The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (28 page)

Natasha

As the flames dance in my rearview mirror, it’s so beautiful that I want to pull over and just take it all in. But there’s no time for that as I speed away from the inferno and turn for home. Glazov’s plan was implemented flawlessly, with everyone doing their part to ensure its success.

I’m chastened by the knowledge that Emily Finley is no more – and, for all intents and purposes, the same is true for Jasmine. The entire ring of dirty cops was wiped out in an instant, but at such a cost… Much was demanded of our team tonight and Glazov is no doubt pleased that each of us rose to the challenge.

In the meantime, Nikita has been burning my phone up all night so I know he’s pissed, but that’s how I work—no interruptions. I need to focus to do my job, and I respect the Pakhan’s directive that Nikita’s knowledge of Bratva business be limited to only what the Pakhan wants him to know. I wouldn’t change a thing about how the events of tonight went down -- but there will surely be hell to pay when I get home.

When I pull up to the mansion, the light in our room is on. Nikita glares down at me from the window in nothing but low-hanging jogging pants. His arms are raised over his head as his hands grip the upper window frame. His arched back gives me a clear view of his powerful chest, the sculpted slabs of muscle on proud display. Fury and carnal heat pour off him as he observes my progress toward the house.

His plans for the rest of the night are clear, and I mentally prepare for a long, hard ride. My involvement in the Pakhan’s clandestine plan to wipe out Louisville’s dirty cops and put an end to the Cop Killer’s murder spree has put Nikita through hell. I’m sure he felt powerless as he waited for word of my fate. Recent events have disrupted the balance of power in our tumultuous relationship, and I have no doubt that tonight he intends to set things right. Much like his father, Nikita relieves his frustrations via an impressive display of relentless sexual stamina and primal dominance.

I’m walking into a war zone.

As soon I drop my purse onto the chair by the bedroom door, he kicks the door shut and backs me up against the wall. Every inch of his torso presses against mine, his thigh forcing my legs apart. Judging by the wild look in his eyes and his labored breathing, this rage has been slowly consuming him all evening. All that remains of my loving protector is a caged animal, driven by pure instinct and the overwhelming need to dominate his mate.

He presses his forehead to mine and practically growls as he demands, “Is this the way you think it fucking works now, Tasha? You can’t be bothered to take my calls?” His voice becomes strident as he continues, “A building explodes across town, taking out damn near half the police force, but you send my calls to fucking voicemail?!”

I keep my voice steady and serene, replying, “I was working. You know I don’t like distractions when I’m working.”

“And I don’t fucking
like
being ignored, how about that?” A deep breath, then in a softer, grim voice, “I also don’t like worrying, which is what I do when I can’t find my woman.”

I raise my eyes to his, letting him see my unspoken regret, even though we both know that this will probably happen again. The life I’m making with Nikita was born of my allegiance to the Pakhan. This is the life we live, and every day we choose it anew.

He runs his hands over my breasts as if feeling the curves of my body for the first time. His gaze halts deliberately on my lips. He runs his thumb roughly across my bottom lip. I can’t resist sucking it into my mouth, laving it with slow, soft strokes of my tongue. He closes his eyes for an instant, his lips pressed into a hard line. I reluctantly let his thumb slide from my lips as he takes a step back. Nostrils flaring and brows furrowed, he draws several ragged breaths before burying his hands in my hair and slowly, inexorably, pushing me to the ground.

“On. Your. Knees.” He issues the command in a guttural rasp that sends a frisson of very real alarm down my spine. 

Kneeling before him, I am at eyelevel with the outline of his erection, heavy and thick as it strains against the layer of loose fabric. My mouth waters and a surge of wet heat floods my core at the prospect of pleasuring him this way, but the cruel pressure of his hands gripping my hair leaves me with no delusions about how this is going to go.

This is my penance for a litany of sins that have come between me and my lover as I’ve struggled to take my rightful place in our cell. Tonight was the culmination of those efforts. My role in the Bratva cell is assured now, but I know I’ve burned bridges here at home.

Maintaining his grip on my hair, he pulls me closer and quietly orders, “Take it out. Put me in your mouth.”

I slide his pants over his hips, revealing mouthwatering washboard abs and an insanely sexy V-cut that leads the way to my prize. He kicks the fabric aside and fists his jutting cock, pulling me toward him until the shaft is rubbing against my cheek. I turn my head and slide the flat of my tongue over the heavy veins that run the length of his shaft. My tongue swirls around the wide crown, lapping at the sensitive slit that’s already glistening with his pre-cum.

I suck him into my mouth in a single, long draw that takes him to the back of my throat. His head falls back when I hum my pleasure and cup his balls. With a groan, he takes over and I’m just along for the ride. His hips thrust powerfully back and forth as he fucks my mouth, chasing the orgasm that pulls his sac tight against his body. He pushes against the back of my throat and moans, shuddering as he comes hard. A steady, seemingly endless burst of semen runs down my throat until it’s dripping over my lips and onto my chin. 

“I wouldn’t move my hands from that wall if I were you.”

My breath hitches when he releases my hair and pulls me to my feet as he unbuttons my shirt. He swipes his thumb across my lips and slips the digit into my mouth, where I eagerly collect the last traces of his release. With no warning, he rips the fabric down the middle with such force that I jump in surprise.

“Shit, Nikita, that was one of my favorite shirts!” I complain indignantly.

The smirk on his face makes it clear that he couldn’t care less. He picks up his pants from the floor and reaches into the pocket. I moan in protest when he straightens and holds out his palm to show me a pair of nipple clamps. Yeah, he’s definitely still pissed. He knows how much I hate those fucking things.

“See…I know you were taught the same manners that I was, so you know perfectly well that it’s
just plain fucking rude
to ignore your fiancé’s phone calls. You, my love, need to be taught some manners.”

His warm breath wafts over my ear as he rasps, “Lean back, hands on the wall. If your hands move, that last spanking is going to seem like child’s play.”

My back arches when the clamps bite into my nipples. As he tightens the clamps and gives each one a little tug, I bite my lip to keep from crying out. He drops to his knees and yanks my pants down around my ankles. I slide off my shoes, careful not to move my hands, then kick my pants to the side.

I resist the urge to bury my fingers in his long blonde hair when he buries his face between my legs, slowly running his tongue through my slit. I move my hips in a mindless effort to get closer to the magic his tongue is working.

I gasp when he lifts me off my feet and pulls my legs over his shoulders, leaving me in a seated position against the wall, my pussy mere inches from his mouth. He works me with his lips and tongue, devouring me until my legs are shaking as they clamp around his head, holding him to me as I come.

My body quivers as the orgasm takes me and it’s all I can do not to remove my hands from the wall. I want to dig my fingernails into his shoulders and leave jagged claw marks behind as evidence of my pleasure. I love this man from the depths of my soul, the connection so intense that it borders on agony.

I remember something I read one time and it fits…I have loved to the point of madness. Anything less isn’t love as far as I’m concerned.

He lowers my body to the floor and hovers over me, locking eyes with me as he thrusts his cock into my core and connects us in a way no one else could understand. Our relationship can be volatile, like tonight. When the demands of this life shake our tenuous balance of power to its foundation, it must be reset by any means necessary. This works for us, always has.

His voice cuts through my free-flowing thoughts as waves of pleasure begin to build once again.

“Don’t fucking do that to me again, Natasha. I thought you were hurt, or worse…”

“Shhh…I can’t die, not without you. It’s simply not possible,” I breathe against his lips. “When it’s our time, we’ll die together.”

I wonder sometimes how we’ll leave this earth. I can’t imagine breathing without the love of my life by my side. He reaches for my hand as his hips rock against mine. With our fingers entwined, he smiles softly against my lips and whispers, “Pinky swear?”

“Yeah. Pinky swear.”

Roksana

I’ve spent considerable time over the last couple of days reflecting on the demise of the Cop Killer. My thoughts have been laced with far more respect than I would ever admit to another soul. Emily Finley is dead, having given up her life during the explosion that took out eight of Louisville’s ‘finest’.

I scrutinize the woman in the hospital bed, watching for any signs that she’s regaining consciousness. She earned my respect when she agreed to walk into the enemy’s camp laden with explosives, intent on blowing up a house full of corrupt cops who had, indirectly, fueled a truly horrific chapter in her life. And she did it, never knowing that she was armed with only inert explosives. Another of Glazov’s tests -- a particularly harrowing one even by my standards.

My father mandated that before he would allow her to be under my tutelage, she would have to prove her allegiance with her life—and so she did. I can only assume she thought there was no other way out for her but death. She’d been successful killing her enemies and, rather than go to prison, she chose death.

Oleg rescued Emily Finley from certain death by sedating and extracting her in the moments before a massive explosion destroyed the house and obliterated everyone inside. In addition to a strategically placed vest of live explosives, there may have been a few stashes of carefully selected accelerants planted throughout the house, just to help things along.

Natasha was busy in the hours leading up to the evening’s mayhem. She and Oleg spent the morning incinerating Gina Edwards’ body down to nothing but ash, ensuring that investigators won’t even have bone fragments for DNA testing. Obviously, dental records won’t be of any help. The ashes and a vest of live explosives were meticulously positioned in a spare bedroom to be discovered long after the flames were put out.

Natasha’s expertise and hands-on approach to this job earned her the respect of everyone in our cell, and rightfully so.

In a deliciously twisted move, Oleg had Emily hand over her wedding rings, which she had kept handy all these months to pawn for some quick cash. The rings were distinctive in design and engraved with some smarmy phrase and their wedding date. Investigators found the rings – and the suicide note I ‘encouraged’ Emily to write -- in the mailbox in front of the house.

The note explained her years of abuse at the hands of the city’s local hero, and detailed the corruption he masterminded for so long. Although no one will ever go on record validating her actions, the late Emily Finley has, nonetheless, quickly become something of a cult hero, a shining icon for battered and abused women in Louisville and beyond.

And as far as the authorities are concerned, the Cop Killer is dead.

I abruptly straighten in my chair as her eyes flutter weakly against the harsh florescent lighting. I watch her face with interest as she stirs, her brows drawing together in a scowl, probably struggling to make sense of the fact that she’s still alive.

Glazov insists on having a fully equipped medical facility on the grounds and it’s worth the exorbitant amount he spent to build and staff it. Gunshot wounds are routine around here, Kodiak can attest to that. But plastic surgery is less common and only employed on…special occasions. Like this one.

She groans as she tries to touch her bandaged face and I push the button on the pump to release more morphine into her system. She’ll need to be calm for what I’m about to say.

“Welcome back,” I say as her head turns toward the sound of my voice. “Much has happened and you will, no doubt, have questions – some I can answer and some not. For now, I can give you the basics.

“The Pakhan saved your life. Now you owe him yours. I’d say that’s a fair trade, wouldn’t you? All you need to know for the moment is that Emily Finley is no more. Your new life as a Bratva soldier begins today.

“You have undergone extensive plastic surgery to give you a new appearance and a new identity. You will endure intensive training, led by Oleg and me, as soon as you recover. I told you when we met that you were my bitch. Dreams do come true, eh?”

Her eyes flare for an instant before the morphine kicks in and she drifts off once more. There will be time for questions later.

The Pakhan has bestowed upon her a great gift, something many people wish for but never get—a second chance. As we have seen with Kodiak and Natasha, the Pakhan’s blessing is as strong as blood. When the time is right, he will give her a new name, but only after we ascertain her true nature. For now, she is under my tutelage. I will take great pleasure in turning her into a ruthless soldier for our cell. By the time I’m finished with her she will truly be one of us—born Bratva.

Her story is now my story and, as I’ve always done, I’ll share it with those who have followed us from the beginning.

Look for Roksana and Oleg’s story, coming soon.