Page 27 of The Bratva Contract
Dima steps forward, thanks the room for its loyalty, and lays out his vision. He describes merging the two bratvas into a single family, then spotlights my company, my software, explaining how he has ordered it installed across every system as our watchdog. I’m grudgingly impressed by the way he frames it. I’m not just a trophy wife but the attack dog guarding the encryption and shielding every byte of data that keeps this empire running.
“To carry the time-honored bratva tradition into the next century, we must defend our information: every transaction, every location, every byte that could endanger our soldiers and our way of life. My wife developed the first-rate program that now sets the industry standard, and we are fortunate to have her in house to guide us. This is a new day for the Petrov bratva. With these tools and your expertise, we will fuse these two networks into the most powerful family organization in Europe.”
I study his profile as he speaks: courageous, resolute, proud. The chiseled jaw, straight nose, and stubborn chin could belongon an ancient Roman coin. Later I’ll tell him he looks like an emperor. He’ll call me dramatic, but he’ll soak up the praise.
After the meeting I retreat to my new office in the house. It’s my refuge, the only corner that feels truly mine in this suddenly larger life. I’ve been here three days, and already the mansion’s opulence chafes. It’s a gilded cage, and I can only beat my wings against its bars. Night brings my only freedom, when Dima slips into my bed. The fury of our passion is the sole release I’m granted. Guards shadow me everywhere, all in the name of safety. I thought my father’s rules were suffocating. That was before I married the most powerful crime lord in Russia.
Between appointments, I scroll through photos from our trip to Croatia. The water was blindingly turquoise, the breeze sharp with salt, and it was the first time I tasted Dmitri Petrov’s cock. There’s no photographic evidence of that, obviously, but I do have a shot of him balanced on the yacht’s rail, about to dive toward the cave we later claimed as our own. If a memory could fray from overuse in a single week, that one would be threadbare. When I linger on the details, I can push myself to orgasm again and again with nothing more than the thought of those fevered minutes in that hidden grotto.
Day after day passes the same way. I’m alone in my office, fielding calls, running scans, onboarding new clients, checking in with my team. All the while my body stays ripe for his touch, my ear tuned to the front door, to the creak of the stairs. I scold myself, reminding the mirror that I’m a self-made tech CEO, not a teenager waiting for her boyfriend to notice her. Still, I’m ashamed of how much I miss him, of how hollow this house feels without his presence.
Dima comes to me every night, the only time I see him. We trade a handful of words, and then we’re on each other, unableto last two minutes before the kissing, the tasting, the desperate groping begins. Each encounter still rocks me, pushing me to higher peaks than the last. And every time, doubt slithers in afterward. Does he crave me the way I crave him, or are these midnight sessions nothing but duty? Is he simply racing to impregnate me so he can ship me off to a country estate and resume his real life? The thought of losing even this fragile intimacy makes my chest ache.
During those first weeks, he falls asleep in my bed once. I almost gloat, convinced I’ve worn him out, claimed him so thoroughly he lacks the strength to leave. He lies on his side, one hand sprawled low on my belly, possessive even in sleep. As the sweat between us cools, I study his face. I brush a lock of salt-and-pepper hair from his forehead, then on impulse press a soft, wordless kiss to his lips. Maybe some part of him will feel it, even if he doesn’t remember in the morning. I tuck that moment away like a secret jewel: for once I got to kiss my husband good night.
I inch closer until my hip rests against his thigh, then let sleep claim me beside him for the first time since our too-brief honeymoon. I miss those days, his undivided attention, his sharp wit, his unexpected playfulness, the effortless closeness we shared. I hate that we left it behind, that now I feel like another line item on his daily agenda: Impregnate wife, unchecked. That’s how I picture our nights when loneliness curdles into resentment. Yet when darkness falls, I still buzz with the same electric anticipation as the very first time.
I was right to worry. The Pakhan’s hold on me is deeper than I dare admit, even to myself.
CHAPTER 17
DIMA
Karina keeps trying to talk business. She messages me, and then leaves a voicemail that we need to discuss something about my cybersecurity. At first I think it’s a ploy to get me into her bed faster, but when I listen to the voicemail a third time, I was distracted by her sexy voice the first two times, I can tell by her brisk, businesslike tone that this is not a ruse. She wants to discuss something to do with the bratva. It will lead to another argument as she pushes for involvement, a real role within the power structure. I will not give her what she wants, which is a partnership. Bratva must be run by a single pakhan whose word is law. A partner requires collaboration and compromise, sharing the authority to make decisions. None of that appeals to me and I think it dangerous to the integrity of the organization itself. So much could go wrong.
The prospect of another drawn-out standoff with my temperamental wife drains me. Will she pout and bolt her door, and will I end up splintering it? Both are likely. I’m a grown man, not a nanny for tantrums. I will not yield. She’s stubborn, demanding. If I could ignore the buzzing phone and move on, Iwould, but duty says I must respond. I stall instead. Two days slip by before she texts again. She’s blunt this time and ordering me to come home early.
I fire back a curt text: I’ll be home around eleven, same as always. She doesn’t respond, proof she’s annoyed I won’t leap the moment she snaps. Yet at ten, not eleven, I walk through the door and head straight for her room. She sits up in bed, fully dressed, laptop open, eyes wary. Her body tenses, reading my every move, am I angry she summoned me, irritated that she’s working, and already bored? I flatten my expression to stone.
Without a word, I snap her laptop shut and set it aside. My fingers wrap around her ankle, dragging her closer. I’m here for one thing, and it isn’t a board meeting. She makes a token attempt to retreat, but the second my mouth meets hers she melts. I loosen my hold and she climbs into my lap. When I gather her close, she shifts, quick as a cat, and flips me onto my back, triumph flashing in her eyes. I could toss her off and reclaim control, but curiosity keeps me still.
“Listen to me.” Her teeth grind together. “I’ve pored over the scans, forward, backward, sideways, and they all say the same thing. You’re in trouble. Errors are piling up. I can’t tell yet if it’s incompetence or sabotage. I’ve dropped a tracker on your server to flag transactions and message traffic. Give me time and I’ll have proof.”
“Is someone stealing money or what?” I’m impatient for the conversation to be over.
I stay flat on my back and let her finish.
“Yes, but that’s only part of it. A pattern’s forming. Someone is communicating outside the chain of command.Vorsarecrossing cell lines and coordinating. I can’t act until I have enough data to map the timing and the players. Crack the code, if you will.” She meets my eyes. “This is important.”
Only then does she yield, and I finish what I came for. Afterward I sprawl on her bed, sated and unwilling to move. Her fingers slide through my hair with unexpected tenderness. I lean into the caress, eyelids heavy. I never sleep in her bed, due to her policy, but tonight I’m too weak to fight it. I pull her closer and surrender to sleep.
From somewhere deep and muffled, her voice reaches me. “You’d better listen to me,pakhan,” she murmurs, more indulgent than stern. “I’m trying to look out for you. God knows why I care, but it seems I don’t have a choice. I’m catching feelings for you.”
I lie motionless, her words looping through my head. Why does the admission send a sharp burst of happiness through me? Why do I want a woman whose only role was to give me an heir to feel anything for me beyond respect and obedience? If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d pick it apart. Instead, sleep drags me under.
At dawn I slip out of her room and into mine before she stirs. She doesn’t need to know I stayed all night; let her assume I had calls to make or deals to cut. I’m still punch-drunk on the words I’m sure she whispered. Over breakfast I try for nonchalance, which was never my best skill, pick at a few bites, then grab my things to leave.
Mrs.Lubov stops me at the door. “Forgive me,” she says, “I must speak with you.”
I nod for her to continue, hoping to make this quick.
“I attend to Mrs.Petrova’s personal effects, as you know.”
“Yes.”
“Two days ago I found this in her bathroom trash.”
Mrs.Lubov pulls a slender plastic stick from her pocket and places it in my hand. One glance tells me exactly what it is.
