The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (10 page)

Cop Killer

In some ways I’m no different than any other criminal. For example, I enjoy inserting myself into investigations, observing the mayhem I create. But I hadn’t counted on them bringing in the FBI – and the cream of the crop, at that: the notorious Agent Turner and his partner, Rene Murphy. This is a revelation, that my actions have been deemed noteworthy at the highest levels of the law enforcement community. 

The other revelation is that killing comes much easier to me than I ever expected -- so much so that I worry that I’m not putting my newfound abilities to their best use. The acts I’ve committed are heinous, yes, but my belief in my righteousness is absolute. It is in righting these wrongs that I have found my highest purpose. But is it right that I use my newfound skills to serve only my personal needs?

Deep inside, the dark soul of a vigilante stirs within me, uncoiling, stretching languidly as she rises to her feet, yearning to pursue justice for the countless victims that society all but ignores.

Nikita

Her body arches sinuously as she pulls against the restraints. She’s laid out on my bed spread eagle, every inch of her body at my mercy. I chose these black scarves because they’re soft yet strong…like her.

Her body mesmerizes me as she moves languidly, meeting the rhythm of the symphony I’m creating. Each touch of my hand and my tongue elicits a response…a shiver…a moan…a plea for the nerve-shattering release that only I can give her. I lean down close to her ear and an animalistic, feral growl rumbles deep in my chest as I nuzzle her neck.

“What did I tell you I was going to do to you?”

“Make me beg,” she gasps.

“And beg you will, my little Russian doll.”

The crop connecting with the tender flesh of a nipple causes her to cry out in anguish. I flick my tongue rapidly over the pink whelp on the tender flesh, smiling smugly as her pain turns to pleasure. This is how we play, alternating pain, control, dominance, pleasure, and surrender until eventually they all bleed into the same breathless concoction of ecstasy.

I nip at her breast and she jumps in surprise, her blindfold rendering her helpless and unable to anticipate the sensations as they bear down on her relentlessly.

“Did you think I wouldn’t punish you for deciding you were no longer going to fuck me because of your job?”

“Oh, shit,” is her only response, realizing too late that she is at my mercy. Properly addressing the long list of her transgressions will take us well into the night. Yeah, she knows she’s in trouble.

I grab a handful of her hair and she jerks away obstinately. My stubborn girl. “I love it when you fight me, it makes the taking of you so much sweeter. Who. Do. You. Belong. To?” I demand of her, tugging on her hair harder with every word.

“You,” she gasps. “You, Nikita. It’s always been you.”

“Mmm, such a good girl when you want to be.”

My fingers trail lazily down the side of her breast as my tongue follows, lapping gently over her perfect skin, down the middle of her abdomen to the top of her perfectly bare pussy. Her body begins to dance again as she tries to align her clit with my tongue. I spread her lips apart with my thumbs and slowly lick through her wet slit. “Is that what you want, baby?”

“Fuck, yes, you know it is. Nikita, please!”

“Please what? Please forgive you for your asinine idea that you wouldn’t share my bed anymore?”

“Nikita, I’m sorry,” she cries out as I twist a tender nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

“No more talking. Unless you’re begging me to let you cum, or to give it to you harder, I don’t want to hear it.” I slowly wedge my finger inside her snug opening and savor the view as my finger sinks inside and her hips rock against it.

“That’s it, baby, give me a show,” I tease her, wedging a second finger inside her slick heat and flicking my tongue lightly over her clit as she frantically fucks my fingers.

“I’ll do anything, Nikita, just please…give me more. I’ll do any fucking thing you want,” she mewls, her head thrashing back and forth, “just take me there…take me there...”

“Damn straight you’re gonna do whatever I want. I want to taste you, baby. I want those sweet juices of yours in my mouth.” I drive my fingers deep inside her and curl them back toward me to work her G-spot. All the while, I suck and pull at her swollen clit with my lips, gently at first, then more forcefully.

I hook my arms under her legs, forcing her to take what I’m giving. Her body jolts up as far as the silken ties will allow when her orgasm hits.

She’s right where I want her when I untie the scarves and fold her legs back, pressing her knees into the mattress as I settle my hips between her legs. I clasp her jaw harshly in one hand, our eyes locked on each other as I push my cock into her still clenching pussy. Surrounded by her tight, wet heat, I’m overcome by the urge to thrust, to fuck, to mate, to claim this woman again and again.

A few deep breaths help to stave off my caveman urges long enough for me to tell her what she just agreed to. My primal instincts are too strong to ignore, so I roll and thrust my hips to emphasize the words, our skin slick with sweat as we grind against each other.

“Don’t. Ever. Fucking. Threaten. Me. Or push me away. Or let Bratva come between us. Bratva’s not a problem -- Bratva is our reason for living.
You
are my reason for living. You’re property—
my
property. You carry my mark.”

I’m referring to the tattoo I insisted on years ago—a red rose that drips my name in blood with Born Bratva written above it. My mark tells the world they better stay the fuck away from her.

“I’m gonna fuck that stubbornness right out of you.” I raise up on to my knees to achieve the deeper angle my cock is begging for. A few strokes in and the fire starts building in the base of my spine. I grind my pubic bone into her clit over and over until she’s screaming my name, her honey gushing all over my cock even as she drains me dry.

I collapse on top of her, eventually clearing my head enough to untie her wrists. Her fingers weave through my hair and her words soothe my soul.

“I’ll never leave you, Nikita. I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby. So fucking much,” I manage to say as I struggle to catch my breath.

“We’ve got our hands full, don’t we?” she asks absently, obviously still enjoying the afterglow that comes from hard fucking.

“We do. But if I have my way, this is just the first of many jobs we’ll work on together, especially if my father’s serious about his business aspirations.”

She chuckles as she stretches in my arms before curling into my side with a sigh, her fingertips tracing the ink on my chest. “How in the hell is cleaning up your father’s messes going to fit in with the diamond business?”

My tone is grim when I answer her. “Change is coming, I can feel it. The only constant is you and me.”

She smiles wickedly as her hand wanders south, “I can work with that.”

Natasha

After we took a shower and called down for a fruit and deli tray with a couple of bottles of Merlot, we wasted no time diving back into the notebook, picking up where we left off. For an unfinished manuscript, it’s making for some riveting reading. The love of learning and reading are deeply ingrained in both of us, so to discover a work in progress – especially if it indeed pertains to this case – would be exciting. A glass of wine and a good book is what I call an awesome date night, for us anyway.

The Pakhan always had high expectations where our education was concerned. Whenever I or one of his children bitched about school, he would glare at the culprit with those arctic blues of his, arch that imperious eyebrow and declare that he wasn’t raising uneducated street thugs. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned about all the low-life thuggery that’s rampant on the streets of our city these days. He’s a well-read, cultured man and he shares his intellectual passions and love of the arts with his family, including me. Even when my father was still alive, it was Glazov who insisted I be homeschooled with the other Bratva ‘brainiacs’.

I can remember, back when it was just my father and me, spending days at the Glazov mansion without ever going home. My father knew where to find me when I wasn’t at home with him, so it was only natural for me to join the Glazov household after he died. The very next day, the Pakhan decreed that our bodyguard was to take me shopping and buy whatever I wanted so I could decorate my room as I saw fit. I’m not sure what he expected, but I was never a ribbons-and-bows kind of girl. My room looked like a lab with a library.

The sad thing about this mysterious manuscript and the author of it, is that this woman may very well have had a best seller on her hands. With the right editor it could have been turned into one of those “based on a true story” fiction novels. What a waste.

“I’m going to be so pissed if this thing leaves me hanging, Nikita.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what if we really get into this and, poof, it just ends? I mean, Officer Conner’s dead now. Holy cliffhanger, Batman.”

“Well, shit. Now I’m dreading reading it. Thanks a lot.”

“We have to solve the case, plus I’m just plain curious. You know, if it’s really good maybe we could get Katrina to finish it. She’s the writer in the family and I bet she’d love to sink her teeth into a story like this.”

“Let me do some checking and see if I can find a legal way for her to finish it. Not yet though---” he reaches out to touch my hand—“For now, it’s our secret.”

“I agree. What’s one more secret? So,” she continues briskly, “do you want me to read or do you want to?”

“Read to me.” He lays his head in my lap and I stroke his hair. I can’t help but wonder how my man can be so controlling in bed and yet so tender too. He is the perfect blend of everything I need. I begin reading and lose myself in the raw emotion that resonates within the words.

Sometimes I wonder if he will kill her. Pangs of guilt claw at my conscience as I try to figure out a way to help my friend. She believes she’s going to die. I wish I could reassure her or maybe tell her she’s wrong. But I’m not sure anymore.

Deciding what to do about all of this is agony. I turn it over and over in my mind and always come to the same conclusion: there is no way out for her but running—not just running but disappearing and starting over with a new identity.

This is the first time I’ve been faced with something like this. How many other women get the shit kicked out of them on a daily basis because their cop husband had a bad day?

The precinct is a boy’s club, a band of brothers who stick together in every aspect of work and life. They’ll cover each other on bad busts, beating up perps, and now spousal abuse. I’m already considered an outsider because I’m a woman. If I try to help my friend, it won’t work because he’s too powerful and well connected. Then I’d go down with her, and what good would that do?

There are days I wish she had never confided in us. Ever since, I’ve felt like an accessory to her husband’s crimes, as if I’m somehow complicit in his heinous treatment of his wife. If he does kill her, I’ll have her blood on my hands because I did nothing to stop it. And if he ever realizes how much I know about his asshole tendencies, then my career would be over -- maybe even my life.

I put the notebook down and eye Nikita. “Jesus, do you think her husband killed her?

“We don’t know that she’s dead. It’s pure speculation. In fact, we can’t really be sure who wrote any of this. Assumptions can creep up on you. For example, I’ve been assuming these notebooks belonged to Karen Conner. After all, they were hidden in her apartment. But she wasn’t married, so maybe not. If the story being told here is true, the wife could still be alive. If her abuser wanted to prove that she could never get away from him, she might very well still be in that abusive relationship.”

“Murder is a pretty drastic way for a man to keep control of his woman.”

“You, of all people, should know how deep control issues can go. Not everyone is like my father, who knows how to maintain complete control of a situation…and his woman. Personally, I think this man doesn’t love his wife, it’s more like he’s obsessed with her. And let’s face it, she knows things about him no one else does. To lose control of her or to let her go would put his career in jeopardy. If the wife is still alive then we need to move quickly. The woman is living on borrowed time.”