The Director (Chicago Bratva Book 1) Read online

  “I don’t need to be carried,” I say quickly. I don’t find the man threatening, per se, but he’s huge and a stranger. And I don’t love that Ravil is handing me over to anyone else.

  Ravil tips me down to stand. “You will walk out with me quietly? No alerts or alarms. No problems from you?”

  I look down at my stockinged feet. “I need shoes.”

  “Not the heels,” Ravil says firmly. He tips his head at Oleg and says something in Russian to the giant man who steps inside. We stand silently in my apartment hallway. My mind races the entire time.

  What would I do if a neighbor came by? Would I try to signal for help despite Ravil’s warning?

  No. I believe his threat.

  If he took me to Russia, I’d have even less means of escape. I don’t speak the language. I don’t know anyone there to help me. And the chances of me escaping would be slim to none.

  Oleg returns carrying all four of my suitcases at once, along with my purse and leather work satchel.

  Ravil bends to open one of the suitcases, seeming to know exactly where to look and produces my flip flops. He drops them on the floor for me. Oleg picks up the suitcase and marches toward the elevator without a word.

  I try to shove my feet in the flip flops with my thigh-high hose still on, but I can’t really get the thong between my toes.

  “Hold on, kitten.” Ravil surprises me by squatting in front of me to drag one of my thigh-highs down. I lean over to help with the second one, and he pushes me back, pinning my pelvis against the wall. “Don’t rush me.” His accent grows thicker. “I was enjoying my view.”

  He rolls the second thigh-high down my leg and off my foot but keeps the hand pinning my hips against the wall firmly in place. “Such long legs.” He grips behind my knee to pull it slightly forward and kiss my inner thigh.

  Tingles race up my leg straight to my already needy sex. He slides his hand up my inner thigh to brush my bare pussy then lifts my skirt and brings his face between my legs.

  I moan before his tongue even makes contact. “Uhn. Ravil.”

  “That’s it, kitten. Say my name.”

  My pussy clenches. I’m annoyed with my own neediness. I should definitely not be begging this man for anything—especially not sex. He doesn’t deserve my surrender. He’s essentially stealing me from my life, and only God knows what he plans to do with me and the baby once it's born.

  But the tip of his tongue takes a turn around my clit, and I moan again.

  Ravil grips both my thighs and swirls again but then pulls away, dropping my skirt and standing up, my juices glossing his lips. He licks them. “You taste even better than I remembered.”

  His words worm under my defenses. Maybe it’s just something he says to everyone, but I like hearing he might have spent as much time remembering me as I remembered him. I’d doubted he did. I was a bumbling newbie just discovering what she likes, and he was obviously an experienced dominant, comfortable with his skill and sexuality.

  But then, he told me that night he felt differently about me. You’re something special, he said. And I wanted to believe him. Not enough to pursue anything beyond that night. Just to preserve the memories of the man who gave me the gift of this child.

  What I’d so desperately wanted from Jeffrey, but he would never give me.

  But now sexual frustration is getting on top of me. I want to kick Ravil for teasing me like this. It seems downright cruel considering my pregnancy hormones have me almost feverish for satisfaction.

  I jam my feet into the flip flops and toss my long hair as I walk to the elevator. Oleg has already gone down, so it takes a moment to return, and I stand there, staring at the steel doors rather than look at the man at my elbow.

  “You can’t keep me prisoner,” I say finally, even though it’s only wishful thinking.

  “Not prisoner,” he says mildly. “Special guest. I must keep you close, so I can protect you and be sure you are very well cared for. You carry precious cargo, of course.”

  Now I cut a look at him. “I go unwillingly. Under protest.”

  His lips twitch. “Noted.”

  Dammit. I shouldn’t find sparring with him so sexy.

  It must be the hormones talking.

  Because my worst nightmare about having a baby with a member of the Russian bratva is coming true.

  And I seem to be incapable of stopping it.

  Chapter 4

  Ravil

  We take the back elevator up to the top floor. I own this entire downtown building—the Kremlin, as it’s known in the neighborhood. Everyone in it is Russian.

  And I put the word out before I left to break into her apartment. Everyone speaks Russian in front of Lucy. No English.

  If she wants something, she’ll have to rely on me.

  Lucy told me she already ate dinner, so I called on the way over and canceled the order for a full meal, asking instead for a variety of snacks and amenities to be prepared.

  I keep my hand on her lower back as we go. I don’t like the pinched quality in her face nor her general pallor.

  It’s a very fine line I walk here—making sure she takes my threat seriously enough not to disobey me yet making her relaxed and comfortable, so she stays healthy and can rest at ease.

  Already I’m questioning my plan. I’m not one to hold onto anger. I remember it, I file it away to use as a reason for whatever revenge I’m enacting, but I don’t keep the emotion.

  Still, I didn’t expect to find myself quite so eager to see her under my thrall, legs parted, body surrendered for my plundering.

  I don’t think she even wanted to surrender to me back at her apartment. It was like she couldn’t help herself. Her brain revolted, but her body said yes.

  Said more.

  Said please.

  And now I’m already planning our night together. Her punishment.

  Possibly even a reward.

  Blyat. She will have me wrapped around her finger if I’m not careful. Simply by being Lucy.

  I don’t know what it is about her, but I felt it from the very start. The moment I saw her at Black Light, I wanted her. Perhaps I recognize something similar in her that’s also in me.

  That drive for perfection. Excellence. Like she has something to prove, and she wants to get it right.

  It makes me want to help her get there. Protect her from failure.

  At Black Light, it made me want to draw out her surrender. Show her she could trust me not to humiliate her or degrade her, yet still to own her every response, every quiver, every orgasm.

  And I still have that urge, despite the very disrespectful ideas running through my mind.

  She’s definitely getting a flogging.

  I’ll probably tie her up—but with something soft and forgiving like a silk tie. My hand creeps lower on her ass. Knowing she’s not wearing panties makes me sprout a semi.

  We enter the top floor—my headquarters.

  After I bought it five years ago, I had the entire building remodeled, a little every year, using only Russian laborers. Many of them live here, too, on the lower floors. They do their best for me because I take good care of them. I pay well, help them when there’s a problem, and provide protection from the American law and larger world. Plus, they live in prime real estate for a fraction of the price they’d normally pay.

  Because none of the bratva have their own families, my brigadiers all live on this floor with me. We make our own family.

  They come out of their rooms now to gawk at my captured princess. Her back straightens even more—ramrod stiff.

  “Lucy, these are my men. You’ve already met Oleg, my enforcer, if you hadn’t guessed.”

  Oleg lifts his chin in a ghost of a greeting.

  “Maxim is a bit like me—he’s the fixer.”

  “Rad vstreche.” Maxim shakes her hand. His English is excellent, but he’s playing along with me. No one will let on that they can understand Lucy while she’s here. Not unless I change my edict.
My word is law in this building.

  “Nicholai is my accountant.” Of course by accountant, I mean bookie.

  “Dima, his twin, is the IT specialist.” Hacker.

  “Twins,” she murmurs, gaze flicking between them. I don’t know why everyone finds twins so fascinating, but between the two of them, Dima and Nicholai get far more pussy than the rest of the men in the building.

  “Pavel is a brigadier.”

  “What’s a brigadier?” I like how quickly she digests it all and asks questions. She has an inquisitive mind. It will be hard to stay three steps ahead of her, but I will.

  “It’s like a captain.”

  “Capo,” she says.

  “Yes, like the Italian capo.”

  “And what’s your job? Also fixer?”

  I shake my head. “I am the director. Pakhan of the Chicago Bratva.”

  “Papa,” Maxim says with a smirk.

  I shoot him a warning glance. He’s not supposed to understand what I’m saying. And I don’t go by Papa. Igor is still technically Papa, even though he’s on his deathbed and in Russia.

  She looks around at the layout of the floor. It had originally consisted of four thirty-five hundred square foot penthouse apartments. I knocked out the walls of two of them to make it one giant mansion with separate wings. “You all live here? Together?”

  “Yes. We are a family.”

  Maxim and Dima watch her reaction with amusement. They enjoy my games, and the fact that this one is aimed at a beautiful woman makes it all the more entertaining. Having her share our space will be a novelty for all of us.

  “Come.” I take her elbow and guide her toward my master suite where Oleg has already brought her bags. Like everything on the top floor of the apartment building, it’s been appointed in total luxury—every fixture is high end, the floors a Brazilian oak, the bathroom countertops and shower a soft white quartz with flecks of gold and purple swirls.

  She looks around doubtfully. “This is your room?”

  “Yes. This is where you will stay. So I can take care of your needs.”

  “I want my own room.”

  I’m not surprised by her request. The truth is, I debated the choice. Having her in my space will tax us both.

  But ultimately, I want her taxed. I want her to live under my constant benevolent rule until she accepts me.

  At least for the pregnancy.

  Keeping her permanently may not be in the highest interest of either of us.

  “You will stay here with me,” I say firmly. “Whether I let you out of this room depends on how well you follow my rules.”

  Her nostrils flare and eyes flash, but she says nothing. She’s not the type to throw a temper tantrum. I have no doubt when she picks her battle, she’ll be well-armed. She’ll gain more information before she makes her move.

  She and I are very similar.

  This is a game of chess we are playing. It could be pleasurable for both of us, even though one of us—me—will always win.

  A tap sounds at the door.

  “Come in.”

  Valentina, our housekeeper, enters with a pitcher of iced water full of sliced cucumbers, as well as a plate of snack foods—cheese squares and chocolates, some grapes and fresh cherries. She pours a glass of the spa water for Lucy and holds it out.

  “Drink lots of water. It’s important for the baby,” she says in Russian, bobbing her head and smiling.

  “This is Valentina. She’s our housekeeper. She prepares some of the food, but we also have a chef who preps and cooks our main meals.”

  Lucy takes the glass of water from her. “Thank you.”

  Another tap sounds at the door, and Oleg steps in, carrying the pregnancy massage table I purchased today. Natasha, our resident massage therapist, traipses in after him, carrying a basket of supplies and beaming at me. She’s delighted I bought this new table for her use and will be requiring daily massages for my captive.

  Her English is perfect—the twenty-five year old grew up in America—but she puts on a great act, turning to Lucy and offering a stream of Russian. “Hello, you must be Lucy. Congratulations on your pregnancy. I’m so delighted to support you through it. I work with a lot of pregnant women because my mom is a midwife.”

  Lucy’s brow furrows.

  “This is Natasha, your massage therapist.”

  Lucy takes a step back, recoiling. “Oh no. No. Thank you, but I must decline.”

  I arch a brow. She was so willing to accept pleasure from my fingers earlier, I didn’t expect resistance now. I’m not sure whether to be flattered that she enjoys my touch so much or dismayed that she’s unwilling to accept this simple pleasure I can provide her.

  “I want the stress of your change in residence erased,” I say firmly. “The baby should not suffer simply because his parents are at war.”

  “I said no,” Lucy says, just as firmly. “I don’t like massages.”

  “Why not, kotyonok?”

  She eyes Natasha. “Is it even safe during pregnancy?”

  “Natasha’s mother is a midwife. She massages pregnant women all the time. She knows exactly what you need.”

  Natasha bobs her head, dutifully. “Tell her I have a special certification for pregnancy and lymphatic massage, as well as hot stone massage, reflexology, acupressure, tui na, cranial sacral, reiki, trigger point, watsu, Zero Balancing and Access Bars. If she’s nervous, I can just do an off the body energy healing today.”

  I translate the jist of that to English for Lucy, who sucks her lower lip against her teeth as if she’s uncertain. The fact that she doesn’t like being touched by a stranger shouldn’t surprise me. It does make me feel a bit smug about how easily she surrendered to me in her apartment. I didn’t expect her to. It had been harder to coax a response from her at Black Light, and this time, we were at odds with each other. Maybe she has thought fondly about me.

  “You will enjoy the massage,” I say firmly. “Lie on the table and relax. From now on, I will take care of your needs.”

  “I need to sleep in my own bed,” she snaps. “I need my freedom.”

  “And I need to keep you close,” I say smoothly, stopping to turn at the door. “It’s a compromise.”

  She snorts. “One-sided concessions aren’t compromises, Ravil.”

  I give her a dangerous smile. I like when her claws come out. “The past five months in the dark were my concession. This is how you repay me.”

  I see her ice mask slip as I shut the door, and I smirk.

  My plan is going exactly as intended.

  Lucy

  A gorgeous penthouse suite with views of Lake Michigan, an in-suite massage and chocolates. What’s to complain about?

  Nothing if I weren’t a prisoner. If it weren’t all being forced on me by a mad man.

  But no, that’s wrong. Ravil’s not crazy. He’s playing a game here. Teaching me a lesson. It’s a soft lesson, no doubt because I’m pregnant. Any stress he inflicts on me goes directly to our child.

  I’m grateful he at least understands that much.

  He’s not a mad man.

  I look at the pretty red-headed massage therapist. She has strawberry blonde hair and pale, unfreckled skin. I’d guess her to be in her mid-twenties.

  I’m dubious about her skills. Can I trust that the training and certification in Russia is the same as here? Does she really know how to massage a pregnant woman safely?

  But other than the language barrier, she appears perfectly capable. Looks American, even, with her short-shorts and cap-sleeved tee, a bird’s wing tattooed on her biceps.

  She sets up her table, which has foam pull-outs for my breasts and belly, and drapes it with two sheets. I stand and watch her awkwardly. I can’t let go of the nagging feeling that something bad is going to happen to me although she seems perfectly trustworthy.

  But, of course, I am a prisoner to the head of the Chiciago bratva, so that feeling isn’t unwarranted.

  She chatters at me in Russ
ian, her smile easy and comforting. She walks to the en suite bathroom and pulls the door shut, gesturing to the covered table and me like she’s giving me instructions. After she shuts herself inside, I realize she’s waiting for me to undress and climb on the table.

  I close my eyes and force myself to exhale. Screw it.

  I might as well enjoy. If Ravil wants to counteract the stress he inflicted with a massage, I shouldn’t be spiteful enough to cut off my own nose.

  I pull off my dress and bra. My panties are still on the floor of my apartment, a thought that makes me grind my teeth now. I shouldn’t have let him do those things to me.

  You wanted them, a little voice whispers.

  And it’s true. Even now, just taking off my clothes in Ravil’s room has me wet. As if my body knows it will finally get the attention it so desperately craves.

  And that attention wasn’t a massage.

  But I sure as hell am going to enjoy this one. I climb under the top sheet and arrange myself face-down on the table, lining my belly up with the available gap.

  Natasha taps on the door and cracks it open, asking something in Russian.

  I murmur into the face cradle.

  Spa music starts up from some speaker she’s set on the dresser.

  I suddenly wish she spoke English. I want to pump her for information about Ravil. How long she’s known him, how he treats his hired help, what he’s like. Anything there is to verify or refute the ideas I already have about him.

  The image of him choking the man at Black Light pops into my mind again.

  Ravil is violent. He threatened to cut the man’s tongue out if he spoke disrespectfully about me again.

  But he was gentle with me.

  Far more gentle than most of the doms I saw scening with their subs at Black Light. There were no canes and heavy whips. He left no marks on my skin nor did he humiliate me much. More than that, he was measured. Controlled. He took in my responses and adjusted accordingly. We’d existed inside the same version of reality.

  This is the same internal debate I’ve had every time I had second thoughts about my decision not to tell him about the pregnancy. Whether he deserved to know. Whether it was safe for him to know.