Page 12 of Forced By the Bratva Beast

“Yes. It’s her,” he says, taking a seat in my home office, a grin tugging at his mouth as if he wants to laugh. Ruslan has one of our main Bratva offices in downtown Chicago, but I prefer the comfort of my own home to work out of. It’s much more of a low profile, although I can be found if need be.

Adjusting the paperweight on my desk, I place it atop of the photograph, wanting to know more. “Good job. And?”

“Oh, I know all about Miss Sophia. Want to hear?” He snickers, crossing one leg over the other.

“Sure. Indulge me,” I reply curtly, steepling my fingers in front of me.

“Well, she’s a second-year at Chicago Law School, and she’s in the top of her class. She’s one of those intelligent types.”

“Mmm. Go on.” Smart is something I admire in women, even though it’s been hard for me to find, and when I have, they’ve usually been a hidden enemy.

“She is without family. Here.” Makar hands me an article with a mangled car and police tape in front of it. I read the headline. Horror Holidays: Couple killed during Christmas Break. Shit. She didn’t lie. So far, she’s told me the truth. Again, a smart woman. I keep reading the old paper, impressed that Makar managed to secure a copy.

“Where did you get this?”

“Ah, I’ve got a special librarian friend who works in Chicago archives. She’s very good.”

“Impressive. Poor Sophia.”

“Yeah, looks like she got the rough end of the stick with Mommy and Daddy.”

“Looks like. Any other relatives that she’s stayed with? Aunts, uncles, cousins? Anything like that? No family at all?”

Makar shakes his head. “No. It’s odd. I looked for the cousins, the aunts, the uncles, but the Hearst family is small. The mother—Alice, had one sister and she lives in Europe. The must not be close because I couldn’t find any records of her visiting or her leaving the country. I called about her passport, just to get some information.”

“Hearst is her surname?”

“Yep. Hearst. She’s American through and through. No other heritage I could find.”

“Right.” My brain ticks over, thinking about how she would have coped after losing her parents so young and having no one around her. It must have been hard. Makar reads my mind, bringing it up.

“Yeah, I feel bad for the girl. She’s got an uncle in New York, but there doesn’t seem to be any contact with him either. Father’s side, there don’t seem to be any relatives.” Makar’s information checks out for me, since when I looked at her bookshelf, there weren’t any other photos of her with other relatives.

“Huh. Friends?”

“She does have a couple she’s close with. She hangs out with them mainly at coffee shops and in the library. She studies a lot, this girl. Must care about her work,” Makar remarks observationally.

“It’s probably all she has. Who are they? And what do you make of them?” I ask, peppering Makar with more questions.

“One’s name is Ava Knight. She’s her classmate, and they’re always together. And get this, you already know the other one.” Makar winks, his mouth twitching.

“What do you mean? I don’t like those types of surprises. Who is it?”

“It’s not a bad connection. It leads back to us. She’s friends with Fiona. I don’t think she’s seen her much since the baby’s birth, but yeah, they’re friends.”

“Fuck me. Ruslan’s got ahold of the other one. Now I’m intrigued. Any others I should know about?”

“Nah, nobody noteworthy. Do you really like this girl, Boss? She seems a little too plain for you.”

“I do,” I reinforce, ignoring his comment, because there is something propelling me in her direction. There’s no time to think about her too hard because a loud rap of knuckles on the office door indicate trouble.

“Chicago Police Department. Open the door!” a barking voice bellows from the other side, but there’s no time for me to open it, because they’ve already burst through my door with excessive force, five of them barging in, and on top of that, I’m certain they have backup.

“Ah, Officer Williams . Nice to see you again,” I drone calmly, plastering a fake smile on my face. “I didn’t realize you were making house calls so early in the morning.”

The tall, wiry guy is one I’ve encountered several times over the last few years. He seems to be one of the vigilante types wanting to be do-gooder of the year, but he’s going to be spinning his wheels for a very long time on traffic duty if he keeps fucking with the Bratva.

Makar and I exchange heavy glances with one another, used to the drill, especially since securing the Omerta Files, but it’s those same files that keep us in a winning position with the cops. There is enough dirt in their department to keep us out of jail for life.

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