Chapter 31 Tati
TATI
I’m starting to show.
I woke up this morning and decided that it’s time for the pink hair to go.
I checked with the doctor at my last appointment about dying my hair and he said it was safe, especially now that I’m entering my second trimester.
So, I got up early this morning before Viktor woke up and ran out to get hair dye.
When I got back and told him what I was doing, he didn’t exactly look pleased about it, but he didn’t object.
I think he’s used to me with this hair color, even though my natural color was starting to show through the roots.
I’m looking at myself in the full-length mirror in our bedroom, judging how my natural shade of chestnut looks as it frames my face. My curls are still in shiny, damp ringlets, and overall, I think I look good. Or at least I thought I did until I noticed my belly bump.
I run my hand over the baby pooch. My skin is smooth and soft, generally pleasant to the touch… at least that’s what Viktor thinks. He loves kissing and rubbing my belly, which I think is maddening. I don’t think he knows what it’ll be like when I’m really big.
I hope he still loves me. Now that he’s Pakhan, everything has changed so much.
We live in my father’s house and my old room is being turned into a nursery.
Our room was once my father’s. I had the whole thing redone completely.
The old heavy wood furniture that was, no doubt, hand-carved from some little old lady in Russia went out with the trash first. The heavy light blocking curtains were taken down, and thank God.
It would have taken me years to get the smell of his nasty cigarettes out of them.
The carpet was pulled up and replaced with newer, softer carpet.
All the furniture was traded out for newer models of my choosing…
except for the bed. Viktor insisted on a four-post bed, and I don’t disagree.
I’ve had plenty of nights of unadulterated pleasure being tied to those posts.
Our lives are good. Too good, if I’m being honest. I keep waiting for the other shoe to fall. Maybe it’s because we haven’t really talked about getting married or anything like that. I haven’t brought it up, but I would have thought that Viktor might’ve by now.
I want to marry him, but I don’t know if he thinks of me as the kind of woman who should be by his side. As I look at my hair, I wonder if when he sees a nice, normal color to my curls, he’ll start to see me as a proper Bratva wife.
I mean, whoever heard of a Bratva queen with pink hair anyway, right?
I sigh and turn away from my reflection. I’d better get down to breakfast. I can smell the coffee all the way up here. I throw my robe over my naked body and leave my bedroom.
The house is quiet today. There’s usually always someone from the brotherhood around lately.
Viktor seems to take meetings all the time with brigadiers about one thing or the other.
Sometimes, I come down in the morning and there are several sitting in the kitchen, drinking our coffee and eating our food as if they don’t have their own homes.
I don’t mean to think that way. I guess I’m feeling a little out of place at the moment.
I walk into the kitchen and see that no one’s there. No breakfast as been made, and there is half of a pot of coffee left in the coffee maker. I sigh, looking at my pristine kitchen. Then I walk over to the pot of coffee and turn the handle mournfully. Can’t even drink it.
I’d better find him and ask if he wants something to eat. Two nights ago, he was up late on a call with a Pakhan in Russia. I didn’t ask what it was regarding, but I did overhear something about figuring out my father’s territory.
I guess the work is never done. I leave the kitchen and go down the hall to his office. If he’s anywhere this morning, that’s where he’ll be.
I can hear him on the phone from the hallway, talking in Russian to someone. “They won’t be a problem,” he’s saying. “I’ll get Borya on it before the day is out.”
The door is open, so I casually stand in the doorway. He looks up from the desk and pauses, his eyes looking me over from top to bottom. He doesn’t smile or make any comment on it. Instead, he waves me into the room and says on the phone, “I told you, it’s handled. Have a little faith.”
I walk into the room. The office, formerly my father’s. This room still vaguely smells like his cigarettes, but only if you focus on it. It mostly smells like Viktor’s cologne now.
He says a couple more words in Russian to the person on the other line, then hangs up the phone. Then he pauses, leaning back in his chair. “So, you dyed it,” he says, a little smile on his face.
“I did,” I say, touching my curls self-consciously. “Do… you like it?”
“I think it suits you,” he says. “Any particular reason you felt the need to change it?”
I shrug as I walk over to his desk and sit on the edge. “I don’t know. I guess I thought that this would be more… appropriate.”
He arches an eyebrow and says, “Appropriate? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you’re a Pakhan now. How can anyone take you seriously if your girlfriend has cotton candy hair?”
He leans back in his chair, rocking gently. “You think that matters to me?”
“Doesn’t it? I mean, how they see you is important, right? If your men start to think less of you—”
“I can’t control what they think about me,” he says.
He gets up and walks around the desk to face me.
“Tati, contrary to popular belief, I’m not God.
I can’t control the minds of any man. If they see you and they take your reflection of me as a negative, then there is little I can do… unless they decide to act on it.”
“They won’t act on it if they think I’m worthy enough to be with you.”
His eyebrows raise with surprise. “Oh, I see,” he says. “That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it? You think that I think you’re holding me back.”
I shrink a little under his gaze. “There are better women for you than me. Older, more age appropriate women. Women without reputations, without some sordid history—”
“I don’t want to be with those women. I want to be with you.”
That stops me and I gaze up at him. My heart reaches out to him. “Do you, really?”
“You doubt that?”
I slide down off his desk and lean back on it, feeling a little more inadequate than I did when I walked in here. “My father died in disgrace. I’m sure there are plenty of your men who think that I carry his shame. That’s a blemish on your legacy. I shouldn’t be with you.”
He regards me for a moment. “Tanechka,” he says softly, “you are the reason we are here in this space. I wouldn’t have done any of this if I didn’t want us to have the best possible life we can have.”
“I know that,” I say. “I’m just wondering if—”
“Stop.” He says it firmly, but just as soft. It stops me cold. “You are my queen. If you don’t know that by now, well, I suppose I’ll have to prove it, won’t I?”
He turns and locks the door. I laugh nervously. “Viktor, what are you—”
He takes me by the hand and leads me over to his chair.
It’s an expensive leather chair with a high back like a throne and one of the first things I bought him while we were renovating.
It’s covered with soft brown leather, and the arms have a dozen silvery buttons around the front and down the sides. He positions me in front of it.
“Take off your robe and sit.”
“Viktor—”
“You know I don’t like repeating myself, Tati.”
His eyes darken, throwing warning my way. I do as I’m told. My robe falls to the floor, revealing my body in all it’s naked glory to him. Then I sit down on the leather chair.
“No one sits in this chair,” he says as he starts undoing his shirt, “but the Pakhan. This chair in this room speaks of authority.” He takes off his shirt and I’m distracted by his chest, muscular, scarred, and covered in tattoos. Just seeing him shirtless still gets me hot.
“The problem you are having right now, my love, is that you haven’t been anointed yet.
” He steps away, walking over to the drink caddy in the corner.
He pulls out a crystal decanter with clear vodka in it.
“I had to take an oath when I joined the Bratva, but you? You have never been properly welcomed into the fold.”
He’s standing before me with the bottle of vodka, holding it casually in his hands. “You may’ve been born into this, but you’ve never been properly initiated. Rituals like that are important, you see. It lets you know exactly where you belong.”
He takes the top off the decanter and hands it to me. “Drink.”
“Viktor, I’m pregnant.”
“It’s not alcoholic. It won’t hurt the baby. Drink.”
I do. I take a big swig from the decanter. The drink is sweet to the taste, like honey. He leans into me before I can swallow, kissing me and sharing the sweet, spicy liquid between us. It dribbles down my chin as he sucks on my lips and his tongue twists up with mine.
“That’s good, hmm?” he says softly. I nod. “It’s a special blend of honey tea. When I drink it, it reminds me of you.”
He kisses my lips again, then my chin and down to my neck.
I enjoy the attention, warm lips on my skin against the sloppy wetness of tea streaking down my skin.
He stands back up and takes the decanter, pouring the sweet tea over my chest. The cool liquid runs down my breasts and over my nipples, already taut from excitement.
He leans back in, his tongue lapping up a pool from the hollow of my throat, then moving down the center of my chest.
“This is nice,” I murmur, “but Viktor—”