I can’t decide if I should wrap my jacket around her and usher her back upstairs to keep the world from seeing what’s mine, or throw her to the floor and fuck her until she doesn’t know her own name. How can one woman look so seductively feminine and yet think like a man? It’s a dangerous combination and she wears it well.
I push my way through the crowd and grab her elbow, pulling her through the sea of people, ignoring greetings along the way because I don’t give a shit about talking to guests. I push her around a corner and waste no time before I pin her to the wall.
“What the fuck is this?” My hand slides over the velvety skin of her thigh to the top of the slit. I slip my fingers under the fabric and snap the side of her G-String, coming dangerously close to ripping it off her. “Sometimes I think you just fuck with me because it amuses you. All I can think about is dragging your ass upstairs and fucking some sense into that maddeningly independent head of yours.”
“Spoken like a true Glazov,” she smirks. She’s deliberately trying to piss me off and, yeah, it’s working. She ducks and steps around me, grabbing a shot of vodka from a waiter and slamming it back. She lifts two more off a passing tray and hands me one. “Relax, baby, it’s a party. You can fuck some sense into me when it’s over. Maybe.”
“Maybe, my ass. When we’re able to get out of here and back upstairs, I’ll be the one ripping this little black dress off you.”
I toss the vodka back and direct my attention toward my father. He’s across the room, engrossed in a tense conversation with the governor. Something’s up. I don’t know what it is but I can feel it and it isn’t good.
As if sensing my scrutiny, my father abruptly turns his head, his steely eyes meeting mine with unerring precision. Whatever they’re discussing has something to do with me. My jaw stiffens and I exhale harshly as I wonder what the fuck it is.
As I pull Natasha into my arms for a slow dance, I clear this latest mystery from my mind and focus my attention on the feel of the supple curves under my hand as she moves to the music. Anything I need to know, the Pakhan will tell me when it’s time.
Chapter Six
Cop Killer
I stretch out on the couch and turn on the 11 o’clock news. A sip of wine glides down my throat as the chaos unfolds before me. I knew it wouldn’t take long for the media to jump all over a cop killing—too good for ratings. I listen, wanting to know if the reporter will acknowledge the name I’ve given myself. Hell, I wrote it in blood, you couldn’t miss it.
The reporter’s voice is damn near gleeful as she gives her report:
“The city is in mourning this evening as word spreads that a Louisville police officer was brutally murdered tonight. Karen Conner, a ten-year veteran of the police force, bled to death in a downtown parking garage, the victim of an apparent stabbing. It is believed she was wrapping up her shift, doing routine paperwork in her vehicle when she was attacked.
“The killer is being referred to by local police as the Cop Killer. Why? Because those words were written in blood at the scene.”
The reporter drones on, speculating about the upcoming funeral and tentative plans for a memorial to be placed at a local park. But I’m not listening. I’m basking in the intoxicating rush of being in complete control. It’s a novel sensation and I’m finding it overwhelming. I’ve only felt it only once before -- earlier tonight when I watched Karen bleed out.
Before she lost consciousness, she had a look of such betrayal in her eyes. She even tried to speak to me. The nerve of her. What did she know about betrayal? I could tell her all about it, and, who knows, maybe I did. Because I put that look in her eyes. I did that. Me. Her final moments were a testament to my power, my control.
I rummage around in my pocket and retrieve her badge. My fingers slide across the smooth metal, warm from my body heat. Badge number 356. Her family will get a folded flag, of course. But I get her badge. Seems fair to me. Because what goes around, comes around.
Chapter Seven
Natasha
The crowd parts as if by magic when the Pakhan crosses the ballroom with the governor by his side. There are no genteel smiles and polite murmurs of “Pardon me, excuse me.” Just the Pakhan’s haughty bearing as he strides confidently in our direction. Drunken revelers and members of the Bratva elite instinctively move aside to make way for the superior beast among them.
I barely suppress a smile at the power play unfolding before me. Glazov catches my amused eye and arches a brow as his lips curl in a subtle but arrogant smirk. With a slow shake of his head, his message is clear: This shit never gets old.
“Natasha, my dear, you look lovely,” he greets me with a nod before turning to Nikita. “We need to speak privately, son.”
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Nikita murmurs to me, pressing a kiss to my temple as he turns to go.
“No, she comes too.” The seriousness in Glazov’s eyes leaves no room for discussion.
I nearly choke on my champagne, the bubbles catching in the back of my throat and setting off a coughing fit that draws the attention of a number of nearby revelers. I quickly assure Nikita I’m fine and accept a handkerchief in order to tidy up and give myself a few seconds of much-needed recovery time. A replay of today’s clean-up runs through my mind. I have a system, a check list of sorts and I don‘t miss details—ever. I’m meticulous and this job was no exception. So that can’t be it.
It isn’t uncommon for Glazov to include women in business discussions. It is, however, unusual for him to include the governor. His presence at tonight’s fundraiser was positioned by his press office as a brief, informal appearance to show support for the expansion of the local library. However, Glazov’s inner circle knows that the Pakhan is cultivating goodwill for his new slate of legitimate businesses. This event offers the two men the perfect smokescreen to talk business without attracting attention. But that doesn’t explain why he wants to include Nikita and me.
I’m not surprised to see Novak waiting for us in Glazov’s office. He barely looks up as he twirls a coin between two fingers. His demeanor is as it always is—cocky. He couldn’t give a fuck about being in same room with the governor of the great state of Kentucky.
Glazov unbuttons his suit jacket and lowers himself smoothly into his seat behind his desk. He adjusts his cufflinks as he glances at the governor before turning his attention to Nikita and me.
“No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve included you two in this discussion,” he says grimly. “The governor tells me that a police officer was killed earlier this evening in a particularly vicious attack.”
Novak is the first to respond, his eyes narrowing on the coin as it comes to rest in the palm of his hand. He closes his fingers around the coin and exhales harshly. “No offense, Governor, but what the fuck does that have to do with the Glazov family? What exactly are you implying here? I hope you don’t think you can enjoy our hospitality, drink our wine, eat our food -- and toss out accusations,” he says silkily, finally looking up to blast the governor with a look of warning.
The governor meets his gaze head on.
“When I authorized the release of the man you all call Ivan the Terrible, I had no idea I would need your help so soon. This is a delicate matter, to say the least. The officer’s throat was slit so deep she bled out. No cop is going to let a stranger get that up close and personal. She knew the killer. She was comfortable enough to roll the window down for a chat, leaving her totally exposed and vulnerable. She knew the killer well enough to trust him.”
“So where do we fit into all of this?” I ask.
The Glazovs don’t make a habit of getting involved with the local police, unless it’s to buy someone off or maybe indulge in a little well-placed blackmail. This is so far out of the norm for the Glazov family that my curiosity is piqued.
“The possibility that the officer knew her killer concerns me because it raises the possibility that this was an inside job. That complicates the investigation so objectivity is c
ritical. I want to bring in an outside forensics consultant. Someone with no ties to anyone on the force. A sort of consultant, if you will.”
Nikita’s body stiffens next to me. I look to Glazov for direction and he nods almost imperceptibly.
“How soon would you need me?” I ask.
“Tonight,” the governor says decisively. “Our forensics staff expedited the autopsy. It’s being done now and they will file the initial report within the hour. I’d like to have your input as well, and you’ll let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary.
“I can get you into the morgue tonight but we need to move quickly. With all the pressure for a funeral with full honors, we’re releasing the body to the funeral director first thing in the morning.”
“So you’re going to sneak me into the morgue in the middle of the night so I can go back over a body that’s already been processed?”
“Essentially, yes. At the very least, I’d like you to review the autopsy notes. The hands-on work is wrapping up now, but you’ll have access to the body tonight if you need to follow up on any of the initial findings.”
“Well, I’ll need a little time before we leave.”
“What on earth for?” he asks impatiently.
“I need to change into my work clothes,” I say serenely, crossing my legs and deliberately ignoring Nikita’s scowl as the silky fabric parts to reveal more than a little leg. “Gentlemen, if I’m going to be up to my ass in dead cop tonight, these Louboutins are staying home.”
Chapter Eight
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.”
Chapter Nine
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.
Chapter Ten
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. A
nd 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.”
Chapter Eleven
Cop Killer
I park around the corner from the upper middle class brick home and sit for a moment, thinking through all that I want to accomplish tonight. Though the sky is lit up with stars and a full moon, I’m hidden in the best place a serial killer can be: behind the decadent facade of false security that suburbia offers its inhabitants. My visit tonight won’t change that illusion, not yet anyway. Tonight I choose not to destroy but merely to…disrupt. And take back what’s mine.
The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) Page 3