A Maid for the Bratva Boss (Bred by the Bratva Boss #6)

Chapter 1

Olek

The house was silent in a way only money could buy—thick rugs swallowing footsteps, doors that closed with a whisper, walls so solid you could scream and no one would hear. I preferred it that way.

I stood at the window of my study, watching snow fall over the Pittsburgh skyline. November had teeth this year, the kind that bit down and didn't let go. Good, I liked when the world matched my mood. Vicious.

Behind me, the mansion hummed with invisible efficiency.

Floors gleamed. Silver sparkled. Every surface reflected the cold perfection I demanded.

I employed twenty-three people to maintain this level of order.

I knew each of them by name, background, and the exact amount of fear they carried when they looked at me.

Not to mention everything about their personal lives.

All except one. Katrina.

My jaw tightened as I caught movement in the reflection of a nearby mirror, a flash of dark skin and darker hair disappearing around the corner of the hallway below. My head maid. My problem. My goddamn obsession for the past six months.

She'd walked into my mansion in May with a fake smile, a perfectly pressed uniform, and eyes that said fuck you in twelve languages.

Within a week, she'd reorganized my entire household staff. Within a month, they all answered to her before they answered to me. I should have fired her. I should have bent her over my desk and fucked the attitude out of her. I'd done neither, and now I spend my nights hard and furious, watching security footage of her moving through my house like she owned it. My home had never run so smoothly until she’d gotten here. My ways were fine, but she’d made the staff more efficient.

I turned from the window and reached for the vodka on my desk—the good stuff, clear as ice and twice as sharp. I poured two fingers and drank it in one swallow, relishing the burn. A knock interrupted my brooding.

"Come."

Mikhail entered, my second-in-command, built like a tank and loyal as a dog. "The Bennett shipment cleared customs. Viktor wants to know if—"

"Handle it." I waved him off. "I don't care about the details."

His eyebrow rose a fraction. "You always care about details."

"Not tonight."

He studied me with the kind of knowing look that made me want to put a fist through something. "She got under your skin."

"Get out."

"Olek—"

"Out."

He left, but not before I caught the smirk on his face.

Bastard. He’d warned me that she would sink her claws into me so deeply that I wouldn’t know my way out.

He was wrong. She hadn’t tried a single thing with me.

Hell, I couldn’t get her in the same room as me for longer than a few minutes.

It was like she didn’t trust herself around me. It made me fucking crazy.

I poured another vodka and carried it with me as I left the study. I told myself I wasn't looking for her. I was doing a walkthrough. Checking security. Making sure my home was running the way it should.

The lie tasted worse than the vodka.

I found her scent first—something warm and sweet, like vanilla and defiance. It led me down the main staircase, past the formal dining room, toward the back of the house where the staff areas sprawled like a hidden city. The pantry door was cracked open.

I stopped.

"—I don't care what it takes." Her voice, low and urgent. "I need fifteen thousand by Christmas Eve. No, I can't wait until January. He gets out in ninety days, Shanice. Ninety days."

Silence. She was on the phone.

"I know what I said. But I need new identities for both of us, and that costs money I don't have." A bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, pride doesn't keep you safe, does it?"

My pulse kicked.

"I'll figure something out. I always do." Pause. "I have to go. Love you too. Kiss Zara for me."

The rustle of fabric. The soft click of a phone being silenced.

I pushed the door open.

Katrina stood in the narrow space between the wire shelving, her back to me, one hand pressed to her face.

She wore the uniform I'd chosen myself—black dress with white trim, cut to be professional but fitted enough that I could see every curve.

The hem stopped just above her knees, revealing legs that made my teeth ache.

She turned.

For one heartbeat, her mask slipped. I saw fear. Desperation. Something raw and unguarded.

Then it was gone, replaced by that cool, untouchable expression she wore like armor.

"Mr. Sidorov." She straightened, chin up, shoulders back. "Can I help you with something?"

"Who's getting out in ninety days?"

Her jaw tightened. "That's personal."

"Nothing in my house is personal." I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The pantry wasn't meant for two people—especially not when one of them was six-foot-three and built for violence. "Who is he?"

"That's—"

"I heard you." I moved closer, watching her pupils dilate. "You need fifteen thousand dollars by Christmas Eve. You need new identities. You're hiding from someone."

Katrina didn't back down. She never did. Instead, she tilted her head and looked me dead in the eye. "And that matters to you why, exactly?"

"Because you work for me."

"I clean your house. That doesn't mean I owe you my life story."

"You said you'd do anything for the money." I took another step. Now we were close enough that I could smell her shampoo—coconut and something I couldn’t put my finger on. "Did you mean it?"

Her breath hitched. Just a fraction. Just enough for me to notice.

"That," she said carefully, "was a private conversation."

"Not private enough." I set my glass on the shelf beside her head, caging her in. Not touching. Not yet. "You want to know what I heard? I heard a woman who's desperate. I heard a woman who's running scared. I heard a woman who just said she'd do anything."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're thinking. Don't."

"You don't know what I'm thinking."

"I know men like you." She pushed at my chest—actually pushed me, her palm flat against my sternum. Heat shot through me like a bullet. "I know that look. I know what you want."

I caught her wrist. Her pulse hammered against my fingers.

"Then you know," I said softly, "that I could make your problem disappear."

She went very still.

"Fifteen thousand is nothing to me." I kept my grip gentle but firm, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. "I could have new identities arranged by tomorrow. Papers. Passports. A life where no one can find you."

"In exchange for what?"

There it was. That sharp, suspicious intelligence that made me want to devour her.

"You," I said simply.