The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (5 page)

Nikita

I’ve heard enough. If Glazov and the governor think they’re going to involve Natasha in this mess, I have a few things to say.

“She isn’t going anywhere without me. I want to make it very clear,
Governor
, if this is some kind of trap you’ll have more than a cop killer to worry about.”

“Now, you listen here--”

“He’s right, Anthony.” My father’s voice is ominously quiet as he interrupts the governor’s indignant retort. “Should anything happen to Natasha, you will bear the full weight of my displeasure. I won’t ask questions first.” He casts a warm glance Natasha’s way. “I consider her one of my own.”

The governor is surprisingly composed when he responds, considering the Pakhan just issued one hell of a threat.

“She’ll be in no danger. I have no ulterior motives. I simply require an objective perspective on a murder that may well be an inside job. As far as your son accompanying her, I would expect nothing less.”

Natasha

It’s been a while since I’ve been in a morgue, not since I was in college. Okay, so that wasn’t all that long ago. Still, it’s not something I do every day. My dealings with dead bodies tend to be far less civilized than this.

We pull into a parking lot on Baxter Avenue. The morgue is located in the basement of a building that houses the medical examiner’s office.
What is it about basements and morgues?
I chuckle when I look over at Nikita and note his pallor and the light sheen of sweat that darkens his hairline. He’s not crazy about spending his evening with a bunch of dead bodies in drawers.

“You okay, big guy?” I ask gently. I gasp when he clasps the back of my neck and pulls me toward him. His forehead rests on mine as he takes a ragged breath and appears to carefully consider his next words.

“You’re my life, Natasha. You’ve been a part of me for as long as I can remember, since before I was even born. There is no life for me without you. Don’t let this foray into the civilian world give you any crazy ideas about life outside the cell.” He cups my jaw in his hand and tilts my face up, his icy features desperate and yet every bit as menacing as his father’s. “It works both ways you know – there is no life for you without me. You know this,
lyubov moya
.”

I wrap my hand around his wrist so that my thumb can stroke his skin. His grip on my jaw loosens, but I recognize the haunted look in his eyes for what it is: fear. This man who grew up surrounded by hardened criminals and ruthless killers is insecure and worried that I’m going to leave him someday.

I don’t say anything. I simply lift my hand in a soft fist between us and extend my pinky finger, my eyes never leaving his. The corner of his mouth tilts up softly and he closes his eyes for a brief moment before he wraps his pinky around mine. No words are needed. It is enough to know that the promise two children made all those years ago endures, strong and true.

“Come on, then,” I say as I open my car door and step out. “Time to put up or shup up, man of mine. I have a romantic evening planned – just you, me, and a dead body. Think you can handle it?”

“The only thing I can’t handle is losing you,” he declares. He takes my elbow in an unexpectedly courtly gesture and escorts me into the building, nodding at the security guard stationed at the door.

“Good evening, Jackson.”

“Good evening, Mr. Glazov.”

I’m relieved to see that Glazov has brought in this particular Bratva security guard for our visit. While most of the Bratva’s muscle owe their positions to family ties, Jackson is a trained professional. He impressed Glazov by stopping an assault on one of Ivan’s nephews, and he hired him on the spot.

“And Natasha, it’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Jackson. I’m glad they brought you in for this one,” I reply as I step past him into the lobby. His face flushes slightly at the compliment and he nods with a slight bow before escorting us to the elevator that will take us down to the morgue.

The trip downstairs is silent except for the hum of the elevator. Jackson steps out first and presses a series of numbers on the morgue’s security key pad that grants us entry into the stark, sterile space.

“The body is right over here. I’ve already turned off all the cameras. I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he says before closing the door and assuming his post in the hall.

Nikita leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his massive chest as he watches me go to work. I pull back the white sheet to reveal the remains of a woman. The standard Y-shaped autopsy incision from the shoulders down to the pubic bone reminds me that the body has already been autopsied, making it unlikely that I’ll find anything new. But it won’t hurt to take a look.

The cause of death is obvious—a clean slash to the left side of her neck with a smooth blade, severing the carotid artery and the jugular vein. A deep wound like this, to the left side of the neck, would have rendered the victim unconscious within a few horrifyingly gory seconds, probably sparing her the knowledge that death was imminent. Death by exsanguination likely occurred within a minute or two. The killer knew exactly what he wanted to achieve, acting efficiently and without hesitation—and, I’m guessing, without any remorse. And yet, not without mercy. Interesting.

“Even though this attack was brutal, it’s a clean kill. I don’t see any evidence of the rage that is often seen when the kill is personal. Just a single wound delivered with great force.”

I pick up the copy of the autopsy report that was left on the desk for me and begin reading. It doesn’t take long for me to find what I’m looking for. This was no random act of violence. This killer is organized, orchestrating every detail of the crime, right down to the moniker he prefers.
Cop Killer
.

No need to wonder who this killer’s potential targets are. I’m sure the police will be watching their collective backs in the coming days, knowing this guy’s out there somewhere. In the meantime, I can’t help but wonder what would cause someone to go off the rails like this.

Nikita

I’m sick of hearing about dead bodies and serial killers. As proud as I am of my girl and how fucking brilliant she is, I’ll never get used to this. She’s still talking about entry wounds and blood splatter as we enter my bedroom.

Enough.

“Shhh,” I pull her body close against me from behind. “The only body part I’m interested in right now is that sweet pussy of yours. And maybe these gorgeous tits,” I whisper into her neck as I cup her breasts and rub my thumbs over her nipples.
Mine.

She moans, turning in my arms to run her hands over my chest, leaving a trail of fire even through the fabric of my shirt. Her nimble fingers make quick work of the buttons. She traces the outline the tattoo on my chest, sliding her hands over my shoulders and down my arms until my shirt lands in a heap on the floor.

“Lady Justice,” she murmurs with a soft smile, craning her neck to look up at me. The tattoo is Lady Justice with the usual scales and blindfold, but across her blindfold is written
Born Bratva
in Russian. “So fitting, my love.”

Enough talking. With lightning speed I clamp my hand around her throat and steer her back toward the bed. I want her out of those clothes. She falls back onto the mattress as I remove her shoes and jeans. She slides her top off while I undress. With one shapely, toned leg draped over my shoulder, I turn my head to lavish her instep and ankle with kisses. I fist my cock and, with no warning, slam my full length into her heat. Carnal pleasure roars through me, the way it does every time I take her. If I could somehow climb inside her and claim every fiber of her being, I would.

“God, I love you. I fucking love you. You’re mine, Tasha,” I groan as my hips piston in and out of her pussy at a punishing pace.

“I love you, too, Nikita. So much.”