Page 30 of The Bratva Contract
“Of course. Good night,” he says absently and walks out my door. The tender closeness of earlier is gone. He’s plunged deep in contemplation over who could have betrayed him and how far it extends, how much of the bratva is tainted with this.
I’d like to say I missed him too much to go to sleep, but I’m exhausted, so it’s no trouble at all. I can follow up any leads tomorrow when my head is clear. And I can plan a special evening to let my husband know we’re having a baby.
CHAPTER 19
DIMA
My mischievous plan to tempt my secretive wife with lavish dishes at dinner had gone off the rails in seconds. She was sick, her normally brazen strut reduced to small, careful steps. The way she sagged into me, trusting me to hold her up, ripped a jagged tear through my chest, worse than any bullet wound. It was a hot, searing pain because she suffered and I couldn’t rescue her from it. She felt slight under my palms, strangely fragile. The blazing force of her personality was muffled by misery. I wanted nothing more than to scoop her into my arms, lay her in our bed, and stand guard while she slept, ready to snarl at anything that dared disturb her. Karina’s weakness turned me feral in ways I hadn’t expected.
I hate seeing her sick, and I’ll do anything to fix it, even rooting out corruption in my network and, if it would ease her pain, lining the culprits up beneath her window and shooting every last one. She’s preoccupied with what her program unearthed in the bratva, and I don’t want her worrying about a thing. She has turned her considerable skill toward protecting our family business, isolating the traitor in our crosshairs. Itneedles me that she even has to think about this while she’s pregnant, a colossal undertaking both physically and mentally. Watching her vomit helplessly last night while I held her hair back snapped me to attention: carrying a child is no minor inconvenience. It’s sickness and fear and a complete interruption of daily life. The prospect fills me with joy, and a brand-new panic I don’t recognize. My hand is usually rock steady, my nerves unshakable. Not anymore. Now my wife is expecting our child, and the knowledge hijacks my every move.
Every potential disaster unspools in my head, and that’s dangerous; living inside my thoughts dulls my reflexes. I have to stay present, blade-sharp, and ready for battle every second. Worrying about Karina is a liability in my line of work since any assassin could step from the shadows, eager to topple me and claim the bratva. The suspicious activity our security software flagged has me off balance, unsure whom to trust. Ordinarily I’d start shooting anyone who so much as twitches wrong. Forget finesse or the thin veneer of aristocracy that comes with the pakhan’s chair; I’d revert to my roots and stack bodies until someone talked. Now I can’t tell who’s genuinely suspicious and who only looks that way because my focus is fractured by fear for my wife. Mistakes happen, but I’m not a careless man. Precision and calculation are my trademarks. Yet panic rides low in my gut, making me restless. Fear is a stranger, and I want it gone.
All my life I’ve been decisive, sure-footed. I do what needs doing and see the path ahead in crisp lines. There has never been room for uncertainty until now. The triumph of marrying Karina, of putting my child in her belly, is drowning beneath a fist of terror at everything that could go wrong.I could lose them bothechoes through my skull like a gong. She needs rest and the finest care, maybe even IV fluids, or something to settle the nausea. A spa retreat or even a dedicated attendant, perhaps a pregnancybutler, to indulge her every whim. But I want that role. I want to bring her ice water with lime, knead the tension from her neck, give her blissful, lazy days and ecstatic nights. Something inside me sharpens, ready to fight, or kill, for the chance to give her everything, to prove the devotion I’m only now admitting to myself.
I let myself drift into a fantasy of flying her back to Croatia, returning to the resort where we honeymooned only weeks ago, and the Bananas Foster French toast she inhaled without pausing for breath, the sun-slick gleam of her limbs as she rose from the sea in that sin-red bikini.
All day I scrutinize every person I encounter, from thebykiat the doors to the secretary who tracked down the perfect bracelet for my wife. They’re all suspects now. It’s an uneasy thing, knowing a rat is aboard my ship, so to speak. Remember, you’repakhan, I remind myself; it’s unseemly to jam a gun in someone’s face and demand the truth. There are subtler, more efficient ways to smoke out a problem. Still, the urge claws at me to convene the high-levelvor, grill them, and shoot a couple in front of the others just to make a point.
It would be so easy, although rough and thuggish, but blessedly straightforward. I’d even screw on the silencer. I could offer a one-time amnesty: tell me who the traitor is and I’ll spare your life. Then, of course, I’d kill anyone who possessed that information, their mistake apparent only when the muzzle flash lit their faces. Instinct pushes me toward a scorched-earth response to traitors and anyone who so much as smelled their treachery. Not because that’s my usual style, but because having a wife and child has raised the price of loyalty. Anyone who endangers my family signs his own death warrant. I’m ahusband now, and nearly a father. Protecting what’s mine is my birthright.
Some men, it’s said, grow more compassionate once they have children. I will not be one of them. Fatherhood will not soften me; it will forge a steel core that delights in vicious retribution. Fairness and empathy belong to men in gentler, less lethal lines of work. I chose my path, and I will patrol it with every weapon in my arsenal.
Doing my best to keep my anxieties off my face, I send her flowers. For a man with murder on his mind, the gesture might seem incongruous, but it’s a tribute and proof of my devotion. A lush bouquet of deep red roses for her; rivers of red for anyone who so much as whispers her name. That’s my vow. I can’t scrawl that promise on the enclosure card, so I settle forFrom your husbandin neat block letters. The tiny white card, embossed withThinking of Youin silver, is far too tasteful and far too small for a blood oath.
Remembering the jungle of cut flowers I sent after our first meeting, I wonder how she’ll react this time. Then her message pings: dinner tonight at a new restaurant. I take it as a good sign. I missed her last night, for it was the first night of our marriage without her in my arms, and sleep came hard. I blamed the traitors in my organization, but the truth is simpler: I’m used to spending myself inside her before I close my eyes. The memory alone makes me hard. Maybe we can skip dinner and head straight for the nearest bed.
The IT supervisor for my legitimate tech company also maintains the bratva’s network. I warned him there were irregularities, but instead of emailing details or summoning him, I walk straight into his control room. He’s hunched over a laptop, earbuds in, oblivious. I set a hand on his shoulder. Whenhe whirls around and sees me, his face drains from pale to ashen. Good. Fear sharpens people; I want him terrified enough to dig up every scrap of evidence I need to crucify the traitor.
“M-Mr.Petrov,” he stammers, scrambling to his feet. “What brings you here?”
“Our external cybersecurity consultant uncovered a larger issue in the network, irregularities in transactions and cross-division messaging, which is strictly forbidden. With your level of access, you can give me a list of every name, number, and account tied to the unauthorized activity, and the cover-up.”
“I wasn’t aware—” he begins.
“Boris.” I cut him off with a flat stare. “No excuses.”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
I leave him to it. Piotr and the other brigadiers will report in three days with their findings. Until then, I must trust my people to ferret out the untrustworthy. Delegation sits poorly with me. I’m restless, pacing like a caged beast. Meeting Karina for dinner at least offers an excuse to escape the office. I rarely carve out that kind of time, but tonight I need to see her and hear her voice. She’s my touchstone, I realize, something no one else has ever been, anchoring me to what’s real, to what matters.
The restaurant is new to me, a trendy, industrial spot helmed by a celebrity chef serving “modern” Russian cuisine. A hostess escorts me to a private lounge at the back. Concrete floors, exposed ductwork; if not for the candlelight, the low jazz, and the plush sofas gathered around a trestle table, I could be standing in one of my warehouses. Karina lounges on a blood-red velvet couch, legs crossed just so, and my mouth goes desert-dry.
Her hair is swept into intricate waves, lips painted a dangerous red, and dress a blaze of orange. I sit beside her, take her hand, and press a kiss to her knuckles. For all her sleek confidence the gesture startles her, and I savor that flicker of surprise. She lifts a glass, which looks like club soda, and sips. I arch a questioning brow. She keeps her secret close; I can almost see her rehearsing the scene where she tells me I’m going to be a father.
“Beautiful,” I murmur. “Shall we order?”
“Did you bring your glasses?” she asks, pointed. I pull them from my pocket and slip them on. After we order and my drink arrives, I ask why she chose this restaurant.
“Are we celebrating an anniversary?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” she says. “I wanted to go out with my husband. I don’t enjoy sitting at home waiting on you, you know.” A hint of petulance colors her words.
“Of course not. I’m surprised you don’t go out more.”
“I want to go out with you. You’re my husband. How would it look?”
“Like you were out with friends while I’m at work. There are plenty of charity benefits you can attend to represent the Petrov family. They’re an excuse to dress up, sip champagne, maybe bring one of those loudmouth cousins from the engagement party,” I suggest. She rolls her eyes.
