Page 59 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“Six days’ worth of private conversations have reached federal ears,” I reply. Ice courses through my veins, tension thickening in the pit of my stomach as the possible repercussions begin to emerge, one awful layer after the other. “They know way more than just our intended visit tonight.”

Max frowns deeply, staring at the screen. “Yet it’s Sullivan they decided to focus on. Why?”

“They want us to stick to our original lane,” Ivan says. “They want the Bratva right where it is, laundering money, paying their people off, making back door deals and feeding into the great machine that the chuckleheads at the FBI’s field office have put together over the past few decades. They want us running the same illicit affairs, the same under-the-radar businesses while they continue pretending to hunt us down, to keep up appearances. That’s it. That’s the whole gist.”

“The Larionov’s want the same,” I conclude. “Hence why Polina did this.”

“All that wedding crap is nothing more than her own personal whim. A whim that old man Larionov decided to indulge, if only for her to be rejected again while she planted a bug and made herself useful, anyway.” Max groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, they’re a twisted fucking family.”

“We need to close ranks,” Ivan warns. “And we need to update our security measures.”

We need to do a lot more than that. There were several sensitive topics that may have reached Smith’s ears aside from our intention to privately accost Sullivan and get access to Phelps’s secret documents.

There were conversations about Lyric, too. I desperately try to remember what was mentioned about her. Hopefully, nothing important, only trivial stuff that might’ve gone unnoticed.

Then again, what are the odds, given the shitstorm that we walked into earlier?

Slim-to-fucking-none.

19

Lyric

It’s been quiet for the past few days. On the outside, anyway.

On the inside, however, a storm has been raging. Thousands of thoughts blowing through, crackling and clapping, making it impossible for me to focus on pretty much anything.

I need to pull myself together. I finally made it to my interview with Jack Bowman after several instances of rescheduling in the span of a week. I’m nervous and terrified for multiple reasons, but I need to go through with this in order to maintain appearances.

“He’ll be ready for you in a minute,” his PA tells me as she comes out of his office.

I give her a slight nod. “Thank you.”

Glancing around, I see the man spared no expense to make his HQ as sleek and as luxurious as possible. I recognize the Italian lights and the Tuscan, handmade furniture—it must’ve cost him a fortune. And to think he started out as a government employee, putting white collar criminals away. Now, the guy turns billions over like it’s just another walk in the park.

He lives and breathes money, which is why I’m interviewing him for my doctorate thesis in the first place.

But knowing what I know now, I see him in a much different light than I did when I had the original interview planned.

I don’t admire him; there’s nothing admirable about a man who is at the top of a pyramid built on schemes, corruption, and bribery. There’s nothing admirable about a man who played the victim and manipulated the media to wage a war against the Sokolov’s, just as they’re working to turn their Bratva businesses legit.

He’s a monster. I need to be careful and approach him as such, no matter how successful or how charming he might be.

Oh, God, I want to puke.

Today’s bout of morning sickness has been more acute than usual. My OB-GYN said it’s because of my high stress levels. Unfortunately, I don’t see them coming down anytime in the near future.

“Lyric!” Bowman exclaims as he steps out of his office with a broad smile. “I’m so glad we’re finally able to do this interview!”

“Mr. Bowman,” I greet him, getting up from my seat.

He reaches out to shake my hand. “Please, call me Jack. Come in.”

I follow him into his office and he closes the door behind us, my heart thudding as I cautiously approach the guest sofa. He takes a seat next to it, then gingerly proceeds to pour a cup of tea for me. “Thank you,” I say and help myself to a tentative sip.

“Given that it’s raining cats and dogs out there, I figured you’d enjoy a smidge of ginger and lemon,” he chuckles softly, then leans back into his chair, ever so smug.

It pisses me off. Why can’t he actually be the good guy that he’s been pretending to be? Instead, he’s a human farce, a monster, pulling the strings of others for profit and influence. I actually thought he wanted to make a difference in the world, only to learn that his entire business profile was built on lies.

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