Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Yuri watched his wife lapse into full unconsciousness. The chloroform would only last for thirty minutes. To get her out of here when the time was right, a second dose would be necessary.
He’d taken great pains to listen to that shifty doctor’s instructions.
With luck, he’d gotten the dosage right.
If not, he’d be leaving Vika’s body behind.
Then he’d go back and cut the doctor’s nuts off and cram them down the man’s throat.
He needed Vika alive. For now. The final decision depended on her.
“So beautiful.” He sifted a lock of silky, coppery hair between his rough fingers.
So beautiful, yet so different. Natural blond was better, something easily rectified.
Reversing the brainwashing someone had done to her would not be quite as simple.
Who had convinced his little Vika she could actually stand up to him?
Gates.
He growled deep in his throat, like a Russian bear.
He would find her again—the little frightened little mouse who bowed to his every command, fulfilling his every need and wish.
He slid his hand beneath her skirt, stroking her smooth thigh.
Then again, he liked this new fight in her.
Breaking her the first time had been easier than popping the lid off a tin of caviar.
The second time would be a challenge, perhaps, but one he was up for. And speaking of up…
His swollen dick throbbed behind the zipper of his pants. Too bad that kind of fun had to wait.
He sat back down on the edge of the coffee table, watching her breasts rise and fall evenly.
He stroked his fingers down the beard he’d been growing for the last two months.
Between the beard and a giant vase of flowers to hide his face, plus the florist shirt and van he’d stolen, getting into the building right under the noses of those stupid feds had been easy.
He’d been watching them for the last week and knew their routines by heart.
What time they fetched coffee every day.
When they’d drive off to take a leak at the café down the street.
One of them would always spell the other, leaving the rear door of the building unguarded. Idiots.
Still, getting Vika out required more thought. A distraction. For this to work, he’d needed help. There was always someone willing to do anything for a few hundred bucks. Even if something went wrong, he always had a backup plan.
He picked up the flower vase he’d brought and dumped the flowers on the floor.
There’d been no water in the vase. Just the flowers and one of his favorite new toys—a taser.
If the agent guarding the rear door of the building was still there when he took Vika out, he’d tase the guy. A gun was preferable but too noisy.
Yuri stuffed the taser beneath his belt and glanced at the old gold Rolex on his wrist. A cheap peasant’s watch. After he retrieved his money, he would buy a new one, platinum, with a bigger face and all the dials.
Nikki could go fuck himself. “That money is mine,” he growled. All of it. But if he stayed here, Nikki would demand half. Or have him killed. If he kept it all to himself, he couldn’t stay in America. Maybe he would take Vika to Bolivia or Ecuador, or wherever the Nazis used to hide.
As he sat there, stroking his beard, a new plan sprung to life, one that would get him everything he deserved. Maybe he could start his own organization in South America. Why stay here and report to assholes, when he could have all the assholes reporting to him?
“Well,” he said to himself, smacking his hands on his knees. Now that that was decided, it was time to pee.
He went into the bathroom and unzipped, not bothering to lift the seat.
After taking care of business, he looked in the mirror and smoothed the sides of his hair.
He grinned at his reflection, nodding and liking what he saw.
Not so much the beard, but Vika had always said he was a handsome man.
“And she will again.” All he needed was a little time to transform her back into the woman he—
Though he’d never seen a pregnancy test up close and personal, he knew one when he saw it. He picked up the wand and stared at the two pink lines in the little window. “What the fuck?”
He grabbed the pregnancy test box from the vanity and read the directions on the side of the box. “Fuck.” Spittle flew from his mouth, hitting the mirror.
The whore was pregnant.
The image of his Vika and Gates, their naked bodies writhing together, had him crushing the box in his fist. Those same visions had haunted him every night while he’d been stuck in prison. Now he had absolute proof it was true.
“Blyat.” Fuck. He hurled the plastic wand against the wall and pounded the vanity with his hands.
It had to be Gates’s brat. Fuck Alex Tarankov. Fuck Kyle Gates. This was not part of his plan. Of all the motherfuckers in the world, his wife was carrying an FBI agent’s brat.
Another wave of rage threatened to consume him. He curled his hands into tight fists, wanting to smash Gates’s face in. Sucking in deep breaths through his nose, he returned to the living room, staring at Vika’s unconscious form.
For over a decade, he’d known he was incapable of siring a son.
Publicly, he’d blamed Vika. Privately, he’d seethed at his own inadequacy.
In the Russian culture, paternity was considered a sacred duty.
Not being capable of siring a son made him a failure, less than a man in front of his own people.
He raised his hand high over his shoulder, preparing to smack Vika while she slept but stopped.
The decision to take her to South America with him was brilliant, yet came with many difficulties.
Her silence being one of them. Perhaps he could use this unexpected discovery to his advantage by holding it over her head.
If she didn’t want him to kill her, she must do whatever he said.
It was as simple as that. A mother would protect her child above all else, even herself.
Yuri laughed outright, pondering other intriguing perks to this new plan.
Raising the FBI agent’s kid as his own held significant merit. The idea both disgusted and tweaked him. Still, the image of Vika getting big and fat with Gates’s brat would be a constant reminder that his enemy had succeeded where he—Yuri Petrov—had failed.
No decisions had to be finalized today. He would use the baby to get what he wanted, then decide what to do with it.
And, what to do with Vika. Killing Gates was still a notion that tasted sweeter than medovik—Russian honey cake—on his tongue.
Either way, Gates would pay dearly for interring him in shitty accommodations for a decade.
Through the living room window, he noted the sun had long since set. Darkness was quickly creeping in. His timing had been perfect.
Yuri sat on the sofa and clasped his hands behind his head.
He wanted Gates to know he had his woman and his unborn child.
After the child was born, Vika’s attitude would determine whether she lived or died.
Either way, he would keep the baby. His own parents had disavowed his existence when they learned he’d joined the Brotherhood.
Son or daughter, he would never have abandoned his child.
Grinning like a kid on Christmas day and totally satisfied with his decision, he pulled out the last of his expensive Cuban Maduros from his pocket and lit up.
I’m going to be a father.