Chapter 17
DIMA
K arina keeps trying to talk business. She messages me, and then leaves a voicemail that we need to discuss something about my cybersecurity.
At first I think it’s a ploy to get me into her bed faster, but when I listen to the voicemail a third time, I was distracted by her sexy voice the first two times, I can tell by her brisk, businesslike tone that this is not a ruse.
She wants to discuss something to do with the bratva.
It will lead to another argument as she pushes for involvement, a real role within the power structure.
I will not give her what she wants, which is a partnership.
Bratva must be run by a single pakhan whose word is law.
A partner requires collaboration and compromise, sharing the authority to make decisions.
None of that appeals to me and I think it dangerous to the integrity of the organization itself. So much could go wrong.
The prospect of another drawn-out standoff with my temperamental wife drains me.
Will she pout and bolt her door, and will I end up splintering it?
Both are likely. I’m a grown man, not a nanny for tantrums. I will not yield.
She’s stubborn, demanding. If I could ignore the buzzing phone and move on, I would, but duty says I must respond.
I stall instead. Two days slip by before she texts again.
She’s blunt this time and ordering me to come home early.
I fire back a curt text: I’ll be home around eleven, same as always.
She doesn’t respond, proof she’s annoyed I won’t leap the moment she snaps.
Yet at ten, not eleven, I walk through the door and head straight for her room.
She sits up in bed, fully dressed, laptop open, eyes wary.
Her body tenses, reading my every move, am I angry she summoned me, irritated that she’s working, and already bored? I flatten my expression to stone.
Without a word, I snap her laptop shut and set it aside.
My fingers wrap around her ankle, dragging her closer.
I’m here for one thing, and it isn’t a board meeting.
She makes a token attempt to retreat, but the second my mouth meets hers she melts.
I loosen my hold and she climbs into my lap.
When I gather her close, she shifts, quick as a cat, and flips me onto my back, triumph flashing in her eyes.
I could toss her off and reclaim control, but curiosity keeps me still.
“Listen to me.” Her teeth grind together.
“I’ve pored over the scans, forward, backward, sideways, and they all say the same thing.
You’re in trouble. Errors are piling up.
I can’t tell yet if it’s incompetence or sabotage.
I’ve dropped a tracker on your server to flag transactions and message traffic. Give me time and I’ll have proof.”
“Is someone stealing money or what?” I’m impatient for the conversation to be over.
I stay flat on my back and let her finish.
“Yes, but that’s only part of it. A pattern’s forming. Someone is communicating outside the chain of command. Vors are crossing cell lines and coordinating. I can’t act until I have enough data to map the timing and the players. Crack the code, if you will.” She meets my eyes. “This is important.”
Only then does she yield, and I finish what I came for.
Afterward I sprawl on her bed, sated and unwilling to move.
Her fingers slide through my hair with unexpected tenderness.
I lean into the caress, eyelids heavy. I never sleep in her bed, due to her policy, but tonight I’m too weak to fight it.
I pull her closer and surrender to sleep.
From somewhere deep and muffled, her voice reaches me. “You’d better listen to me, pakhan ,” she murmurs, more indulgent than stern. “I’m trying to look out for you. God knows why I care, but it seems I don’t have a choice. I’m catching feelings for you.”
I lie motionless, her words looping through my head.
Why does the admission send a sharp burst of happiness through me?
Why do I want a woman whose only role was to give me an heir to feel anything for me beyond respect and obedience?
If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d pick it apart. Instead, sleep drags me under.
At dawn I slip out of her room and into mine before she stirs.
She doesn’t need to know I stayed all night; let her assume I had calls to make or deals to cut.
I’m still punch-drunk on the words I’m sure she whispered.
Over breakfast I try for nonchalance, which was never my best skill, pick at a few bites, then grab my things to leave.
Mrs.Lubov stops me at the door. “Forgive me,” she says, “I must speak with you.”
I nod for her to continue, hoping to make this quick.
“I attend to Mrs.Petrova’s personal effects, as you know.”
“Yes.”
“Two days ago I found this in her bathroom trash.”
Mrs.Lubov pulls a slender plastic stick from her pocket and places it in my hand. One glance tells me exactly what it is.
“She is pregnant, sir.” Mrs.Lubov clasps her hands, delighted by the unmistakable result.
“Why has she not told you? Is it a secret? I thought you had the right to know she is already carrying your child. Now you needn’t spend so much time at home.
Perhaps you will have a chance to sleep more.
” She is canny and discreet, this loyal housekeeper.
“Thank you,” I tell her, “I’ll keep this.”
On the ride to the office, I turn the news over and over.
A spy under my own roof discovered my wife is pregnant, yet Karina hasn’t said a word.
She must realize that once the pregnancy is confirmed I’ll give her peace and stop the nightly visits.
Perhaps she’s holding the secret as insurance, protection if she oversteps. The unborn heir would stay my hand.
And yet another possibility comes to mind and I’m fool enough to consider it.
Perhaps she has not told me of her pregnancy because she does not wish for me to stop visiting her at night.
Perhaps what she said to me when she thought I was asleep was real, a proof of deeper feelings for me. That she wants me to come to her bed.
She knows I’m eager for the news, eager for the security a son will bring the bratva. Knowledge of her pregnancy should flood me with uncomplicated joy, yet I can’t stop analyzing her choice to hide it. She tossed the test instead of saving it as proof.
She is trying to hide it not for a strategic reason but because she doesn’t want anyone to know yet.
The only reason I can think of is the one that fills my entire body with an incomprehensible excitement.
She wants me. She cares for me. Despite everything in our circumstances that would seem to work against any kind of attachment.
I do admit to myself that I like the idea.
It could be only the pleasure she wants from our nightly encounters, but I recall her describing the array of toys she owns that could satisfy that requirement.
It’s me personally, the man who married her to expand a business.
That seems so long ago now. I envision a life with her, one of stubborn quarrels and fiery reconciliations, of noisy children scampering through those sedate and formal rooms.
I’m happy. Foolishly so, for once in my duty-driven life.
I’m proud to have got an heir so quickly, secretly pleased with my own potency.
This was my plan all along, to marry and impregnate my Kozlov bride.
Yet the sudden pregnancy feels like a joy undeserved, something nearly magical that’s achieved too easily.
Beyond the thrill of knowing we have a baby on the way to fulfill all my plans, I’m unspeakably proud that Karina wants me so much she’d hide a hoped-for pregnancy so I continue to visit her nightly.
I’m not sure there’s anything on Earth that could do more for a man’s ego than knowing Karina Petrova wants him enough to lie and keep secrets.
Far from being angry at her trickery, I’m flattered.
I take it as the compliment it is. Rather than freeing herself from a burdensome duty by announcing our success to me at the first opportunity, she’s thrown the test away like so much garbage just to buy us more time together.
I call my assistant, instruct her to find and purchase a lavish jeweled bracelet, made with emeralds and diamonds.
Nothing minimalist and mass-produced, I specify.
It should be vintage, a bit big and gaudy for fine jewelry, in the fifties or sixties range ideally.
I want it in my hands by supper time. When I give her a budget for the piece, she coughs, shocked.
I like that it stuns my employee, this extravagance.
I have the money and then some. Anyone who heard will know I’m spoiling my new bride.
I have a game in mind, some way to trick her into telling me. I message Mrs.Lubov to locate a specific vintage in my wine cellar and order the cook to prepare a side of cabbage as part of a late dinner. I can’t wait.