Expose' (Born Bratva Book 3) Read online

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  ©Expose’

  ©Born Bratva Series

  Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Steele

  Published by Suzanne Steele

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of Fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced. It may not be used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the Author.

  Cover photo © Dollar Photo Club

  Cover Copyright © Suzanne Steele

  Edited by Eda Price Editing

  Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Formatting by Suzanne Steele

  Thank you for downloading this e-book.

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  All content herein is protected under copyright law.

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  To the Reader

  The men I write about are Alpha males in every sense of the word. They are the men society warns us about. They are dominant males with controlling tendencies. They are the men you know you should stay away from but yet

  you are drawn like a moth to a flame. If you are looking for a sweet romance, you won't find it here. What you will find is dark passion. Many times my heroes carry what would be

  considered an obsession for the women they love. Each and every character I write about has demanded their voice be heard. I have been true to that calling and I have stayed true to their personalities, which at times the reader may not always agree with. They are dark, they are gritty, and many times their love is dysfunctional but, nonetheless, it is real.

  Stalk Me…

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  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I want to thank God; without him none of this would be possible.

  I want to thank my family, who carry the weight of everything so I can write. I love you guys and I couldn’t do what I do without you.

  I want to thank Eda Spivey Price, my editor, who came at a time when I needed her most. Eda, you are a Godsend and I will forever be grateful to you for believing in me at a time when I wanted to give up. You were just what I needed to keep writing and pursuing my dream.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  He sips his tea from a beautiful blue and gold teacup. He says it once belonged to a Russian tsar. That’s a kind of king, I think. His gaze never strays from the book that lays open in his lap. I try to see what he is reading, but the beautiful markings that fill the pages are a mystery to me.

  We are soaring 30,000 feet above his homeland, the only two passengers on his private jet, our destination the United States. Even in this utter stillness, my father’s physical presence is imposing. In every conceivable way, he is larger than life in my eyes. I have no doubt he could crush the delicate cup effortlessly in one massive hand.

  His muscular frame and towering height are a formidable combination when paired with those icy blue eyes that penetrate to the core of your soul with a single look. Blonde shoulder-length hair is tied back in a ponytail and he wears a bespoke suit—always a suit, always impeccably tailored. This morning I overheard him express displeasure with the cut of this newest suit -- the first of several that have been commissioned from the new tailor -- but I can find no fault with it. He has been strangely stoic ever since, a grim stillness settling over him like a shroud.

  I study his profile during this quiet moment: the chiseled jaw line, high cheekbones, patrician nose, and full lips that never fail to draw hungry looks from any woman he encounters. His reaction to such attention is always the same – a glacial, indifferent stare. Even though I am young, only six, I see that he only has eyes for my mother…and that I look nothing like him. My hair and eyes are black as a raven’s wing, my nose more aquiline than straight. My father tells me that my profile is that of the man who gave me life. He tells me that I should take pride in my Italian heritage and revere the man who was my father for such a short time. So I do, even as the memory of the face that was so much like my own has begun to fade with the passage of a year’s time.

  Everything about my life and family is a contradiction in terms, my future as yet undefined. But as we soar through a cloudless cerulean sky, I have no fear. Glazov, the father of my heart, commands this space as surely as he does his family -- with absolute authority. A single raised eyebrow summons the flight attendant, who efficiently replaces the teacup and saucer with a damp, hot towel, her eyes cast down demurely. He presses the cloth to his eyes for a moment and wipes his hands. Before he can place the towel on the table, she has whisked it away. No words are spoken because none are needed. We are, once again, alone.

  “There are questions in your eyes, my son.” He stares straight ahead, his countenance etched in stone as he awaits my response.

  “Why did you take me to Russia alone, Papa? Why didn’t you bring Mommy or Roksana or Nikita?”

  A small smile appears on his lips but it tells me nothing. Though he can read the thoughts of others with little more than a glance, my father is nigh impossible to read.

  “Some things about your Russian lineage cannot be learned from books. What were you born for, my son?” he asks imperiously.

  “Bratva, Papa.” I shift in my seat, having more to say but struggling to summon the courage to let him know. As always, there is no need.

  “Say it, boy.”

  “But…I am not Russian. I am adopted,” I whisper and sadly shake my head. “There is no Bratva bloodline for me.”

  At that, he turns his cold blue eyes on me and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

  “I beg to differ.” He lifts my chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes narrowed as he considers me for a long moment. His gaze warms for an instant as he lays that large hand on my tiny chest, murmuring softly, “Here, in your heart, Kodiak, you are Bratva. Though you are not born Bratva by blood, you are special.”

  “How, Papa?”

  “My son, you and I…we were forged in fire. I am in you as s
urely as you are in me. There cannot be one without the other.”

  He lays his hand on the top of my head for a brief moment and it feels like a benediction. But the moment is over almost before it began. His arctic countenance returns and he focuses his attention on the book once more. We sit in silence but I am beaming as we soar through the sky to America. My heart is full, my future laid out before me.

  Chapter One

  Kodiak

  As I saunter into my father’s office, he eyes me coolly from across the desk with the authority of a man who is absolutely certain what he wants and where he’s going. My hair is damp from the shower I took as soon as I arrived home, to bathe a thief’s blood from me. I will shed blood for my father; never will I appear before him stained with it.

  My father’s expression is one of pride and I bask in his approval. Other families are proud of their kids graduating from college, mine…well, not that we don’t put a lot of stock in education, but mine is proud when we come out of a torture session successfully.

  My father had been informed that one of his dealers at our gambling house had been stealing from him, and he had abruptly cut short an otherwise quiet afternoon to deal with it. I sneaked into the warehouse where he and his men bring traitors to “discuss” such things. Of course my father knew I was there—he simply sensed my presence, as he has been known to do. His sixth sense about such things scares the shit out of the men and women who work for him, who do not question his nearly supernatural ability to detect what is in a person’s heart—their motives and intentions. His people view him as a god among men, and with good reason. He is the Pakhan—he reigns supreme over our family and, thus, our Bratva cell. To utter a word of rebellion against him is a transgression worthy of death; steal from him and the death will be slow.

  He comes from a long line of Bratva Pakhans and his people revere him as a god among mere mortals. Nothing is as it seems in our world and actions hold deep and detailed meaning. When he called me out from my hiding place in the warehouse tonight and asked me what should be done to the traitor in our midst, I wasted no time telling him that a thief should lose the hand that committed the offense – and that I wanted to be the one to cut it off. By asking my opinion in front of his men, Glazov sent a clear message to the entire Bratva cell: he is moving me up in the ranks. This is the first big job I’ve done for my father and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. I felt no hesitation as I wielded the knife, no regret as the bastard wept and begged for his life. Cross my family and you’ll feel my wrath—that’s just how it is.

  “We have business to discuss.” My father eyes me intently as he continues, “You are to take over the gambling house on 4th and Magnolia, my son.” He cuts me off when I start to say something and holds a finger up, stopping me. “Novak will be here overseeing things. It is the Bratva way.”

  I know the order of things and Novak will be the equivalent of a spy. The Bratva spy patrols everything to make certain no one becomes too powerful or, even worse, complacent. People in our line of work can come into the organization humble and over time develop foolish notions about splitting off or taking over. You know, the whole constant vying for dominance thing.

  I smile as the lessons my father has spent years drilling in to me come to the forefront of my mind, “Yeah, I know, he’s your eyes and ears. And from the looks of things, you’re positioning me to be your brigadier.”

  “It pleases your aging father to know you have been paying attention to what I have taught you.”

  “Aging, my ass -- you’re in your prime, Dad.” But I don’t elaborate. I know him well enough to know there is something on his mind and he is in no mood to play.

  “With your brother, Nikita, serving as sovietnik, all things will be as they should.” The sovietnik, also known as a councilor, is our own personal lawyer and the Pakhan’s most trusted advisor. My father is deliberately establishing his family in the highest positions. As tight as a Bratva cell is, family loyalty goes much deeper and my family takes it to a whole new level.

  “With all the money you spent on college, he better be a good lawyer or councilor or sovietnik.”

  “You let me worry about your brother.” Yeah, he’s not in the mood for playing.

  “So when do I start, Papa?” Hearing me use the Russian term of endearment from my childhood brings a faint smile to his face, as I knew it would.

  “Tonight, my son—tonight.”

  Chapter Two

  Logan

  I take one last look in the mirror. I’ve taken extra time with my hair and makeup tonight, and my little black dress is a little tighter and a little shorter than I would typically choose. Glossy mahogany hair flows down my back in barrel curls and my makeup is skillfully applied but heavier than usual. The sexy mask I’ve created for myself gives me that extra bit of confidence I’ll need to follow through on my plans for the evening. I tug at the barely-there hem of my dress, only to remind myself not to tug at the hem of my dress. If this is going to work, if I want to have a hope in hell of fitting in tonight, I’ve got to seriously wear this dress – not let the dress wear me! Ultimately, I’m satisfied with my new look and am prepared to do something that is nothing short of crazy.

  I pick up the flyer advertising the newspaper’s annual competition for up and coming junior journalists. The rules are pretty simple: submit an expose’ and the winning writer gets cash toward college tuition. I’m pretty much on my own paying for college but, really, that’s how I’ve lived my life anyway. My dad’s a gambler who stays gone when he isn’t pawning anything that isn’t nailed down, and my mother’s a drunk.

  According to her, that’s how she deals with being married to my dad. I spent my childhood taking care of not only myself but her. The one thing my irresponsible parents unwittingly did was teach me responsibility. As far as I can remember, I’ve cooked my own meals, washed my own clothes, and covered for a mother who repeatedly lost jobs because she was too hung-over to go into work. I started running because anything was better than being at home. I would run before school to clear my head and I would run after dinner just to have somewhere else to be. My efforts paid off with a partial track and field scholarship but, otherwise, it’s all on me.

  Everything I do is with my future in mind -- a future that will not include my parents if I can help it. Between the two of them, they manage to screw up anything they come in contact with. The last time I saw my dad he flew me out to Vegas. I didn’t find out until I got there that he had bought my ticket with gambling money he’d cheated some high rolling gang banger out of. While I was there, my dad taught me to count cards at Black Jack. Some dads are proud when their kids gets Honor Roll, but my dad? He brags to his friends that his kid’s a card shark. I know one day they’ll find him dead in an alley somewhere for cheating the wrong person out of their money. It isn’t a matter of if—but when. I don’t want to be there when it happens, nor do I want to be a pawn in any of his scams -- but I can count cards like nobody’s business.

  I’m pursuing a Journalism degree so winning this competition would go a long way toward paying my tuition. It would also provide me with connections that could further my career.

  Journalism is about so much more than writing. To get the story before anyone else, you have to be willing to leave your comfort zone far behind. Competition will be fierce in this contest so I’ve chosen a topic that no one else would want to touch. The university rumor mill is full of stories about Alexander Glazov, the Russian mafia boss. Through some serious snooping and the hacking expertise of my friend Gilbert Dorkoff (yes, he’s as much of a geek as his name implies), I now know where the Russian mobster’s underground gambling house is. I’m going there tonight to get a job.

  I don’t plan on using Glazov’s name in the article I’m writing; that would be suicide. I just want to cover my tuition, not get myself killed. And I’m not foolish enough to write about specific criminal activity. The article I’m writing will focus on life inside the Bratva
organization, the interpersonal dynamics and maybe some family drama. How better to do that than to work among the people I’ll be writing about?

  I know I’m getting in way over my head, but isn’t that what journalism is all about anyway…doing anything to get the story? If nothing else, Black Jack has taught me that future results can be predicted based on past events. You reap what you sow, I guess. So tonight I’m going all in.

  Chapter Three

  Kodiak

  The opportunity my father is giving me to run his gambling house is the culmination of years of work I’ve done behind the scenes, learning all there is to know about Bratva. I am determined that he will be pleased with his decision to begin my Bratva journey in earnest, eventually establishing me in his inner circle, first as a captain—or brigadier, however you want to word it. By giving me the gambling house to run, Glazov is giving me my first test. I have no intention of letting him down.

  I stride up the steps of the nondescript building, punching in the code to let myself in. As the door swings open, no sooner do I step over the threshold than I nearly bump into Becky Box. No shit, that’s her fucking name. Sounds like a porn star. Rumor has it she sucks cock like one, too, but I wouldn’t know because I don’t shit where I eat. She rubs her hand on my chest, lightly clawing me with her overly long nails. I grab her wrist, giving it enough of a twist to make her wince.

  “Do not fucking touch me.”

  “Yeah, I know, Kodiak…don’t touch you unless you tell me to. Why are you so fucking uptight?”

  “Trust me, you’ll never have to worry about me telling you to touch me, Becky. I don’t fuck the help,” I snarl as I push her out of my way and stride into the great room where a night of high-stakes gambling is in full swing.

  Men in suits and women dressed to impress are gathered around the various tables. The hum of conversation is steady, the booze flows freely. These people are the elite of this city, a city that boasts the annual Kentucky Derby -- although that bit of Americana doesn’t even scratch the surface of the underground gambling industry that forms the real underpinning of this Southern city. Glazov owns it all and the people here know it. Hell, half the women in here would leave their husbands for the chance to fuck a member of Bratva.