The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4)

by Suzanne Steele

  “Shit, Nikita, that was one of my favorite shirts!” I complain indignantly.

  The smirk on his face makes it clear that he couldn’t care less. He picks up his pants from the floor and reaches into the pocket. I moan in protest when he straightens and holds out his palm to show me a pair of nipple clamps. Yeah, he’s definitely still pissed. He knows how much I hate those fucking things.

  “See…I know you were taught the same manners that I was, so you know perfectly well that it’s just plain fucking rude to ignore your fiancé’s phone calls. You, my love, need to be taught some manners.”

  His warm breath wafts over my ear as he rasps, “Lean back, hands on the wall. If your hands move, that last spanking is going to seem like child’s play.”

  My back arches when the clamps bite into my nipples. As he tightens the clamps and gives each one a little tug, I bite my lip to keep from crying out. He drops to his knees and yanks my pants down around my ankles. I slide off my shoes, careful not to move my hands, then kick my pants to the side.

  I resist the urge to bury my fingers in his long blonde hair when he buries his face between my legs, slowly running his tongue through my slit. I move my hips in a mindless effort to get closer to the magic his tongue is working.

  I gasp when he lifts me off my feet and pulls my legs over his shoulders, leaving me in a seated position against the wall, my pussy mere inches from his mouth. He works me with his lips and tongue, devouring me until my legs are shaking as they clamp around his head, holding him to me as I come.

  My body quivers as the orgasm takes me and it’s all I can do not to remove my hands from the wall. I want to dig my fingernails into his shoulders and leave jagged claw marks behind as evidence of my pleasure. I love this man from the depths of my soul, the connection so intense that it borders on agony.

  I remember something I read one time and it fits…I have loved to the point of madness. Anything less isn’t love as far as I’m concerned.

  He lowers my body to the floor and hovers over me, locking eyes with me as he thrusts his cock into my core and connects us in a way no one else could understand. Our relationship can be volatile, like tonight. When the demands of this life shake our tenuous balance of power to its foundation, it must be reset by any means necessary. This works for us, always has.

  His voice cuts through my free-flowing thoughts as waves of pleasure begin to build once again.

  “Don’t fucking do that to me again, Natasha. I thought you were hurt, or worse…”

  “Shhh…I can’t die, not without you. It’s simply not possible,” I breathe against his lips. “When it’s our time, we’ll die together.”

  I wonder sometimes how we’ll leave this earth. I can’t imagine breathing without the love of my life by my side. He reaches for my hand as his hips rock against mine. With our fingers entwined, he smiles softly against my lips and whispers, “Pinky swear?”

  “Yeah. Pinky swear.”

  Epilogue

  Roksana

  I’ve spent considerable time over the last couple of days reflecting on the demise of the Cop Killer. My thoughts have been laced with far more respect than I would ever admit to another soul. Emily Finley is dead, having given up her life during the explosion that took out eight of Louisville’s ‘finest’.

  I scrutinize the woman in the hospital bed, watching for any signs that she’s regaining consciousness. She earned my respect when she agreed to walk into the enemy’s camp laden with explosives, intent on blowing up a house full of corrupt cops who had, indirectly, fueled a truly horrific chapter in her life. And she did it, never knowing that she was armed with only inert explosives. Another of Glazov’s tests -- a particularly harrowing one even by my standards.

  My father mandated that before he would allow her to be under my tutelage, she would have to prove her allegiance with her life—and so she did. I can only assume she thought there was no other way out for her but death. She’d been successful killing her enemies and, rather than go to prison, she chose death.

  Oleg rescued Emily Finley from certain death by sedating and extracting her in the moments before a massive explosion destroyed the house and obliterated everyone inside. In addition to a strategically placed vest of live explosives, there may have been a few stashes of carefully selected accelerants planted throughout the house, just to help things along.

  Natasha was busy in the hours leading up to the evening’s mayhem. She and Oleg spent the morning incinerating Gina Edwards’ body down to nothing but ash, ensuring that investigators won’t even have bone fragments for DNA testing. Obviously, dental records won’t be of any help. The ashes and a vest of live explosives were meticulously positioned in a spare bedroom to be discovered long after the flames were put out.

  Natasha’s expertise and hands-on approach to this job earned her the respect of everyone in our cell, and rightfully so.

  In a deliciously twisted move, Oleg had Emily hand over her wedding rings, which she had kept handy all these months to pawn for some quick cash. The rings were distinctive in design and engraved with some smarmy phrase and their wedding date. Investigators found the rings – and the suicide note I ‘encouraged’ Emily to write -- in the mailbox in front of the house.

  The note explained her years of abuse at the hands of the city’s local hero, and detailed the corruption he masterminded for so long. Although no one will ever go on record validating her actions, the late Emily Finley has, nonetheless, quickly become something of a cult hero, a shining icon for battered and abused women in Louisville and beyond.

  And as far as the authorities are concerned, the Cop Killer is dead.

  I abruptly straighten in my chair as her eyes flutter weakly against the harsh florescent lighting. I watch her face with interest as she stirs, her brows drawing together in a scowl, probably struggling to make sense of the fact that she’s still alive.

  Glazov insists on having a fully equipped medical facility on the grounds and it’s worth the exorbitant amount he spent to build and staff it. Gunshot wounds are routine around here, Kodiak can attest to that. But plastic surgery is less common and only employed on…special occasions. Like this one.

  She groans as she tries to touch her bandaged face and I push the button on the pump to release more morphine into her system. She’ll need to be calm for what I’m about to say.

  “Welcome back,” I say as her head turns toward the sound of my voice. “Much has happened and you will, no doubt, have questions – some I can answer and some not. For now, I can give you the basics.

  “The Pakhan saved your life. Now you owe him yours. I’d say that’s a fair trade, wouldn’t you? All you need to know for the moment is that Emily Finley is no more. Your new life as a Bratva soldier begins today.

  “You have undergone extensive plastic surgery to give you a new appearance and a new identity. You will endure intensive training, led by Oleg and me, as soon as you recover. I told you when we met that you were my bitch. Dreams do come true, eh?”

  Her eyes flare for an instant before the morphine kicks in and she drifts off once more. There will be time for questions later.

  The Pakhan has bestowed upon her a great gift, something many people wish for but never get—a second chance. As we have seen with Kodiak and Natasha, the Pakhan’s blessing is as strong as blood. When the time is right, he will give her a new name, but only after we ascertain her true nature. For now, she is under my tutelage. I will take great pleasure in turning her into a ruthless soldier for our cell. By the time I’m finished with her she will truly be one of us—born Bratva.

  Her story is now my story and, as I’ve always done, I’ll share it with those who have followed us from the beginning.

  Look for Roksana and Oleg’s story, coming soon.

 

 

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