The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (22 page)

Cop Killer

I shove the few clothes I still own aside. The clang of the hangers against the metal rod echoes through the nearly empty space. My hiding space is there waiting for me as I lower myself to my knees and pull back the carpet to reveal the wood beneath. When I moved in, it took me a while to find the perfect place to stow the things I didn’t want prying eyes to see or thieves to steal. The planks were easy enough to pull back with the claw of a hammer. I picked a spot that was big enough to hide a metal fire box that holds my money and jewelry. Since then, I’ve added a gun to my small stash of possessions.

Looking back, I wish I had hidden those damned journals here too, but I had to part with them long before I went into hiding. I scowl, recalling my frustration at not finding them where I thought they would be. Some friend
she
was.

Coming up with the money to officially retain Nikita Glazov’s services and, thus, establish iron-clad attorney-client privilege, isn’t the problem. The problem is how to get it to him.

I count out three thousand dollars and slip it into an envelope that’s small enough to tuck in the front of my pants. I lock the box and lower it into the floor, meticulously replacing the wood planks and positioning the carpet.

Walking the streets at night with this much cash on me isn’t what I want to do, but it’s not like I can just stroll into his office during business hours. As much as I don’t like the idea of going out unarmed, I can’t risk the murder weapon being found in my possession.

A knock on my door jolts me from my thoughts and I stop in my tracks. Nobody should be knocking on my door and the fact that the knock is loud makes it obvious that it isn’t my neighbor, Mrs. Harris.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I push past the fear and tread lightly over to the door. Through the peep hole, I see two men dressed in suits. Other than their nearly identical business attire, though, they couldn’t be more different. One of them could be a bouncer at a club and the other looks like a tatted and pierced cross between a biker and a savvy businessman.

Their presence at my door and all that it implies is horrifying enough in and of itself. But what sends terror roaring through my body is what I can hear when I press my ear to the door.

They’re speaking to each other in Russian.

Nikita

My heart pounds away in my ears when I knock on my father’s bedroom door. He’s the only person who can send my pulse skyrocketing with this kind of jaw-clenching anxiety. At the sound of his curt voice, Natasha rests her hand on my forearm. She gives me a slight nod of encouragement before we cross the threshold into the Pakhan’s domain.

“Father…We need a moment, if you aren’t too busy.” Part of me is hoping they’re doing just that—getting busy. I would love nothing more than to postpone this conversation with the man who, for the moment, is very much the Pakhan and not my father.

He looks up from where he lounges on the bed, his back against the headboard, reading glasses perched on his nose. Looks like he’s been working on his laptop. My mother is curled up against him as she watches TV, a hand wrapped loosely around his bicep, her head resting on his shoulder. Keeping his eyes on me, he turns his head to murmur a few soft words into her hair before pressing a kiss there. She turns the TV off and sits up against the small mountain of pillows behind her.

Silence, thick and heavy, reigns. My father stares at me wordlessly. Suddenly I feel like a child again, confessing my guilt for a breaking a window (foul ball) or putting a frog in Natasha’s underwear drawer (pinky swear reminder). I’ve experienced enough moments like this enough to know that he will wait for me to speak first.

“Dad…We think we know who the cop killer is. She’s the estranged wife of the precinct sergeant that was killed the other night. Emily Finley. She disappeared six months ago after years of abuse and it looks like she’s back now.”

He removes his glasses and lays them aside on the bed, raising a sardonic brow as he inquires, “And just how long have you known this?”

“Well, we only confirmed it a few minutes ago. The information is credible so I wanted you to be aware.”

“Ahh, I see…The two of you have decided it’s better to tell me, rather than ‘going rogue’ to save dear Mrs. Finley, the cop-killing damsel in distress. A wise decision on your part, considering Novak and Lukyan are, at this very moment, at her door to retrieve her.”

I’m slack-jawed as I absorb his words. He knows. Hell, he probably knows more than I do.
How the fuck does he
do
that?!

He sent Novak and Lukyan to find her, so he’s had this information for a while but kept it to himself – probably waiting to see what Natasha and I would do. My father is known for testing people – testing their honesty, their honor, their commitment to the cause -- and my position as his son doesn’t make me exempt. A wave of relief rolls through me and weakens my knees because, simply by coming to him tonight, we’ve passed his test.

“How long have you known?” I have to ask.

“Long enough to wait and see if the two of you would be honest with me.”

“I would never betray you, Papa.”

He immediately picks up on my defensive tone, his eyes narrowing as he considers me from across the room. To my surprise, he pats the bed, gesturing for me to sit beside him. Natasha lowers herself into a delicate, antique wingchair tucked in the corner of the room.

“This isn’t solely about whether you would betray me. I know you would never do so intentionally.”

“Intentionally?” I ask, bewildered by his words.

“Most acts of betrayal in a family as closely knit as ours aren’t done deliberately. They’re complicated scenarios where a person’s heart and head are in conflict. Much as you are now, no?”

It’s a rhetorical question I don’t attempt to answer. My father isn’t asking me a question—he’s reading me like an open book, as only he and Natasha can. Between the two of them, sometimes it seems like I rarely have a private thought in my head.

“This woman isn’t guilty, Father. Yes, she’s committed murder, but she’s not on some mindless crime spree. I’m convinced she has reasons for what she’s done. Good reasons. Law enforcement may not agree, but I’m weighing her deeds against our Bratva code.”

“Stop calling me Father. The only time you and your siblings call me that is when you know your ass is on the line.”

I ignore his harsh but insightful analysis and fill him in on the remaining details of where we are in the investigation.

“She called my office and left a message--”

My father interrupts me as he roars with laughter. “A fucking phone message?” he asks incredulously.

From across the room, I hear Natasha’s quiet yet smug question, “See?”

“Anyway,” I forge ahead, “I think she wants me to be her lawyer, if it comes to that. She’s asked to be called Jasmine for now.”

My father’s lip curls into a feral snarl and the air practically drips with his contempt, his words spoken through gritted teeth. “I don’t give a fuck what she wants to be called. You work for this family. I mandate your cases, carefully. Please tell me you aren’t entertaining the idea of going against my wishes.”

“Fa…Dad,” I correct myself. “If I had intentions of going against my Pakhan, I wouldn’t be sitting here telling you the things I’m telling you. To be frank with you, I’m offended you would think I was capable of doing so.”

The ringing of his cell phone interrupts my outburst. He stares at me as he lifts the phone from the nightstand, muttering, “Jesus Christ, here’s hoping she’s not calling
me
.”

He glances at the screen and takes the call. “Yes…” he says, his tone grim and autocratic. Natasha and I exchange a puzzled look as his eyes suddenly twinkle. His hard features are in relief for only a few precious seconds before the granite jaw is back in place.

“Well, we both know half the fun is in the hunt, Novak. It looks to me like you and Lukyan are going to have to earn your fucking keep tonight. I tell you what,” he says, cutting his eyes to me and Natasha, “since you and Lukyan let this woman slip through your fingers, I’m going to pass the job to Nikita and Natasha.”

I wince at the muffled sound of Novak’s raised voice as my father practically snarls into the phone, “Stop. Talking. Get your ass home to your wife. Perhaps you can fuck away the shame of disappointing your Pakhan, before you show up here in the morning.”

With that, my father ends the call. Natasha chuckles and clears her throat from her perch on the edge of the chair. Nobody loves a good Bratva brawl like my woman.

“You think that’s funny, do you,
nevestka
?” he asks Natasha indulgently, the endearment earning him a warm glance from my mother.

“Yes, I think it’s hilarious,” Natasha replies, boldly but with respect.

“Tell me, then, what is so funny about it?”

“They underestimated her because she’s a woman. That alone makes me root for her.”

“Very well…I have no doubt you will not be so naïve as to underestimate her. Find her and bring her in. Under no circumstances are either of you to reveal to law enforcement what you’re doing.”

“May I be so bold as to ask if you intend to kill her, sir?” she asks.

“I would expect no less from you.”

I speak, intervening before things go south and a hit is ordered. “Dad, assuming this even makes it to trial, if you’ll allow me to represent her--”

“What did she say on her message?”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and access my voicemail messages, putting the audio on speaker. We listen intently to the robotic, digitally altered voice. Once again, my father’s countenance softens in amusement for a brief moment before his icy countenance slams back into place. It happens so quickly that had I not been paying attention I would have missed it. Natasha catches it too.

“She’s clever,” she points out reluctantly. “Contacting Nikita so directly was a ballsy move. She’s even earned my…begrudging…respect.”

She glares at me when I arch a smug eyebrow at her. Natasha speaks carefully, and I know she’s working with me, trying to avoid a hit being placed on the woman’s life. If the Pakhan orders a hit, we won’t stand a chance of saving her.

“Very well. See what her next move is. Maybe you’ll have more success reining this ‘Jasmine’ in than those other two fucks did. This woman intrigues me. If she insists on hiring you, son, we’ll consider it informal for now. In the meantime, tread carefully and keep me informed. I’ll give you further instructions at the appropriate time.”

“Novak is going to want her dead, Dad.”

“Novak wants a lot of things. But he won’t deviate from the orders I give him, regardless of how angry he is. I imagine that, in the end, he’ll respect her abilities as you do.”

“And you…do you respect her abilities?” I ask.

“Respect? That has nothing to do with anything.” He rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, the same way he does whenever he’s in deep thought or deliberating an important decision. My mother’s eyes seem drawn to the rhythmic motion as he elaborates. “The issue here is whether I choose to let her live or not. You do your job and I will do mine. Now go,” he says tersely, dismissing us as he turns his frosty, imperious gaze on my mother, who continues to stare fixedly at his mouth.

As glad as I am to have parents who are still into each other, I don’t need to know the details, and I sure as hell know when it’s time to leave.

I cross the room and gather Natasha to my side as we move briskly toward the door. As we step into the hall, I turn to close the door but hesitate with my hand on the doorknob. I can’t resist asking, “Dad. Are you going to kill her?”

“Son, you of all people know that I don’t do the killing—I order it to be done,” he responds absently, his attention consumed by the sight of the slender, elegant length of his wife’s neck caught fast within the taut grasp of his massive hand. “Now leave us. And close the door.”