Page 28 of The Bratva Contract
“She is pregnant, sir.” Mrs.Lubov clasps her hands, delighted by the unmistakable result. “Why has she not told you? Is it a secret? I thought you had the right to know she is already carrying your child. Now you needn’t spend so much time at home. Perhaps you will have a chance to sleep more.” She is canny and discreet, this loyal housekeeper.
“Thank you,” I tell her, “I’ll keep this.”
On the ride to the office, I turn the news over and over. A spy under my own roof discovered my wife is pregnant, yet Karina hasn’t said a word. She must realize that once the pregnancy is confirmed I’ll give her peace and stop the nightly visits. Perhaps she’s holding the secret as insurance, protection if she oversteps. The unborn heir would stay my hand.
And yet another possibility comes to mind and I’m fool enough to consider it. Perhaps she has not told me of her pregnancy because she does not wish for me to stop visiting her at night. Perhaps what she said to me when she thought I was asleep was real, a proof of deeper feelings for me. That she wants me to come to her bed.
She knows I’m eager for the news, eager for the security a son will bring the bratva. Knowledge of her pregnancy should flood me with uncomplicated joy, yet I can’t stop analyzing her choice to hide it. She tossed the test instead of saving it as proof.
She is trying to hide it not for a strategic reason but because she doesn’t want anyone to know yet. The only reason I can think of is the one that fills my entire body with an incomprehensible excitement. She wants me. She cares for me. Despite everything in our circumstances that would seem to work against any kind of attachment. I do admit to myself that I like the idea. It could be only the pleasure she wants from our nightly encounters, but I recall her describing the array of toys she owns that could satisfy that requirement. It’s me personally, the man who married her to expand a business. That seems so long ago now. I envision a life with her, one of stubborn quarrels and fiery reconciliations, of noisy children scampering through those sedate and formal rooms.
I’m happy. Foolishly so, for once in my duty-driven life. I’m proud to have got an heir so quickly, secretly pleased with my own potency. This was my plan all along, to marry and impregnate my Kozlov bride. Yet the sudden pregnancy feels like a joy undeserved, something nearly magical that’s achieved too easily. Beyond the thrill of knowing we have a baby on the way to fulfill all my plans, I’m unspeakably proud that Karina wants me so much she’d hide a hoped-for pregnancy so I continue to visit her nightly. I’m not sure there’s anything on Earth that could do more for a man’s ego than knowing Karina Petrova wants him enough to lie and keep secrets. Far from being angry at her trickery, I’m flattered. I take it as the compliment it is. Rather than freeing herself from a burdensome duty by announcing our success to me at the first opportunity, she’s thrown the test away like so much garbage just to buy us more time together.
I call my assistant, instruct her to find and purchase a lavish jeweled bracelet, made with emeralds and diamonds. Nothing minimalist and mass-produced, I specify. It should be vintage, a bit big and gaudy for fine jewelry, in the fifties or sixties rangeideally. I want it in my hands by supper time. When I give her a budget for the piece, she coughs, shocked. I like that it stuns my employee, this extravagance. I have the money and then some. Anyone who heard will know I’m spoiling my new bride.
I have a game in mind, some way to trick her into telling me. I message Mrs.Lubov to locate a specific vintage in my wine cellar and order the cook to prepare a side of cabbage as part of a late dinner. I can’t wait.
CHAPTER 18
KARINA
Iknow I have to tell him sooner or later. I glare at the positive result on my pregnancy test with undisguised hatred. It’s possible, I discover, to be ecstatic about the pregnancy and still furious about the timing with the unwanted swiftness with which it happened. Admittedly, like most things in life, it’s a numbers game; statistically, two healthy adults were bound to succeed after so many attempts. For a few minutes I try to tally them up and realize I’ve lost count. I smile at the thought. However many women Dmitry Petrov has had, and there have been scores, surely, I’m the only one he’s been with this often in such a short time. The only one he’s married. It’s foolish to crave any claim on him, but I want him with me. I’d command him to come to me every night and most afternoons if I could. It isn’t only the sex, although it’s fabulous. I respect him, like him, even when he’s not being a complete ass. And probably something far deeper than that.
Why else would I play games or hide things from him? I’m no fifteen-year-old with a secret crush. I’m a grown woman, successful and accomplished. I speak three languages and runa successful business. I spend at least ten hours a week doing Pilates. But I’m acting as dumb and sneaky as a teenager over this man. I can’t even muster disgust at myself because I practically dissolve into heart-eyes at the mere thought of him.
He keeps moving my painted screen. I knew he’d hate it which is partly why I kept it instead of leaving it at my dad’s country house. Dima relocates it himself; he doesn’t even have a servant do it. One minute it’s in the living room or the library; the next I have to track it down in a guest room, the attic, or, once, memorably, wedged in a corner of the hall bathroom. I can’t tell whether he despises it or if he’s messing with me just to see if I notice. Either way, I’m here for it. When I found the damn thing in the bathroom this morning, I folded it up and stashed it in his walk-in closet. I can’t wait to hear the creative swearing he’ll unleash when he finds it there tonight. The game reminds me of the playful, witty man I met on our honeymoon, the one I started to fall for.
The dour man of business is all work and no play, but for an hour every night I get my lover back. Hunting for the Japanese screen has become the highlight of my long, lonesome days cooped up in this house. When I went to the salon this week, I had to take guards, and they’re anything but inconspicuous, big, thuggish guys who look like they’ve broken their noses nine or ten times in bar fights. Their looming presence spoiled the pampering; who can enjoy a highlight and mani-pedi with two men standing a yard away, looking like they bend steel beams for fun?
I draw the line at having them inside my home office. They can wait in the hall or out on the lawn someplace. I need a bit of privacy to conduct business and, more than that, I need space to think. Mainly I think of my husband, I admit. Even when I’m double-checking alerts on the security software and putting thefinishing touches on summative reports, I find myself growing distracted by flashes of the two of us together. It isn’t always in bed. Sometimes it’s because he brought me a shawl on the balcony of our hotel in Croatia when the wind picked up at night. Or the time he woke me before he left for work to kiss me goodbye. It was romantic and made me feel special and wanted, even cherished. Like I was more than just an incubator to him, or more than just the key to getting Sergei Koslov’s territory.
I survey the latest email from my team, checking every detail on Dima’s tech company. When I rescan, the anomaly is gone and everything checks out normally. I wrote the program, and it doesn’t flag anything that could be a simple user error. The only way the original security breach I detected would disappear is if the malicious actor was tipped off and patched or deleted the evidence. This sets my teeth on edge, the idea that there’s an adversary who’s trying to block me in real time, a virtual chess match for my husband’s data security.
We held that meeting, announced to hundreds of members of the bratva that we were using my cybersecurity program. He’s surely briefed his inner circle about the problem the initial scan flagged. The call is coming from inside the house, I think grimly. There’s a rat inside the brotherhood.
I comb through the data from the first scan and compare it to the second, using my override authorization to access the Petrov network remotely, and pore over activity logs until I can’t stay awake. It’s tedious work, and I’m exhausted. I close my computer for the day and lie down for a nap. I want to be well-rested when Dima gets home tonight; I have much to tell him about my suspicions.
I’m asleep when he enters my room. All he has to do is speak my name to summon me from even the deepest sleep. I sit up and reach for him.
“I missed you,” I murmur sleepily. He holds me, his palm cradling the back of my head. I melt into the safety of his arms, those broad shoulders. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, something he’s never done before. I have to force myself to pull away when I could sit like this forever. He feels like home to me, and that terrifies me. I can’t tell him that.
“Come, I’ve ordered a late dinner,” he says. My hand goes to my head as soon as I try to stand up. I drop back onto the edge of the bed, head pounding, a little dizzy too.
“Are you okay?” he asks. I see his concern and I choose to misdirect.
“Oh, I have a headache. I thought I could sleep it off. Too much squinting over the activity log on the screen.” I say dismissively. “I don’t really want anything to eat. You go ahead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I say.
“I’ll just have it brought up here and if you change your mind…” he offers.
I can’t protest any further without seeming suspicious, so I shrug. “I’m going to take a shower,” I say, “to help the headache. I’ll be right back. Go ahead and eat.”
When I come out of the bathroom, clad in black lingerie, I’m hit by the thick stink of cabbage permeating my bedroom. I try not to show my disgust, but it’s too late. I whirl back into the bathroom in time to throw up in the sink. My eyes water andI cough, miserable as I try to keep my hair back. Then, behind me, I feel his presence. His hand gathers my hair, holding it back for me. I retch until I think I can’t breathe. Then he scoops me up and sets me on the counter. My bare feet dangle above the floor as he runs a washcloth under warm water and wipes my face. I shut my eyes and let him take care of me for a moment. I feel shaky, vulnerable. A tear slips from the corner of my eye and he brushes it away with his thumb. The tenderness of his movements, his careful attention, threatens to unravel me. When he folds me into his arms, he rests his chin on top of my head. I press my ear to his chest and listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong.
“You wait here,” he says and returns to my room. I scramble down from the counter, rinse my mouth, and brush my teeth. My face is blotchy and my hair’s a sweaty mess. I brush it swiftly and pull it up. In the room outside, I hear the housekeeper’s voice and then the sound of windows being opened. He returns to me. “That should take care of the smell.”
