Expose' (Born Bratva Book 3) (2 page)

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 4
th
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.”

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.

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.

I learned a long time ago that women are drawn to men with power and money. That’s the main reason I don’t have a steady girlfriend. I don’t trust the motives of the women in my circle. That doesn’t keep me from indulging in local pussy whenever I want it, but if I ever do settle down, I want what my mother and father have. They have their own unconventional brand of devotion and loyalty and it works for them.

As I lean against the wall, I glance to my right and spot Lukyan, one of the Bratva bodyguards. He looks more like a mountain than a man. As he moves in closer to stand at my side, I have to nearly strain my neck to look up at him. He smiles down at me, revealing a gold tooth. The man has the most utterly devious smile I’ve ever seen and it never fails to strike fear in the heart of his adversaries. From day one, my father made it clear that my safety was Lukyan’s personal responsibility, although the position has always been informal. To be a personal bodyguard for a Glazov family member is a coveted position, the competition for which can be fierce, but who the fuck would have the nerve to challenge this guy?

It’s amazing how you can pick up the energy of a room if you just take a moment to take in what’s going on. Raised voices from the front door draw my attention and what I see most definitely piques my interest. Becky and a slender brunette are having a heated discussion.
Now we’re talking. Nothing sexier than a good cat fight
. I move in closer for a better look and to ensure that the situation doesn’t escalate -- can’t have anything distracting our customers from parting with their money at the gambling tables.

“You’re here to apply for a job?” Becky taunts, giving the poor girl no time to answer. “So you’re telling me you just
happened
to catch a cab here and expect to be hired on the spot? I call bullshit -- and by the way, we’re not hiring.”

I resist the urge to laugh out loud when the brunette, who looks like an innocent girl playing dress up with too much makeup and a skintight black dress, answers. She can obviously hold her own against bitchy Becky. “Really,” she drawls. “Well,
I
call bullshit because I highly doubt that you’re the one who does the hiring and firing around here. Now be a
dear
, won’t you, and go find me someone who has a clue.”

Becky starts to sputter. She’s not used to anyone standing up to her and she’s well aware that she now has the hushed attention of everyone in the room. “The fuck I will, you little bitch!”

Nice, Becky.
I sigh and shake my head. Becky’s foul mouth is running wild and I’m going to have to step in if this gets much uglier.

“Your people skills leave a lot to be desired,” says the brunette as she leans in toward Becky with her hands on her slim hips and her chin jutting out defiantly. She does a hair toss – a fucking hair toss -- sending those long curls back over her shoulder, and I swear my dick stands up and salutes. It’s like she crooked a fucking finger at it and told it to come on over here.

She continues her indignant speech without missing a beat, “If this is how the rest of the staff treats employees, I don’t want to work here anyway.” The brunette turns toward the door, her little ass swaying as she prepares to make a grand exit.
Oh, hell, no. Not if I have anything to say about it. I think it’s time for us to get better acquainted.

“Not so fucking fast, little girl.” Before she can reach the door, I grab her arm and all but drag her across the room and down the hall to my office. She’s practically hissing at me the whole way, tiny tits bouncing as she tries to land a kick to my shin. I slam the door shut behind me and deposit her in one of the leather club chairs across from my desk.
Well, well, well. My first night on the job just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

Logan

Shit, shit, shit. This is not how I envisioned my job interview going.
I look across the desk at the man who is now seated there with his ankles crossed on the desk’s edge and twirling a seven hundred dollar Mont Blanc pen. I know what it is because my stuffy professor carries one and makes sure we all know how much it cost. This guy doesn’t look at all like my stuffy professor, though—he’s gorgeous. His jet black hair and eyes along with the five-o-clock shadow on his face are distracting to say the least. Add to that the fact that he is staring at me and hasn’t said a word yet, and well… it’s enough to make me fidgety.

“Um, Mr. Glazov, I assume?”

“That would be my father.” He continues staring and doesn’t bother offering any more information.

“This was a mistake,” I mutter as I push my body out of the chair, ready to bolt and spend the rest of the evening researching an article about the local animal shelter – hell, anything has to be better than this. But I don’t get far.

“Sit!” he says, his tone curt.

I remain standing and meet his glare with one of my own. “Give me a name to address you by and I’ll consider it.”

“You first.”

“Logan Ludwick.”

We spend a couple of seconds staring at each other until finally he responds, “I’m Kodiak.”

“Well, that explains a lot.”

“And just what’s that supposed to mean?” The twitch at his temple isn’t reassuring me.

“The meaning of your name -- you know, an island.”

He chuckles and the sight of the small smile on his lips helps my muscles relax enough for me to lower myself into the chair once again. “Brains as well as beauty. I am impressed.” The smile disappears and his jaw flexes menacingly. “I still want to know why you’re here.”

“I
was
here to get a job,” I hiss indignantly as I stand again and turn for the door. I’ve had enough of this man and his mind games.

“Sit!” he snarls in a biting tone that brooks no argument.

I reluctantly ease back down into the chair and mumble under my breath, “Bossy.”

“You. Have. No. Idea. Now, I want to know how you found an
underground
gambling house—
my father’s
underground gambling house.”

I force myself to maintain eye contact when all I want to do is stare at my hands in my lap. “Well, it’s not like your father isn’t well-known on campus with all that he’s done to keep the library alive.”

“Bullshit.”

Once again I find myself squirming. I take a deep breath and decide to go for broke. “Okay, listen. My dad’s got a gambling addiction. He taught me a little about cards when I was growing up. It’s the only skill I have right now to get a job unless I want to flip burgers.”

“You count cards.” It isn’t a question. He continues thoughtfully, “Interesting. High-low strategy?”

“Yeah. Look, I’m no expert but I know the basics…and I can deal cards like nobody’s business.” The silence stretches out for what feels like long minutes as he ponders this information.

“Well, you’ve got a few things going for you. Your looks are…distracting, to say the least,” he murmurs silkily, his gaze roaming down my body, pausing to take in my barely-there cleavage and the promise of skin peeking out from my short skirt. I cross my legs and tug on the fabric that clings to my upper thighs. Abruptly he lifts his gaze to mine as if he has come to a decision. “You seem honest enough, Logan Ludwick. And you would certainly be in a unique position to spot a cheater a mile away. We can always use an extra set of eyes at the Black Jack table, and I happen to know that we have an immediate opening for a dealer.”

Honest? Are you kidding me?
Damn it, how did this get turned around to make me feel guilty?

“So I’ve got the job?” I ask incredulously.

“On a trial basis, for now. Come on,” he says impatiently. He stands and chest muscles ripple under his designer shirt as he gestures for me to follow him down the hall. A mountain of a man waits just outside the door, nodding curtly at Kodiak and glancing dismissively at me before falling into step next to him.

We enter an expansive room that is bustling with activity. The room is huge with a fireplace, and is decorated in rich tones of burgundy with plush French antique furniture in the midst of several rich wood-toned round gambling tables. Every seat is filled with people trying their luck at a variety of games of chance. Vintage crystal chandeliers give the room an elegant, understated ambiance.

I make a quick mental note that there are no windows or clocks in the room. I glance at a man’s wrist and note that he isn’t wearing a watch, so cell phones and watches are probably checked at the door. I’d be willing to bet clients are frisked and scanned upon their arrival, and I’m positive the place is gone over for listening devices before the evening’s activities begin. There are tables with food, lots and lots of food. There is something for every palate. There’s shrimp cocktail, champagne, French pastries. A gambler could lose track of time for days here and want for nothing, which is probably the general idea.

I reach for a glass of champagne and he abruptly turns around and shakes his head, uttering only one curt word, “No.”

Shit, I needed that
. It isn’t uncommon for gambling houses to not allow dealers to drink, but I’m not even sure if I’m an employee at this point, so what the hell?

He leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a grim expression as he looks out over the crowd. I reach over, tapping his arm and whisper, “What are we doing?” His only response is to look down at me with the same serious, brooding look he’s had since I got here.
Why in the hell does he have to be so damn good looking?
I take a minute to check him out again. He’s tall and thin, but it’s the lean muscle kind of thin. There is nothing scrawny about this man. My eyes move up to the vein that’s throbbing at his temple just as he turns, eyeing me again. “Like what you see, spy of mine? You gonna tell me why you’re sneaking around here? Or do I have to find out for myself?”

“I’m not a spy,” I pop off in my defense.

“No, of course not…I always trust sexy, card counting beauties who appear out of nowhere.” His eyes are intently locked on mine as if he’s awaiting a response.

Okay…I take the time to study the room. Russian bodyguards are discreetly positioned around the perimeter of the room. The enormous man who had been standing with Kodiak at the front door and later outside his office, is now standing next to him.

I spot the woman who met me at the door and, judging by the way she’s glaring at me, she’s not happy to see that I’m still here. She leans over and whispers to the woman next to her. Her companion is way too blonde, has enormous store-bought boobs, and enough make-up slathered on her face to need to be removed with a chisel later tonight. If those two are dressing to be a distraction it’s working, because they are seriously tacky as hell.