The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4)

by Suzanne Steele

  Kindle Edition

  ©The Cleaner

  ©Born Bratva Series

  Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Steele

  Published by Suzanne Steele

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of Fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales, are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All other characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. The author acknowledges the trademark status of various products and locales referenced in this fictional work, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. All rights reserved. No part of this book can be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover photo © Shuttershock

  Cover Copyright © Suzanne Steele

  Edited by Eda Price Editing

  Cover Design by Yocla Designs

  Formatting by Suzanne Steele

  Thank you for downloading this e-book.

  Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

  All content herein is protected under copyright law.

  This e-book is Rated 17+

  To the Reader

  The men I write about are Alpha males in every sense of the word. They are the men society warns us about. They are dominant males with controlling tendencies. They are the men you know you should stay away from, but are drawn to like a moth to a flame. If you are looking for a sweet romance, you won't find it here. What you will find is dark passion. My heroes often are obsessed with the women they love. Each and every character I write about has demanded their voice be heard. I have been true to that calling and I have stayed true to their personalities, which at times the reader may not agree with. They are dark, they are gritty, and their love may be dysfunctional but, nonetheless, it is real.

  Stalk Me…

  Suzanne Steele’s Blog: http://suzannesteelesblog.wordpress.com/

  Suzanne Steele’s Twitter:

  https://twitter.com/Suzanne_Steele_

  Suzanne Steele’s Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/suzannesteele

  Suzanne Steele’s Facebook

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Suzanne-Steele/160387180790420?ref=hl

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I want to thank God. Without him none of this would be possible.

  I want to thank my family, who carry the weight of everything so I can write. I love you guys and I couldn’t do what I do without you.

  I want to thank my editor, Eda Price, who came at a time I needed her most. Eda, you are a godsend and I will be forever grateful to you for believing in me when I wanted to give up. You were just what I needed to keep writing and pursuing my dream.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty One

  Chapter Forty Two

  Chapter Forty Three

  Chapter Forty Four

  Chapter Forty Five

  Chapter Forty Six

  Chapter Forty Seven

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Chapter Forty Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty One

  Chapter Fifty Two

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Chapter Fifty Five

  Chapter Fifty Six

  Chapter Fifty Seven

  Chapter Fifty Eight

  Chapter Fifty Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty One

  Chapter Sixty Two

  Chapter Sixty Three

  Chapter Sixty Four

  Chapter Sixty Five

  Chapter Sixty Six

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Nikita

  “There’s one right there! Do you see it?”

  Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders as she points to a spot just below us. As the early morning sunlight dances along the glossy strands, I find it difficult to look away, impossible to give my attention to anything but her. But she is relentless and so I reluctantly drag my gaze from my best friend to take in the sight that has captured her attention.

  We’re lying on our stomachs on a flat rock at the edge of the creek looking for frogs, as we do most mornings. Usually we just talk, with the frogs all but forgotten. However, today her voice trembles with excitement at finding the day’s first frog.

  “Look at him, Nikita, he’s not even scared. Oh, he’s lovely, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” I say pensively as I take in her profile, the pert nose, the determined chin. “Lovely.”

  She turns her head to look at me, her bright blue eyes full of wonder. The world is always beautiful when I see it through her eyes. I want the world to be beautiful forever.

  She rests her chin in her hand, considering me for a long moment as the fingertips of her other hand leave lazy ripples along the water’s surface.

  “Do you think we’ll really get married like Papa Glazov says?” she asks me, somehow continuing the conversation as if I had spoken my thoughts aloud. It doesn’t surprise me—we’re that close.

  “Of course,” I reply confidently, tilting my chin at a proud angle. “When Papa says something, it always happens. Always.”

  My father is the Pakhan—the leader of our Russian Bratva cell. The ruthlessness he brings to his business dealings is exceeded only by his devotion to his family -- both qualities derived from the long line of Glazov Pakhans who came before him.

  He has always been forthright in telling his three children who he is and what he does. He says we were born Bratva and we will die Bratva, that it is our destiny. Even my adopted brother, Kodiak, is sealed with our fate of being born Bratva, even though he came to this life from humble beginnings. He was chosen by Papa on a night marked by fire and death. Papa’s blessing is as strong and binding as blood.

  “But what if he changes his mind?” she asks warily.

  “Papa doesn’t change his mind.”

  She frowns and bites her lip, staring at me some more before asking, “Do you want to be married to me when we get big?”

  “More than
anything, Natasha.”

  I want her to not only be my wife, I want her to always be my best friend. I can’t imagine life without her. I can’t remember a time when she and I weren’t joined at the hip. Her father works for Papa and to hear my father tell it, we were destined before birth to be together. It won’t be an arranged marriage, it goes far deeper than that. It will be the fulfillment of our destiny as decreed by the Pakhan.

  “Pinky swear?” She sits up, pulling her hand from the water and extending her pinky finger. She looks at me expectantly. She won’t stop until I assure her that she’ll be mine forever. So I solemnly wrap my pinky finger around hers, my childish heart brimming with a devotion far beyond my years.

  “Yes,” I say gravely as a drop of cool creek water slides along my skin from the point where our fingers are entwined, “I pinky swear, we’ll be together forever. You are mine and I am yours.”

  She smiles serenely, as if satisfied to have the matter settled for good. Then, just as fast, she releases her hold on my finger and returns her attention to the frog.

  “Look! He’s waiting for me to pick him up and take him home with me.” She cups a dainty hand and rests it in front of him. He can resist her no more than I can and hops into her hand with no hesitation.

  “Better not let him pee on you, you’ll get warts. I don’t know if I wanna marry a girl with warts all over her.”

  “You better, Nikita Glazov,” she scowls up at me. “I’ll beat up any other girl who tries to take you from me. We pinky swore, Nikita. That’s forever.”

  She means it, too. She’s already pummeled two girls at our old school who tried to sit with me during lunch, and now they’re afraid to be anywhere near me. That’s okay, though, because other girls don’t interest me, never have.

  Natasha understands me like no one else can – no one except my sister, Roksana. My sister and I don’t mingle with the other Bratva kids much, in school or otherwise. It’s not that we’re antisocial, exactly, it’s just that we no longer attend school in a traditional classroom. Apparently, Papa’s union with our mother produced a ‘litter of brainiacs’, as he sometimes refers to us. Natasha also studies at an advanced level, having scored in the top 1% in the same I.Q. test that Roks and I aced years ago.

  It became obvious early on that a traditional school was not going to be enough of a challenge for the Glazov children, or for Natasha either. The teachers didn’t know how to respond when we corrected them in class or challenged their ideas. Who wants to engage in daily debates with a child – especially when the child usually wins? And, right or wrong, Roksana was dissecting frogs on her own in kindergarten, not letting a formality like a classroom or a teacher hold her back. So Papa was asked, very politely, to find an ‘alternative educational setting’ for us. We’ve been homeschooled ever since, along with Kodiak and Natasha.

  Papa selected instructors from a pool of Mensa candidates. Only the best for his Bratva progeny. He gave them specific instructions to challenge our intellects. He has made it clear that he expects our unconventional upbringing to enable us to take our rightful places in the cell far earlier than would be considered…typical.

  We’re seen as freaks by some, geniuses by others, depending on who you ask. The high school-level classes we’re already taking are okay but I’m looking forward to starting some college courses next year when I turn 13, and being out of school for good someday so I can work for Papa.

  I still like debating with my teachers and, lucky for them, they seem to enjoy it too. Natasha is a total science geek and Roksana is perpetually bored because she’s good at everything. Now, Kodiak’s a different story altogether. Even though he’s not a blood relative, he’s exceptionally bright -- and fiercely competitive. He has no trouble keeping up with the rest of us. The four of us are close. We look to Papa for direction, which means we don’t suffer fools and we don’t welcome outsiders into our circle.

  And it’s understood that Natasha is mine. She’s the best friend a guy could ask for because she thinks like a boy but she looks like a girl. She doesn’t know it yet, but no one will ever take me from her. She’s all I’ve ever known.

  Through the years I know we’ll have our share of arguments and struggles, but I have no doubt that we’ll face them side by side. The pinky promise we made at the creek today, with a frog as our witness, sealed our fates. We are destined to be together forever.

  It’s the Bratva way.

  Chapter One

  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 a
s 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.