Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Because none of the bratva have their own families, my brigadiers all live on this floor with me. We make our own family.
They come out of their rooms now to gawk at my captured princess. Her back straightens even more—ramrod stiff.
“Lucy, these are my men. You’ve already met Oleg, my enforcer, if you hadn’t guessed.”
Oleg lifts his chin in a ghost of a greeting.
“Maxim is a bit like me—he’s the fixer.”
“Rad vstreche.” Maxim shakes her hand. His English is excellent, but he’s playing along with me. No one will let on that they can understand Lucy while she’s here. Not unless I change my edict. My word is law in this building.
“Nicholai is my accountant.” Of course by accountant, I mean bookie.
“Dima, his twin, is the IT specialist.” Hacker.
“Twins,” she murmurs, gaze flicking between them. I don’t know why everyone finds twins so fascinating, but between the two of them, Dima and Nicholai get far more pussy than the rest of the men in the building.
“Pavel is a brigadier.”
“What’s a brigadier?” I like how quickly she digests it all and asks questions. She has an inquisitive mind. It will be hard to stay three steps ahead of her, but I will.
“It’s like a captain.”
“Capo,” she says.
“Yes, like the Italian capo.”
“And what’s your job? Also fixer?”
I shake my head. “I am the director. Pakhan of the Chicago Bratva.”
“Papa,” Maxim says with a smirk.
I shoot him a warning glance. He’s not supposed to understand what I’m saying. And I don’t go by Papa. Igor is still technically Papa, even though he’s on his deathbed and in Russia.
She looks around at the layout of the floor. It had originally consisted of four thirty-five hundred square foot penthouse apartments. I knocked out the walls of two of them to make it one giant mansion with separate wings. “You all live here? Together?”
“Yes. We are a family.”
Maxim and Dima watch her reaction with amusement. They enjoy my games, and the fact that this one is aimed at a beautiful woman makes it all the more entertaining. Having her share our space will be a novelty for all of us.
“Come.” I take her elbow and guide her toward my master suite where Oleg has already brought her bags. Like everything on the top floor of the apartment building, it’s been appointed in total luxury—every fixture is high end, the floors a Brazilian oak, the bathroom countertops and shower a soft white quartz with flecks of gold and purple swirls.
She looks around doubtfully. “This is your room?”
“Yes. This is where you will stay. So I can take care of your needs.”
“I want my own room.”
I’m not surprised by her request. The truth is, I debated the choice. Having her in my space will tax us both.
But ultimately, I want her taxed. I want her to live under my constant benevolent rule until she accepts me.
At least for the pregnancy.
Keeping her permanently may not be in the highest interest of either of us.
“You will stay here with me,” I say firmly. “Whether I let you out of this room depends on how well you follow my rules.”
Her nostrils flare and eyes flash, but she says nothing. She’s not the type to throw a temper tantrum. I have no doubt when she picks her battle, she’ll be well-armed. She’ll gain more information before she makes her move.
She and I are very similar.
This is a game of chess we are playing. It could be pleasurable for both of us, even though one of us—me—will always win.
A tap sounds at the door.
“Come in.”
Valentina, our housekeeper, enters with a pitcher of iced water full of sliced cucumbers, as well as a plate of snack foods—cheese squares and chocolates, some grapes and fresh cherries. She pours a glass of the spa water for Lucy and holds it out.
“Drink lots of water. It’s important for the baby,” she says in Russian, bobbing her head and smiling.
“This is Valentina. She’s our housekeeper. She prepares some of the food, but we also have a chef who preps and cooks our main meals.”
Lucy takes the glass of water from her. “Thank you.”
Another tap sounds at the door, and Oleg steps in, carrying the pregnancy massage table I purchased today. Natasha, our resident massage therapist, traipses in after him, carrying a basket of supplies and beaming at me. She’s delighted I bought this new table for her use and will be requiring daily massages for my captive.
Her English is perfect—the twenty-five year old grew up in America—but she puts on a great act, turning to Lucy and offering a stream of Russian. “Hello, you must be Lucy. Congratulations on your pregnancy. I’m so delighted to support you through it. I work with a lot of pregnant women because my mom is a midwife.”
Lucy’s brow furrows.
“This is Natasha, your massage therapist.”