Page 18 of The Bratva Contract
“You were fucking someone else’s wife,” I point out.
He smirks. “Yeah, but still. I got shot. It counts.”
“Not exactly in the line of duty,” I say.
“Hey, if her husband don’t satisfy her, I’m doing my civic duty. Can’t have unrest in the population because the wives can’t get off.”
I laugh. “That’s a patriotic service?”
“It is.” He grins.
“So you’re saying getting shot for fucking somebody’s wife should have earned you a trophy?”
He gives a modest bow. “Not at all. More like a medal, some kind of wartime award. It took great courage to stand up for unsatisfied wives everywhere despite the risk to myself. I was wounded but, through my own bravery and quick thinking, I managed to escape with my life.”
I look at his solemn face and try not to laugh. “You jumped out the window,” I point out.
“He who fucks and runs away lives to fuck another day,” he says smugly and I roll my eyes at him. “Survival of the fittest, my brother.”
“Now, before we got sidetracked on your heroic duty to the nation, what were you telling me about getting shot?” I say.
“Just that it messed me up in the head for a while. I kept thinking somebody was gonna come out of nowhere and try to finish the job. I was jumpy, didn’t sleep much. You’ll get over it.”
“That was… surprisingly sympathetic. Thanks.” I say, “But it’s not that I can’t sleep or that I’m spooked now. It’s the pattern. First there was the shipment that came in short on product, then we had the fight at a drop point. That’s what made me want to check in at the next delivery. Since then it quieted down a little, but there’s small things that hint at a bigger problem. A supplier showing up twenty minutes late last week, a mix up at the docks supposedly.”
“Yesterday one of the girls took off from thetochkain Dybenko. The report said she probably ran off with a boyfriend.”
“That’s a matter for the house manager.”
“They asked what lengths we want to go to get her back.”
“To get her back? She didn’t escape, Petrushka. If she left her job there, then she quit.”
“I guess she’s been there almost a year and she’s popular, gets lots of clients,” he says.
I wave the concern away. “So? If she tries to set up her own brothel as competition, she won’t get the permits or afford the protection money. This isn’t a matter worth bringing to me, unless there’s more to it.”
“Nah, it was just weird to get a report on it; that’s why I mentioned it.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You got everything you need for the wedding?” He looks anything but comfortable asking.
“The planner’s taking care of everything,” I say. “End of the month.”
“I’ll be there in a stupid suit,” he mutters.
After he leaves, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. Not just with my business where small problems have cropped up and put me on alert. But with my future bride. I can’t get a read on her without seeing her, and I don’t have time for that today. I text her to see if she wants to have a drink with me tomorrow.
“Can’t. Vogue.”She replies. That’s this week, I’d forgotten. I want to know if she’s excited about it, where the shoot is and what designers she gets to pick from, but it’s a conversation to be had in person, not through quick abbreviations on a messaging app interrupted by work.
Instead of following up with her, I message one of the guards I put on her detail and tell them to send me a couple pics from the photo shoot. I’m in the middle of a meeting later when an image comes through on my phone. It’s a snapshot of Karina outdoors, her face in profile, all that dark hair slicked back and dramatic smoky makeup darkening her eyes and making them mysterious. Her lips are parted like she’s talking, a soft sable coat draped around her, leaving one shoulder bare.
I save the photo, zoom in, and take her in. Straight brows, high cheekbones, that sharp, stubborn chin, the graceful arch of her bare foot. Every detail hits me low and hard. I step out of themeeting and call her. It rings for a long moment before she picks up.
“Yes?” she says, clipped and in a hurry. It’s my first time hearing her voice since she walked out of my office wobbling unsteadily on her heels after a first-class fuck on my desk. When she answers I feel how much I have wanted to talk to her and see her again.
“Nice coat,” I murmur, imagining her scanning the rooftop for the invisible watcher who somehow knows every detail of her outfit.
“If you know I’m wearing this coat, you know I’m in the middle of the shoot,” she says. “Did you miss me that much?” She pitches the last words louder, clearly for the interviewer’s benefit.
“I wish I could be there.”
