Page 9 of Pregnant Bratva Virgin

“I like your enthusiasm, Brady, but I don’t know if I’ve been here long enough for that to happen,”I said with trepidation, having all my fingers and toes crossed in the same breath.

Almost as if Brady sensed my discomfort, he sweeps past my desk, breaking me out of the cold sweat I’m drowning in. “Yo, you good, Detective?” He chuckles as I jump in my seat and scowl up at him.

“Brady!” I swing out my arm as he braces himself, pretending I hurt him. “You scared the shit out of me. Not funny, big guy.” Brady’s over six five and could double as a gridiron player, but he’s a soft teddy bear who makes a mean pot roast every Wednesday.

“Hey, hey, calm down. I came over to wish you luck, okay?” Brady’s brown, bald head shines as a streak of light strikes it through the window.

“Alright, alright. I’m a little on edge, but now that you’ve scared the crap out of me, the clock is winding down, and I have precisely three minutes and twenty-five seconds before I have to see the boss.”

Brady’s eyebrows do a wiggle dance as he shakes his head. “Emily. You and your numbers.”

I nod my head empathically. “Yep, me and my numbers. That’s what got us the case win the last time right? Numbers?” I remind him with a grin, Brady’s presence making me feel a little better as he puts a croissant in front of me.

“Sure did. Can’t deny. Here, something to nibble on before you go in.”

“I can’t eat that,” I tell him in a horrified voice.

“What? I brought it from Paulies, and you love that place,” he replies in an exasperated tone.

“There’s no chance I’m going in there with crumbs on my uniform. You are so not thoughtful,” I tell him, joking as I stand up. “I’m going to save it for later.”

“Good thinking. Come over, me and my man Milton are swimming in paperwork so we could use some distraction. Go get ’em.” Brady taps me on the back, but with his heavy hand, it’s more like a nice thumping. Regaining my footing, I walk slowly to my bosses’ door, knocking on it gingerly.

“Morning, Jackson,” I say professionally with a cheerful smile. “You wanted to see me?”

Jackson looks up, taking a smooth sip of his water. “Sure do, Detective. Come in and shut the door behind you.”

Dear God. I step forward sitting down and hoping for the best. I need this. Come on, Boss, tell me what I want to hear.

“I’ve got good news for you.”

“You do?”

“Yep. Well, it’s a sideways move, but with some additional money attached to it. I’m moving you into organized crime, and you’ll be working in collaboration with the homicidal team on trial. If you do what I think you’re going to do there, then I want to go ahead and tell you I’ll switch you over permanently.”

I hold on to my smile, not wanting to overdo it, but inside of me, the right parts of me are somersaulting. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope. You can go ahead and be happy about it.” He grins. “You’ve earned it, and I’m not saying that lightly. I know how hard you work. You’re a fast riser, and your work on the underground gambling racket on the South Side was the tipping point to send you over there.”

“Wow. Oh yeah.” I smile smugly. “That was huge. And through a secondary school too. Those administration ladies are something.”

“Yes, they are. But that’s how the game goes, the last you’d suspect can be the ones to look out for. You’ve got this uncanny ability to pick up on details that senior detectives miss. You put them to shame.”

Jackson’s warm praise makes my heart light up with pride. “Thanks, Boss. I won’t let you down. Is there somethingspecial going on over there right now?” I ask more out of curiosity, the facial expression of my boss changing.

“Yes. But more on that later. Just look forward to that pay adjustment. And Emily, you’re going to have to hit the ground running when you get in there. It’s a different ball game.” His stern warning is clear, but I’m on a high, glad to be part of the new department.

“Got it.”

“Alright. That’s it. You’ll see the emails from HR and so forth.”

“’Kay.” Grinning, I walk out trying to be discreet, but head right over to Brady and Milton giving them the news.

“Uh-huh. You got a promotion, didn’t you?” Milton groans.

“Yep. I’m leaving you bums for organized crime, homicide, which must mean we’re working with the FBI,” I hiss, my eyes widening, pumped about the opportunity.

“Shut up, and I hate you,” Milton jokes. We’ve become fast friends working through the records of the gambling racket, and he’s a top guy with a household of five kids—meaning he’s always tired.

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