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Home / Mafia / A Taste of the Bratva King / Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

All Chapters of A Taste of the Bratva King: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

158 Chapters

11

TamaraIt's 8:15 a.m.The fluorescent lights in the precinct buzz with their familiar electrical hum as I push through the glass doors. The scent hits me immediately— burned coffee, industrial disinfectant, and that particular staleness that comes from too many people working too many hours in too small a space. Normally, this cocktail of chaos and routine feels like coming home. Today, it feels like stepping into someone else's life.My desk sits in the corner of the bullpen, a fortress of organized efficiency surrounded by the controlled mayhem that defines the Boston Police Department's administrative wing. Two monitors glow with case files and scheduling software, while my coffee mug— the one Dad brought me back from a conference in Chicago— sits exactly where I left it yesterday. Everything is the same. Everything should feel normal.But I'm not the same woman who sat here yesterday morning.The memory of candlelight and velvet chairs drifts through my mind unbidden. TMG— The Mas

12

TamaraAround two o'clock, I'm updating the witness contact database when the pain hits.It starts low, a familiar cramping in my pelvis that I've learned to breathe through. But this time, instead of the dull ache I've grown accustomed to, it's sharp. Vicious. Like someone is twisting a knife through my lower abdomen and then adding a few extra turns for good measure.My breath catches, fingers automatically gripping the edge of my desk as sweat breaks out across my forehead. The computer screen blurs, and for a moment I think I might actually pass out. The pain radiates up through my torso and down into my thighs, making my legs feel weak and unsteady.Breathe, I tell myself.Just breathe through it.But breathing doesn't help this time. If anything, the deep breaths seem to make the cramping worse, each inhale stretching muscles that feel like they're being shredded from the inside. Nausea rolls through me in waves, and I have to close my eyes to keep myself from throwing up all ov

13

TamaraMorning rolls around sooner than expected.I wake to the familiar knife twist in my pelvis, except this time it feels like someone's added barbed wire to the blade. The digital clock reads 6:23 a.m., but I've been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours, each wave of cramping jolting me back to awareness like an electric shock.Rolling onto my side doesn't help. Neither does the heating pad I keep permanently plugged in beside my bed. The pain radiates from my lower abdomen down into my thighs, up through my ribs, making every breath feel deliberate and costly. My lower back aches like I've been lifting concrete blocks in my sleep.This isn't normal, Tamara.You can't keep pretending it is.I catalog the symptoms I've been tracking in my phone for weeks: pain that's getting worse instead of better, periods that arrive two weeks late or disappear entirely, exhaustion that sleep doesn't touch, and the sharp, stabbing sensation every time Viktor tried to...I push that thou

14

TamaraThe waiting room smells like disinfectant; it makes my nose wrinkle.I sit in one of those generic beige chairs that populate every medical office in America, my knee bouncing with nervous energy I can't seem to control. The magazines on the glass table beside me are months old— issues of Better Homes & Gardens and Health that someone probably selected to project optimism and wellness. I don't touch them.My hands are clammy despite the aggressive air conditioning that makes me wish I'd brought a sweater. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in harsh, clinical tones that make my skin look gray and tired. Fitting, since that's exactly how I feel.Yesterday was a marathon of tests— blood draws that left my arm purple and tender, ultrasounds with cold gel and uncomfortable pressure, hormone panels that required fasting until I felt dizzy. Each procedure carried its own small humiliation, its own reminder that my body has become something foreign and untrustworthy.The w

15

TamaraThe air in Fatal Seduction feels different tonight.Maybe it's me that's different— broken in ways I'm still learning to understand. The burgundy velvet and amber lighting that once felt mysterious now feel like sanctuary, like the only place in the world where I can exist without pretending everything is fine.Jack recognizes me immediately, his dark eyes softening with something that might be concern. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't offer sympathetic platitudes. Just nods toward the familiar hallway and slides a lace mask across the polished bar."Room Five," he says quietly. "Same as before."My fingers tremble as I take the mask. The delicate lace feels fragile, like it might disintegrate if I grip too tightly. But then again, everything feels fragile right now.The corridor stretches before me, each step echoes my heartbeat— erratic, desperate, alive despite everything trying to kill it. The scent of sandalwood and roses grows stronger as I approach the familiar door, an

16

TamaraThe unspoken words unlock something primal inside me, something that's been buried under months of pain and insecurity. My hand drifts to the belt of my robe, fingers trembling as I work the knot loose.The silk falls open, exposing my breasts to the candlelight. I'm not wearing anything underneath— hadn't planned this, but my body knew what it needed before my mind caught up.His eyes darken to slate as they rake over my bare skin, pupils dilating with hunger that makes me feel powerful despite everything. He increases the pace of his strokes, and I can see moisture beading at the swollen head of his cock, pre-cum glistening in the candlelight.I part my legs without being asked, the cool air hitting my already slick flesh. I'm soaked, my arousal coating my inner thighs; I've been wet since the moment he walked through that door. My fingers find my center, sliding through the wetness before circling my swollen clit with gentle pressure that makes my back arch off the velvet.W

17

TamaraThe cool night air hits my face as I step out of The Fatal Seduction, and I feel like I'm floating.My skin still hums with electricity from TMG's touch. The memory of his hands, his voice, the intensity of our connection sends warmth spiraling through my chest.For the first time in months, I feel alive. Powerful. Like myself again.My phone buzzes insistently from my purse as I walk toward the parking area, but I ignore it. Whatever crisis needs my attention can wait. Right now, I want to hold onto this feeling— this sense of being desired, heard, valued. TMG gave me something tonight that I'd forgotten I deserved.The phone buzzes again. And again. Twelve missed calls when I finally check the screen, all from Viktor.Not tonight, I think, sliding the phone back into my purse. Whatever he wants to fight about, whatever new accusation he's manufactured, I don't have the energy or the desire to engage. The contrast between how TMG treated me— with reverence, with attention, wit

18

SergeiThe numbers on my computer screen blur together like broken code.I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, but all I can see are her eyes behind that lace mask. Eyes that roved over me with something raw and hungry that made my chest tighten.I got home after midnight last night, the drive from The Fatal Seduction passing in a haze of her scent still in my nostrils. Masha was fast asleep, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly, dark hair spread across Egyptian cotton like spilled ink. She looked peaceful. Innocent. Everything I'm not.I should have slipped into bed beside her, should have let my wife's presence ground me back to reality. Instead, I stood in our bedroom doorway for several minutes, watching her breathe while my mind replayed every second of what happened in that burgundy room.The woman's voice, defeated and honest: I'm broken in ways that can't be fixed.The trust in her eyes when she told a masked stranger about her health pr

19

SergeiJesse isn't just stealing from me— he's positioning himself to eliminate me entirely. Once his network is established, once he has enough clients and resources, he won't need Sergei Sidorov anymore."What about Viktor's accusations?" I ask."Kozlov was right about the missing money, wrong about the cause. That Henderson delivery he was screaming about? Jesse took the full payment and reported it as a failed placement. Client got their baby, Jesse got his money, and we got fucked."Everything slots into place with sickening clarity. Viktor's rage wasn't about imaginary money— it was about real theft that I was too blind to see. While I dismissed his accusations as paranoia and jealousy, Jesse was systematically dismantling our partnership from the inside."How long have you known?" Radimir asks quietly."Suspected for a few days. Had confirmation yesterday." I scrub my free hand over my face. "Viktor came into my office making wild accusations. I thought he was losing his shit,

20

SergeiThe restaurant is exactly the kind of place an honest businessman would choose—expensive enough to project success, quiet enough for conversations that shouldn't be overheard.I arrive early, claiming the corner booth that gives me clear sight lines to every entrance. Old habits. In my world, paranoia keeps you breathing.I order black coffee and check my Patek Philippe. Jesse's five minutes late, which is unlike him. The good doctor prides himself on punctuality, the same way he prides himself on his reputation, his charity work, and his fucking humanitarian facade.Ublyudok!All bullshit, as it turns out.My secure phone holds the evidence— recorded conversations with clients who paid him directly, financial records that don't match our books, a pattern of theft so systematic it took Radimir days to uncover. Jesse Yevgeniy, the respectable gynecologist who gives our operation legitimacy, has been running his own empire while we handled the dirty work.The betrayal tastes like

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