The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (2 page)

Natasha

My mind is on high alert as I mentally review my checklist, visualizing every precaution, every safeguard, every quality check that is expected of me as I do what I do best—clean up the Glazov family’s latest mess.

Every trace of evidence will be gone by the time I finish going over this place. Glazov swears I’m born for this work and I suppose he’s right. Of course having an advanced degree in forensic science doesn’t hurt. I’ve been trained to find and analyze evidence, perform experiments to understand how various chemical compounds break down, and even completed an internship at a world-renowned ‘body farm’ to explore the mysteries of human tissue decay.

When called upon, I also serve as our Bratva cell’s mortician. Glazov won’t hear of letting an outsider touch a fallen Bratva soldier or loved one. We take care of our own, from the cradle to the grave. But I usually use my expertise to destroy any evidence that might remain after someone encounters the Pakhan’s brutal definition of justice…or vengeance.

It would take only a single drop of blood for all our lives to be turned upside down. If the Glazovs go down, it would mean my demise as well. We are bound by Bratva and we live our lives bound until the day we die.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say absently, not bothering to look up and acknowledge the masculine presence behind me. “As
sovietnik
, you know you should never be present when I’m working.”

The man I’m reprimanding is Nikita, councilor to the Pakhan—probably the closest member of Alexander Glazov’s inner circle – except, of course, for his wife, Nikita’s mother. In layman’s terms, Nikita is the Bratva’s legal representative, the Pakhan’s liaison with the law enforcement community. He is also Glazov’s oldest son and one smart son of a bitch, and has been since the day he was born.

Though we pursued vastly different fields of study, we attended the University of Louisville at the same time. After he completed high school at a ridiculously young age, he completed law school at an equally ridiculous age and began an internship on his father’s legal team. It quickly became clear that he was not only brilliant, but tenacious and calculating – all qualities revered by the Pakhan.

I watched with pride as Nikita took his rightful place at his father’s side as
sovietnik
. All the while, I’ve was quietly completing an advanced forensic science degree, graduating at the top of my class at the ripe old age of 18 with full medical examiner credentials. Hard to believe, I know – and that’s exactly why I have to work twice as hard as anyone else to be taken seriously. So I’ve been keeping Nikita – my love, my betrothed -- at a distance in recent months as I’ve worked to prove myself in the Bratva cell on my own merits. He hasn’t taken my recent rebuffs particularly well. No doubt, he has dropped by to discuss his concerns.

I look up from where I’m on my knees, all decked out in my protective gear while I scrub the floor with an oxygen-based bleach. My love looks so much like his father. He stands at a good 6’2” with a massive, muscular build. Much like his father, his shoulder-length blonde hair is secured in a ponytail. At the moment, his vivid blue eyes are fixed on me, his jaw clenched, lips pressed into a hard line.

“I’m not putting up with this shit anymore, Natasha,” he snarls. “You belong to me and if you think I’m letting you go or ‘giving you space’, you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

I sigh impatiently when he makes the gesture for air quotes as he finishes his rant. I toss the scrub brush into the bucket and pull off my protective gloves, tossing them to the floor as I roll to my feet and brace my hands on my hips defiantly.

“I told you,” I explain patiently, slowly, as if speaking to a small child, “I’m not mixing business and pleasure. Most of the major players in our cell are barely convinced I’m old enough to drive, much less that I can be trusted with cleaning up blood and guts. I want Glazov and the Bratva elders to take me seriously and they aren’t going to do that if I’m openly fucking his son.”

Lightning fast, he reaches down with his massive hands and pulls me toward him by the collar of my coveralls. He leans down so we’re nose-to-nose, and I can see the ticking of his jaw just before he covers my mouth with his. It’s a lush, brutal kiss, intended to steal my breath and establish his caveman brand of ownership. He succeeds at both. He pulls away, his mouth hovering over mine as he blows a tiny breath between my parted lips and then speaks in a hushed yet urgent tone.

“Your rightful place is by my side. You and I are forever connected—we breathe the same fucking air,
solnyshko
. I will never let you go and I will never touch another woman. The Pakhan decreed our betrothal before we were even born. You’ve more than proven that you’re worthy of the trust Glazov places in you. His blessing makes it so. You know this. You are speaking nonsense. Get it out of your head,
lyubov moya.
”

I’m wrapped in his arms, my feet dangling uselessly above the cement. He tugs on my hair, forcing my head back as he explains his position. The aggressive move is in stark contrast to the softening of his features as he looks down at me. The tender expression in his eyes tells me all that he is unable to convey with mere words.

I blow a lock of hair off my face, exasperated with his way of ‘discussing’ the situation. As it is, I can do little more than glare at him, our eyes locked in silent communication that we have perfected over many years. A smug, self-satisfied smile touches his lips as he lowers me to the floor. I nod, place my hands on his chest and rest my head there, smiling to myself as the frantic heartbeat against my cheek belies his cocky attitude. He brushes his lips lightly against my hair, cups my ass in his hands and gives it a firm smack before stepping away.

“Very well,” he says briskly as he straightens his cufflinks, lightly brushes imaginary lint from an arm of his tailored jacket, and turns for the door. “I’ll see you at home, then -- where you will sit by my side at dinner, in full view of the household, and then fuck me in my bed.”

I’m practically hissing and spitting at his retreating back as I bellow, “Lock the fucking door!” His sardonic laughter echoes off the walls as his footsteps fade.

As I pack up my supplies, I consider my circumstances. It’s simple, really. I’m in love with a Neanderthal. At least I know better than to try to change him. You can’t fight generations of Russian alpha breeding.

The men in this family are obsessive and exacting when it comes to their women, but – despite how infuriating and irascible these Russian cavemen can be -- no one owns a Glazov man quite like his woman. My man is no different. And that makes me a very lucky woman indeed.

Nikita

I saunter out to my car, smiling. Did she honestly think I would tolerate being kept at arm’s length? It’s never going to happen. How she got it in her head that she couldn’t see me now that she works for my father, is beyond me. Natasha is a fiercely independent woman and I respect that. But I won’t be put off from taking what’s mine. So I handled it as a Glazov man should -- with brute force.

She thought she had a choice. Now she knows better.

Natasha’s father raised her alone after her mother ran off with another man. He considered the infidelity an insult to him and our Bratva way of life – a form of treason, really, which could easily have meant certain death. But, out of concern for his daughter, he let the bitch go – good riddance -- and made no effort to pursue her or change her mind. She was trash and not worth the effort.

He spent the rest of his short life instilling in his daughter the allegiance to Bratva that her mother had lacked. Evidently he was successful because, even after her father was brutally killed due to yet another betrayal by that cunt, Natasha never attempted to contact her mother. In her eyes, the woman who betrayed her, not once but twice, was as good as dead. I have no doubt that Glazov hunted the whore down and made it so. The Pakhan does not tolerate traitors.

My father blamed himself for the murder of Natasha’s father, and insisted that he be the one to break the horrific news to the little girl. To this day, he sees the murder as the direct result of his reluctant decision to grant her father’s request for mercy for the sake of Natasha. Consequently, Glazov’s ruthlessness now knows no bounds.

But Natasha’s right, I’m never supposed to be anywhere near a clean-up while it’s in progress. I know my secret’s safe with her but I also know that there are always Bratva guards nearby when Natasha works. It was a calculated risk to come see her but one I was willing to take in order to get Natasha to see reason.

I’ve been conditioned to be the Glazov heir who walks the line when it comes to the law -- no criminal activity for me. But when the darkness in my mind digs its talons into my skin, she is my salvation. All the filthy and forbidden pleasures I crave, I can indulge in with her. And she revels in them.

I think, of all the Glazov children, I have inherited more of my father’s traits, including his rumored penchant for absolute control in and out of the bedroom. Natasha got a fresh taste of that just now and I plan to remind her again later tonight.

I hit the highway and head downtown to my office where I will meet with Pyodor Stanislavski Sergeyevich, a Bratva soldier of the highest order. He was released from prison this morning and his first stop will be my office for a transition discussion before he returns to the Bratva compound and the welcoming arms of his family. He holds a place of honor in my father’s heart for taking the fall for a murder he didn’t commit. He refused to allow Glazov to be implicated in the crime and the Pakhan rewards such unwavering loyalty.

It’s not like Pyodor’s an innocent man, though. He’s probably got the bloodiest hands of anyone in our cell, having completed countless hits at the request of the Pakhan, both in and out of prison. Officially, I know nothing of these things, but I have my ways of positioning myself to discreetly obtain the information I need. Until recently, it was believed Pyodor would spend the rest of his life behind bars, but the Pakhan’s power can move mountains – and unlock prison cells.

I pull into my reserved parking space and step out of my car, letting my gaze take in the details of the underground parking garage as I wait for the elevator. On the way up, I savor the quiet and wait for the doors to open on my floor. I’m greeted by the receptionist’s hungry gaze as she toys with a pencil in her hand, absently rolling the eraser tip between her teeth. As her eyes wander below my waist, she lightly touches her tongue against the erasure tip. I look away and curl my lip in distaste. Disgusting habit.

Natasha hates her, which is the only reason I keep her around. A little jealousy might be just what Natasha needs, though if she saw the hungry way the girl is eyeing my package, she’d kick her ass and throw her out of the building herself – through a window. Natasha, like most Bratva women, has a nasty temper when it comes to her man.

“He’s in there waiting for you, sir,” she purrs.

“Thank you, Tiffany. Please bring us some coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies demurely, slowly standing and smoothing her skirt over her hips before sashaying down the hall to fulfill my request. It’s not so much her looks that piss Natasha off; no, it’s Tiffany’s innate eagerness to obey my every command. I crave submission, and I have no doubt that Tiffany’s submissive nature would carry over into the bedroom. But there would be no challenge in it. On the other hand, Natasha’s submission is often hard-won, and I find the battle of wills immensely gratifying.

I walk into my office and smile as I greet the mountain of a man we refer to as
Ivan the Terrible
. No one-armed fist thump for him, though, as he wraps both massive arms around me in an exuberant bear hug. I awkwardly return the embrace before pulling away and straightening my tie as I lower myself into the chair behind my desk.

“I am so very grateful to be a free man again. Only your father could make such a thing happen,” he gushes with reverence that is reserved for only his Pakhan. He’s correct, no one but my father could pull something like this off. Glazov’s history with Governor Johnson came in handy, no doubt.

“My father is indeed a miracle worker,” I agree.

We’ve never called Ivan by his birth name, he’s always been Ivan to us because of his mammoth size. He has two daughters who, unfortunately, look just like him. My father might be a miracle worker but there isn’t anything one can do about the girls’ DNA. Dad did, however, ensure that Ivan’s wife and daughters wanted for nothing during Ivan’s years of incarceration. His family will continue to enjoy the lifestyle they’ve become accustomed to because his sacrifice will be remembered and honored for generations to come.

“Ivan, welcome home. I won’t keep you long, I’m sure your wife and those two beautiful daughters of yours are eager to see you. What are your plans after you settle in?”

“I was thinking about opening a restaurant,” he says enthusiastically. “My wife has always wanted one and I’ve got about a million family recipes to work with. My girls are excited about working with their mother—the whole family business thing, you know. I gotta run it past your father first, of course, but I’m thinking it would be a great front for laundering gun money.”

I ignore the money laundering reference and focus on his business aspirations. “You may be on to something there, Ivan. Our city doesn’t have a restaurant with authentic Russian cuisine and I’m sure the boys would love it as a hangout. There wouldn’t be any lack of customers with everyone we have on payroll.”

“You think you could talk to your father about it, tell him you think it’s a good idea? You know, put in a good word for me?”

“Yeah, Ivan, I’m glad to do that for you. On another note, the Pakhan is holding a charity event tonight to raise funds for the expansion of the downtown library’s archives and special collections wing. Supporting the cultural edification of our community is a pet project of his, as I’m sure you know. He hopes you and your family will be able to attend. Everyone’s looking forward to seeing you now that you’re back where you belong.”

“Yeah, maybe my daughters will meet their future husbands. It’s time to start lining up suitors for them, I know my wife already has a few in mind. They’re growing up really fast, before you know it they’ll be giving me beautiful grandchildren.”

I wince at his words, but smooth it out into an indulgent smile before he notices. It’s going to take a special kind of man to marry either of his daughters and produce offspring, but I’m not about to be the one to break the news to him.