunrise.

13

Lyric

Aweek goes by and it’s still quiet in Chicago. I don’t know what to make of it. Ivan thinks it’s the calm before the storm. I stay on my toes with my head down, buried in my work.

I carry this little secret in my womb every day, working up the courage and waiting for the right time to talk to them about it.

One morning at the library, I’m logging a daytime shift while combing through several files to consider for an algorithm scenario regarding the Bratva. That entire conversation with the guys sparked my curiosity. Whatever I input now, however, is barely skimming the surface, and therefore, I expect some loose predictions at best. I still want to know how things might turn out for them though. It could be telling of how things might turn out for me, too, since our lives have become so tightly intertwined.

I spend my nights at their penthouse. The Feds have yet to come around, most likely due to the fact that it’s still in Max’s father’s name. Besides, there’s an unmarked cop car watching my apartment building. Another drives past the library every couple of hours.

I see it parked across the street as I do my work. I can’t see who’s inside, but I can almost feel them looking at me through the window.

My phone rings, startling me.

“Miss Phelps,” a woman’s voice comes through. “I’m sorry it has taken me so long to follow up after the missed interview with Mr. Bowman.”

“Hi.”

My blood runs cold.

“He’s back in the saddle, as you may or may not have heard, following that horrendous ordeal,” she says, her tone mellow and honey-sweet. “I spoke to him about the interview and he asked me to extend his apologies.”

“Oh, please, no apology needed. It’s not like he stood me up,” I nervously chuckle.

“True, but even so, Mr. Bowman also wanted to know if you’d be interested in trying again for that interview. Given that he is close friends with your father, Mr. Bowman wanted to give you the courtesy. If I remember correctly, the interview is meant to be part of your doctorate thesis right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“How does next Monday sound? Six p.m., in his office?”

“Yes, that should be fine.”

I don’t know why I said yes to this. Perhaps saying no would’ve made Bowman suspicious. At least this way I can try to pretend that I don’t know anything.

“I’ll call back on Friday to confirm the appointment if that’s alright with you?” the assistant asks.

“Thank you, that would be perfect.”

My stomach churns incessantly, no matter how much clean food and water I give it. Then again, there’s no amount of clean food and water that can help reduce the stress level of the situation I’ve gotten myself into. I can only own it, deal with it, and roll with it. Once my shift is over, I put my laptop away, leaving my colleague to take over the desk, then head out, eager to get home and fix myself a scrumptious dinner. Ivan sent me several pieces of prime beef from their dedicated butcher shop—one of the least expected perks of dating a Russian mobster, it seems.

A man waits next to my car. I stop when I spot him. I can’t make out much from where I’m standing, but he seems to be casually leaning against it. The view is rather offensive.

“Cocky bastards,” I murmur and start walking again.

“Miss Phelps,” SSA Smith says, a smile stretching to reveal two rows of eerily white and perfectly straight teeth. Veneers, most likely. Fake. Like him. “I was hoping I’d run into you today.”

“Run into me?” I bluntly reply. “You’re waiting for me.”

“Figure of speech. How’ve you been?”

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