Page 26 of The Bratva Contract
“What? You think I’m lying? If I quit the laser hair removal and Brazilians, you’d be repulsed inside a month.” Her brows rise in challenge.
“Somehow I doubt that. If you’re fishing for a compliment, it won’t work. You’ve clocked your own reflection and nothing I have to say would change that.”
“Most men go on about how beautiful I am.”
“Most men didn’t marry you for your father’s bratva,” I say, taking a drink. As soon as I say it, I realize how shitty it sounds. “That isn’t the only—” I begin.
“Stop,” she says, disgusted, “it’s fine. I love to be reminded that my only value to you is the criminal network and territory my dad built. Say more delightful things like that. Maybe mention the ibuprofen he gave you as a wedding gift. Or his engagement toast.”
Karina downs the rest of her wine and won’t look at me. It’s impossible that I’ve hurt her feelings. She doesn’t have feelings for me. I am an obligation, the husband she has to provide with a child to inherit all this wealth and power. No more her preference than she was mine.
The waiter brings a sorbet decorated with bright flower petals for us to share. I taste it, delighted at the citrus taste and am convinced it is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. When I reach for another bite with my spoon, Karina grabs the dish and pulls it in front of her. I shrug. Let her have it, drown her injured pride in fancy sorbet. It’s petty and childish and reminds me why she’s so annoying. I’d be lying if I said I don’t find her distracting, especially when she licks the spoon, though.
The three days of our honeymoon, all I can spare from work, are bright and packed. We laugh, bicker, and fuck until we’re spent. Each morning I reach for her before my eyes even open, already used to sharing a bed with the woman I never meant to marry. When it’s time to leave, she pouts. She wants another spa day or one more run at that cave. I won’t budge, so she sulks on the flight, scrolling through her phone. When I remark that it was a great vacation, she pulls out a sleep mask with theatrical flair, covers her eyes, and turns her back. Fine by me, she can’t see me roll mine.
At my home, I find that movers have brought and arranged a lot of things that belong to my new bride. A painted Japanese screen is bright and out of place in the somber décor of my traditional dining room. Modern office furniture has displaced a guest bedroom, with two desks, three large monitors for her computer and a massive abstract canvas propped against one wall. I grimace when it catches my eye. I might have known she’d have a bold, intrusive style that clashes with everything I own. I keep my reserve like armor and ignore the incursions to my private rooms. Admittedly, they’re not mine alone any longer. The master bedroom, my own, remains untouched, masculine and neutral. I linger in the doorway of her new office, wondering if I have any sunglasses nearby that would shield my eyes from the audacious magenta office chair.
I drop off my bags, change clothes and head to a meeting. Piotr briefs me on business matters during my absence. In my high-rise office space, I feel more like myself. The leather chair, the dark wood, the framed landscape on the wall, it fits my sensibilities and feels reassuring. The tension and unease of the return flight melt away as I catch up with my oldest friend.
“Is she pregnant yet?” he inquires after our business concludes. He pours us each a drink from the bar cart and I accept it gratefully.
“Not that I know of. It would be too soon to tell for a few weeks yet.” I say. Beneath my casual answer I bristle at the crassness of his question. I don’t want to examine that reaction, an impulse to tell him to stand down, to be careful how he speaks of my wife.
Piotr and I speak freely on the most familiar terms. He’s the nearest thing to a brother, so his informality is natural, I remind myself. He’s asking how my goal is progressing just as he would in any important bratva matter. I tell myself this a few timesbefore my racing pulse starts to slow and my fists unclench. I’m frustrated with Karina, not with my best friend. She’s a disruption in every way, and I won’t allow her presence to derail the success of this merger, the triumphant expansion of my territory.
We visit a newly renovated warehouse space I acquired and have drinks with the other brigadiers. I’m welcomed back with gratifying enthusiasm even though my trip was brief. These men are family and I value their esteem and loyalty. Being back in the fold with them, throwing back vodka and shit talking after business is done feels like home. If I look at my watch too many times, or if I have to tug at my trousers to relieve the tightness once or twice because I’ve been too long from my bride, I try to play it off as jet lag. The fact is, I may be glad to be back with my men, but my body screams for Karina, to join with her again.
After midnight I arrive home. I have no thought of letting her sleep undisturbed. I’ve waited long enough. I open her bedroom door softly, not wanting to startle her. It occurs to me as I turn the knob that she could have locked the door against me. She hasn’t. In fact she is stretched out on top of the covers, a book open beside her, sleeping as though exhaustion overtook her while she waited up for me. I nearly growl with approval at her silky pale green lingerie, a demure chemise with cream lace and thin straps, the demureness offset by the way her breasts strain at the lace and her right leg is bent so the silk rides up her smooth thigh. That is all the invitation I need as I remove my tie, jacket and shirt efficiently while I cross the room to her bed. I bury my face between her legs, my mouth trailing up that thigh. At the touch of my hot mouth on her flesh, she jolts, half sits up, and then drags her fingers through my hair, tugging me closer until my mouth is on her bare sex, her long legs over myshoulders. I lick and suck as she grips the bedding, pulls my hair, and writhes in my grip as she climaxes fast and fierce.
I sit back, wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and, breathless, say, “God, I missed you today.”
She pants, propped on her elbows but her head tipped back. The harsh rise and fall of her breasts hypnotize me. “I was on a call—” she gasps out, “and all of a sudden, I needed you so much. I literally thought about messaging to ask when you’d be home. It was a little too honey-will-you-be-home-for-dinner so I didn’t actually do it.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” I say and when she frowns, I explain, “Because it wouldn’t do for my brigadiers to see me bolt out of a meeting on my first day back, so I could come home and fuck my wife.” I chuckle but my blood is roaring, my need urgent. She grins at my admission that I would have run back to her, sated myself in her tight body.
“That makes me feel a little better. I’m not used to getting distracted during work by anything,” she confesses.
“Same,” I tell her, still breathing hard. “I should say I’m sorry I woke you, but I’m not.”
“I like my sleep, but anytime you want to wake me up by eating me out, I’m here for it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her archly, “now turn over, wife. I want you on your knees.”
CHAPTER 16
KARINA
Itug at the hem of my skirt. I bought a new suit for this meeting, the first gathering of the newly combined bratvas. Dima invited me to stand beside him, to present a united front and welcome all ourvorsinto the fold under the Petrov name. The suit is pristine white, tailored within an inch of indecency, and my stilettos are sky-high. I should feel cool and confident after my fresh blowout. Instead sweat prickles along my spine because my husband stands flush beside me, his possessive hand splayed low on my back as the meeting is called to order. I expected a conference room with twenty men around a table, not this cavernous hall packed with well over a hundred. Men in razor-sharp designer suits sit shoulder to shoulder with others dressed like dockworkers, their boots scuffed and faces weathered by salt and cold. The sheer scope of my husband’s network, his power, knocks the breath from my lungs, and confronted with that dominance I can’t stop the fierce throb of heat between my thighs.
A man I vaguely recall from the engagement party introduces us, and the room bursts into applause. I keep my expression serene and wait for Dima to take the lead.
“Thank you for coming to witness the formal union of our two organizations, now merged under the Petrov banner. Together we control formidable territory, and our holdings stretch from a publicly traded tech conglomerate to discreet private enterprises across the continent. None of it exists without you. Every man in Russia knows the Petrov name and shows respect because of your discipline and loyalty. Because of what we accomplish when we move in lockstep. Tonight I have the honor of presenting my wife, Katarina Dmitrievna Petrova.”
A prickle of irritation skitters across my skin. I’m the prize on display, the trophy. I hate the spectacle, the pretense of inclusion when I know he won’t share real control. He would never share power with anyone, least of all me. My father sits in the audience too, which only sharpens my annoyance. With any luck he’ll keep his mouth shut. I square my shoulders, determined to deliver the speech I practiced, even though my stomach knots at the thought of pretending I’m the blissful bride who’s thrilled to watch her husband swallow her father’s empire.
I step forward and nod in acknowledgment of their welcome. “I’m honored to take part in this historic gathering that unites two great organizations under the Petrov name,” I say, flashing a practiced smile. “Since childhood I dreamed of inheriting my father’s bratva, but because I was born a girl, it was not to be. What I offer now, in addition to my security firm, is the most valuable thing I can give my husband, the loyalty of the Kozlov men. He will guide and protect us all. Anyone who meets Dima immediately feels the power he wields and recognizes the heart of a true leader. Two hundred years ago he would havebeen czar by birth or by revolution; nothing could have stopped him, and every Russian would have rallied behind that charm.” I glance at him and catch the flicker of surprise behind his carefully guarded expression. “Thank you for your welcome. I look forward to all we will accomplish together.”
When I finish, the men rise as one and applaud. I shoot Dima a startled glance, but only for a heartbeat. His arm coils around my waist, drawing me hard against his chest as his mouth crashes onto mine. I clutch the lapel of his jacket and part my lips for him. My red lipstick, my perfect blowout, the hundred pairs of eyes, none of it matters. My body melts. The crowd roars and stomps its approval. I feel the curve of his grin against my mouth before he finally lets me breathe.
