Chapter Eight - Ryurik
I’m itching to get out of here despite how upgraded my cell is. I’ve got a business to run, and time, shipments, and contraband are on the line. For me and with my inside connections through the wardens, I’ve been given five-star meals, and able to make important calls to the outside to keep business in order.
Of course, I need to talk in code in case the phone’s tapped, but even if it is, I can make the evidence disappear. I’ve got so many men hooked into their own thriving prison business, it’s almost as if I’m taking a little holiday. Granted the cell is smaller than I want it to be, but it’s something I can live with for a couple of days.
“Hang in here for a couple of days. Your bail’s already covered, but you’re going to pay, I gotta warn you. You’re a prime suspect as a cop killer, so that’s something you must know.” I sit across from my lawyer running through the particulars.
Sneering, I shook my head. “I have you on retainer and I trust you’re going to make these charges go away. Fast. I’ve got work to do, and this is the job I pay you for.” I lean forward, making my point clear to Mason, and he nodded.
“No need to worry. There’s no evidence, and on those grounds alone, there’s no case. Simple as that.”
“Okay, if there’s no case, then what the fuck am I still sitting in this cell for?” I snapped, but Mason shrugged.
“Protocol, and you haven’t been questioned yet. The Bureau of Detectives will bring someone in to talk to you tomorrow. They’re going to shake you hard. There’s a new deputy in charge, and he’s trying to make a good impression and clean up the department. You’re going to be a shining example. Plus, a fucking cop was killed, and someone has to pay for that. One of their own,” Mason whispered as I kept a straight face.
“It won’t be me to pay for the sins of another. I had nothing to do with his death,” I declare, a smirk dancing on my face.
“Correct. And we’re going to make sure that whoever the real killer is, that they’re brought to justice, yes, yes?” Mason smirked right back, playing the game.
“Exactly. Poor William. So much honor. Maybe he wasn’t on his game that night. Pity.”
“Just be prepared. Nothing you haven’t dealt with before. Now let’s go over the details from the top.” At that point we rehearse until any possible question the detective could ask me wouldn’t be a surprise. Moreso a nuisance of formality for me.
“Ryurik,” the warden calls out, breaking into the chamber of my thoughts. Standing up, I stretch out feeling relaxed. My hands grip around the iron bars as I smile at the man who’s been the main distributor of drugs on the inside for another Bratva family.
“Ready.”
“ Good. He’s out of solitary,” he whispers in a low voice, responding to the favor I asked him for on the first day of arrival. A fresh Bratva member, young and dumb, found himself in a yard brawl, and I asked for him to be given extra grace and moved to a different cell block. I remembered being him, except I never found myself in jail long enough to be in solitary.
“Perfect. Well done. Expect a little extra cushion in this month’s pay packet,” I reply through the edges of my teeth as he clamps the cuffs on my hands in front of me for show, guiding me past the neighboring cells to the interrogation room. I smile the whole way, knowing many of these men will never see the light of day and might stay locked up for life.
Nodding as the warden drops me off, we speak in a silent language that both of us can comprehend. The door opens, and I’m met with a situation I’ve never faced. Initially her face staring back at me is a sweet gift. Emily. The woman whose curvy body I test drove like a Ferrari last month is going to be the one questioning me. Oh, what a motherfucking treat.
She’s a completely different person today, dressed in uniform, her shirt straining to contain itself against her heaving cleavage, no matter how many buttons it has. Her long brunette hair is slicked back in a neat bun, her face flushed pink, the full mouth I reluctantly kissed on display.
My mouth waters thinking about the rule I broke, but seeing her in the plain light of day in uniform, I can understand why I broke it. She’s irresistible and I can’t stop the slow, deliberate rise of my cock in my prison uniform from presenting itself. It wants another ride.
“We meet again,” I say smoothly, locking eyes with the buxom vixen, but all I get back is a wall of ambivalent defense, which only intrigues me further. I like a challenge when it comes to a woman, but if truth be told, I haven’t let one be around me long enough to win at one. I’ve been the one in control in every situation.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Utkin, but that’s not the case. I’m Detective Emily Wilson from the Bureau of Investigations and I’ll be questioning you about the death of William Frances Dee. I hope you understand the severity of this charge. You’re being accused of killing one of the most decorated detectives in the department.”
Nodding, I fold the smirk in, not giving a shit about Willy Dee. The snitching bitch is dead. “Oh, you will?” I grin, wanting her to squirm enough to keep me amused. This is even better than I thought it would be. Fun, fun, fun.
“Yes. I will. I want to start by letting you know that this conversation will be recorded and everything you say in this interview can and will be used against you in a court of law. Understood?” she issues with a frank sincerity, her authority a bigger turn-on than turn-off.
“Yes, ma’am.” I watch as she shifts in her seat, the faint bloom of her perfume wafting through my nose and bringing back memories of having her spread out in the Hampton Suites. It’s too bad she’s not willing to play the Bratva game, things will go much smoother for her.
“I prefer Detective Wilson. Thanks.” Her eyes don’t stray, they burrow right into mine, setting the stage for a power play.
Nestling into my seat, I pour myself a glass of water as the red light on the recorder flashes, and her eyes drag themselves back to me. This isn’t who I thought it was. She’s not innocent or fragile like the delicate flower she portrays herself to be. Damn.
A flash from the shower returns me to the pleasant deep diving between her thick thighs. If only I could spend some time between them again, we wouldn’t be having this stupid conversation. “Detective Wilson. No problem. It’s Detective Wilson for the rest of the interview.” I smile, wanting to say other things, but I’m just warming up, a blaze of heat radiating between us. She’s got an incredible poker face, but I’m predicting how long it’s going to take to break her down.
“Good. Where were you on the night of Saturday the 24th of April?”
“Ah, hmm, running my very successful club, the Blindside Metro in Chicago.”
“What time did you start that day?”
“Mmm, I’m an early riser.” I wink at her, making sure she doesn’t miss the innuendo I’m throwing out.
“Early riser. What time?” she pushes.
“Around eight.”
“Pretty early for a club that doesn’t open until eight at night, wouldn’t you say?”
“No. Right on time. There’s a lot to do in the club, and I had new staff on for that night and had to make sure my bar team was okay with training them for the night. We have strict protocols in place, Ms. Detective Wilson. Then I had paperwork to complete, and I had the cleaners come in early.”
“I see. And what time did you leave.” Pausing for a second, I drum my fingertips together licking out my tongue a little.
“I believe I left about midnight. Give or take a few minutes; I can’t remember. I was otherwise engaged,” I reply in a buttery tone, winking at Emily. She holds her composure, but there’s a flash of irritation in her eyes that gives me enough spark to keep pressing her hot buttons.
“Right. Long day.”
“Right. Long day, but even longer night, but I’m not complaining, it ended very, very well.” Hunched over the desk, I put my leg out straight, rubbing my leg against hers and she instantly moves it, a glowering look on her face.
“Don’t touch me, Mr. Utkin, otherwise I will have another detective in here so fast you won’t have time to think straight,” she replies sharply, her eyes filled with a rage that puzzles me.
The cuffs rattle as I hold my hands up. “Okay. No harm, no foul.”
“Tell me about where you were when William was being murdered.” She shoots straight, clasping her fingers together, her nails cut short, but they’re neat and methodical, like her.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, playing my dumb card.
“I want to know where you were. No need to play at stupid,” Emily prods aggressively, my bored mood from being locked in the cell challenged into activation. She’s getting hotter and hotter by the minute.
“Ah, that’s an easy answer. I was busy admiring a stunning woman on the dance floor wishing I had her moves.”
“So interesting, because according to the surveillance cameras and eyewitnesses you left the dance floor for approximately thirty minutes, and that would have given you ample time to but a bullet in William’s head, wouldn’t it?”
Scoffing, I shake my head. “Hey, I’m innocent until proven guilty. I went to the toilet. Do you have any proof of me leaving the dance floor?” I ask her, knowing she only has that information because I was watching her before I left to kill William. “If you don’t, how can you explain that?” I counter, stamping my finger into the table, checkmating her into a corner. If she has the balls to tell the Bureau of Investigation, she slept with a Bratva underboss, then she’s going to have to wear the cost, and that’s probably not one she wants to wear.
Holding her feet to the fire, I wait patiently for her answer, my heart beating fast. She’s got me revved up and I fucking like it. More than I want to. Come on, darling. Play it on the recording. I watch the red light flashing as she clears her throat, smiling back.
“It’s on the surveillance footage. You were seen leaving the dance floor at 9:35 p.m. and returning later.”
Fuck. What did I pay Sergei for? He’s supposed to make sure that all traces of any crimes, including tapes, are erased. Sloppy work and costly. She’s good.
“Well, like I said, I went to the toilet and was probably doing the rounds of the floors. My club has three levels. I’m pretty sure I was standing near the railing near the stairs on my RnB level. The DJ playing was excellent.” I wink again, but this time the fresh crimson bloom on her cheeks gives her away.
Oh yes. Get angry. I love it. “Okay. So, at the time of the murder, you were on the dance floor. Apparently, but we have William’s death listed between the hours of 9:30 p.m. and 12:00 p.m. You had enough time to kill him. If you confess, and give up your network sources, I’m sure a deal can be struck.”
I laugh loudly in her face, throwing her off as she blinks rapidly. “It’s lucky I’m here without my lawyer. That’s not a deal I’m taking, Ms. Wilson. I’m an innocent hardworking nightclub owner who has the misfortune of being accused of murder.”
“ Bullshit! You killed William. Where’s the fucking body?” she attacks like a pit bull, her eyes alight with spicy anger. I fucking like it. Where did this come from?
Shrugging, I head her off. “I’ve got no idea what you’re referring to, and you might want to take a deeper look into the man you’re defending,” I reply sarcastically.
Willy was a two-faced liar.
“Funny you mentioned you left the club. What time again,” she spits, trying to bamboozle me. She wants me to make up another time, but I don’t fall for her trap.
“After midnight, give or take a few minutes. And guess what?” I lean in, forcing Detective Wilson to lean back to expand the distance.
“What?” she jabs, her eyes narrowing contemptuously.
“I left with a beautiful woman for the night. Made her moan all night long,” I drone out with a chuckle.
Her left eyebrow shoots up. “Ah, so you took her to a hotel? Which one?”
“Hampton Inn Suites. Only the best.” You know the one. The one where I made you moan and come all over the sheets.
“Right. And what time did you leave, Mr. Utkin?” There’s a cool snap to her tone as her caramel eyes hold court. Oh. You’re mad about me leaving. I get it now.
“Hmm about 3:00 a.m. maybe. I wanted to stay.”
“But you didn’t. Keep in contact with the woman, Mr. Utkin?” The pitch of her voice changes as I study the red flashing light. She looks at it, and I look at her, my cock tightening in my pants.
“No. I didn’t. But maybe I should have,” I say slowly, fucking her with my eyes. She’s far from innocent.
“Oh, why’s that? Did you leave anything behind, Mr. Utkin? Anything tangible to prove you were there?” My jaw flickers as I read what she’s getting at. The money. I left the money.
“Nope, but if I did, I’m sure it would be found. I checked in under my own name. I’m fucking sure you can verify that, Ms. Wilson,” I sneer, cracking my neck, wanting to jump over the table and lay her on her back, just like in the Hampton Suites.
“Detective Wilson,” she corrects. “That window of time you left the dance floor, I noticed one of your other security officers left the floor too. Did you both need to hold hands going to the men’s room?” she fires with loaded sarcasm, a glint of steel in her irises.
Fuck. She’s going to have to be dealt with it in the worst fucking way. “I want my fucking lawyer. I’m not saying another word to you.”
Should have known not to trust her. After all, I use women as bait.
A victorious smile guides it way over her wholesome, but cunning face.
“You can bring your lawyer in. That’s what they’re for. We can probably look at a plea deal for you. Because, you , Mr. Ryurik Utkin, are going down,” she advises in a long whisper, my blood boiling. “Can’t pay your way out of this one.”
Game on, Detective. Game on.