The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (3 page)

Natasha

I give the room yet another once-over, making sure I’ve left the space impeccably sterile. I stand back, eyeing the sparkling clean room and take pride in it, much like an artist would an intricate sculpture or painting.
Damn, I’m good.

I gather up my cleaning supplies and head out the door to my black SUV. Most of the Bratva women drive something more feminine and classy like a Lexus or a Benz, but all the guys drive black SUVs. I drive what the guys drive. Personally, I think mine’s a bit better. I’m not the ‘standard’ anything, not when it comes to my job and definitely not when it comes to my ride.

Hell, yeah, my ride is tricked out with bonuses only I possess, some of which I designed myself and had custom built. I push a hidden button on the back of the vehicle. The motor whirs as the oversized metal tray slides smoothly along the tracks out of hiding. This particular ‘upgrade’ of mine has saved my ass more than once when I’ve been called upon to transport a dead body. Worth every penny.

Just recently, I was pulled over with body parts hidden in that compartment but the cop never suspected a thing. I smirk when I remember how quickly Nikita arrived on the scene. We all carry cell phones with GPS and panic buttons so we’re never caught off guard. It was the first time I ever had to push that panic button and my best friend was there within minutes.

Nikita’s a hard ass like his dad, but when it comes to me he’s protective and loyal and that counts for a lot in my world. He’s all business with everyone else, but when it comes to me or his family, we see a softer side of him no one else does.

I slide the carrying case of cleaning supplies onto the tray and push the button that ensures it retracts and conceals its contents from prying eyes. If I were pulled over, I could use my forensics degree as a reason for having a medical examiner’s kit, but why even take the chance? The most important part of my job is preventing questions from being asked in the first place.

My next stop is the Glazov mansion that I call home. I chuckle as I think about why I finally took the Pakhan up on his longstanding offer for me to live at the main residence. Glazov had done a job for the Ramirez brothers by rescuing a woman being held by some gangbangers. They had abducted her and were holding her hostage in a dog cage. I felt sorry for her at first. But the bitch got real comfortable in the Glazov mansion and set her sights on Nikita. She thought he was her knight in shining armor after he helped bring her to safety. She latched onto him. Big mistake.

I had decided to kill the bitch but Glazov recognized my thirst for blood and wasted no time shipping her ass back home to New York. Of course, Glazov found my jealousy for his son endearing. But I’m sure it wouldn’t have gone over well if we had rescued the girl only to have me slit her throat. The last thing we need is a war with those crazy Colombian fucks.

The drive to the mansion is uneventful. Glazov’s car is there when I pull up. He insists on being briefed after every job, which works for me. I knock before entering his office and he waves me in as he talks on the phone. I take a seat in front of his desk and look around the room. Family pictures line bookshelves that hold a small fortune in Russian literature. First editions, of course.

My eyes lock on to a picture that brings back a treasured memory from my childhood. A bodyguard managed to take a picture of Nikita and me making a pinky swear that we would marry.
We pinky swore, Nikita. That’s forever.
Glazov catches me eyeing the photo as he hangs up the phone.

“That was taken the day you promised my son you’d marry him, which is the reason I want to meet with you today.”

I look down at the huge diamond surrounded by black diamonds on the fourth finger of my left hand. It’s a constant reminder of the man I belong to. Glazov’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“My wife, with the help of Roksana and Katrina, have begun planning your engagement party. You’re certain you don’t want to be married in the motherland of Russia? It would be only a matter of a phone call.”

“Yes, sir, Louisville has always been home.”

“Very well, the decision is yours.”

“I assume all is well between you and my son? No more problems?” he asks with the trademark Glazov penetrating stare. “I assumed that after I sent Sofia home, you two would resolve any difficulties that remained between you. But my son has looked troubled lately. Would you have any idea why that is?”

“There are no problems, sir,” I say quietly. After a few more seconds under his relentless gaze, I gulp and continue, “I mean, there were…”

“Indeed,” he murmurs.

“Yes, there were, but we’ve, um…discussed them.” At his slow, knowing smile, I stumble over my next words, “We’ve come to an understanding. There are no problems. Not now.” I clear my throat and wait.

“Very well,” he says with a nod. “You will let me know if that changes. I want my son to be happy, of course. But your father entrusted you to my care. Therefore, your welfare is of utmost concern to me as well. That, and the fact that Nikita can be an insufferable ass.” He chuckles and takes a deep breath. “On another note, tonight is the charity gala for the library expansion. I expect you to attend—on my son’s arm, of course.”

“Of course.”

He leans in, his expression solemn. “Your father would be proud of you,
zvezda moya
.”

“Thank you, sir. I miss him.”

“As do I. In your achievements and your loyalty, you honor his memory.” He reaches into a drawer and hands me an envelope.

“Sir, I’m content with my salary, it isn’t necessary to pay me for today’s job.”

“Shh, I decide what’s necessary.”

I thank him and accept the envelope. I lower my gaze, unable to withstand his intense scrutiny. When I look up, he has turned his attention to the papers on his desk, his autocratic demeanor making it clear that I have been dismissed. Like father, like son.

Cop Killer

Even though it’s only dusk, the parking garage’s murky lighting makes it seem much later. The interior light is on in the police cruiser. She’s doing paperwork. There’s so much going on in this city and she’s hiding in here doing paperwork? Don’t they know there’s a cop killer on the loose?

They will after tonight.

I revel in the calm before the storm as she flips through pages of forms, unaware that I’m watching and waiting behind the large concrete column next to the car. The computer screen casts a flickering blue haze over her features and the blonde hair she wears pulled back in a severe bun. When she got ready for work this morning, she had no way of knowing that such a simple detail would make my task so much easier.

Time to make my move.

I amble over to the cruiser and tap on the window. She glances up and jerks back in surprise at the interruption. She appears chagrined to be caught off guard, as she should be. I smile as she does a double-take, her eyes widening with recognition. She lowers the window and rests her arm along the edge.

“Hey! Where have you been? We’ve been--”

I slice her throat with a straight razor. Blood spurts in an arc that sprays the windshield. Each beat of her heart adds a new layer to the bloody mosaic that swiftly obscures the glass. As her failing heart begins to slow, blood gushes from the wound like water from a pot that’s boiling over. I’m mesmerized by the gory sight and linger longer than I should.

As a cop, she should have known better than to be predictable. I knew she’d be here because it’s what she does every evening, a little mindless paperwork to kill some time before closing out her shift.

I reach across her, ignoring her guttural, gurgling attempts at speech, and press my gloved fingertip against the bloody windshield to write two words.

Cop Killer

I’ve always hated how the press gets to name serial killers. How can someone who has so much control over life and death allow some stupid reporter to decide how they are perceived by the world? I’m certainly not going to settle for that. This is
my
kill,
my
game,
my
world, and
my
name.

I steal away from the parking garage with no one the wiser. Taking care of the security cameras earlier had been easy enough, just a matter of spraying the lens with jet black paint.

I leave with a spring in my step and her badge in my pocket. It’s begun, finally, and by the time the sun comes up tomorrow the city will be in a panic. A cop killer is walking the streets, wreaking havoc. Welcome to my world…