Chicago Bratva Series Book 7: The Cleaner
Author
Renee Rose
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73.7K
Chapters
17
I’VE CAPTURED THE CRIME LORD’S DAUGHTER She will pay the price for her father’s sin. I’ll use my beautiful prisoner to get him. To make him suffer. Make him believe I'm hurting her the way he harmed my sister. And when I’m done tormenting him, I will offer a trade: her life for his. I owe him a slow, painful death. Revenge is my due.
But Kateryna is strong in ways I didn’t expect. Broken before I ever got to her, she's a willing participant for my torment. She turns the tables on me, seducing me with her laughter. Her wild, crazy appetite for pain and pleasure. Now I must choose: Keep her and forgo my revenge or destroy my enemy and the woman I’ve come to love.
Chapter 1
Adrian
Come on out, dietka. I’m waiting.
I prop a shoulder against a brick wall, watching the entrance to the flat across the street where my mark, Kateryna Poval, lives. The incessant Liverpool rain has paused for the moment, but fog nestles close to the sidewalks, occasionally obscuring my view.
A girl who fits her description emerges from the flat, but it can’t be her. This one appears too young. Her long dark hair is in two braids, and she’s wearing a school uniform: knee-high socks with a short, pleated skirt and white blouse…
Huh. Hold up. Maybe she’s not as young as I thought.
The blouse is tied up under her breasts to bare her flat belly, and the throat is open way too low for a school uniform, giving view to a rather impressive rack. And she’s not wearing a jacket or necktie. Plus the skirt is far too short.
Besides, it’s ten at night.
So that’s not a student in a uniform, it’s my mark in some kind of costume. She has a tiny backpack strapped to her back to complete the schoolgirl look although it’s more purse-sized than anything that would hold books or folders.
Why isn’t she wearing a fucking jacket? It’s not frigid like Chicago or Russia, but England is still cold in January, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know why I give a fuck, but it bothers me.
I stay in the shadows, following the young woman on the opposite side of the street.
It was nearly impossible to get any photos of Kateryna–she has zero social media presence, which is unheard of for a young woman of twenty–but our hacker got into her secondary school records to retrieve an older photo.
Leon Poval’s daughter went to a private prep school where she was enrolled under the last name Kovalenko, but she completed her secondary studies two years ago. Now she attends a small art school here, which seems strange. Surely, they have those back in Ukraine. Maybe Poval thinks she’s safer hidden here.
I don’t give a fuck, so long as she has a pulse and can be used as leverage against him.
I trail her to the bus stop where she perches on the backrest of a cement bench, her feet–which are in platform heels–on the seat. She flicks one of her dark braids off her shoulder and blows a bubble with her gum. I can’t quite figure out if she really is an insolent overgrown teen or if she has some kind of school-girl fetish. I think there’s a Japanese fashion trend that is sexy school uniforms–maybe that’s her jam. Or could she be a stripper? I seem to recall Pavel telling me the school-girl thing was a popular stripper outfit. Or was it in the BDSM dungeons he went to? Fuck if I know. I don’t go out much. Not with my sister’s fragile state.
I pull out my phone and study the photo Dima sent me, comparing it to the young woman at the bus stop.
The girl in the photo is a perfect match. She’s a few years younger in the picture, wearing a more conservative uniform with the jacket and necktie, and she appears as innocent and young as this version seems saucy.
The bus approaches, and I cross the street, hanging back until she boards, then climbing on and sliding into a seat in the front. I pull the knit cap I’m wearing down low over my forehead. She’s behind me, but I can watch her reflection in the windshield.
She wears a slender gold hoop nose ring, and she puts earbuds in her ears and scrolls through something on her phone. She hasn’t noticed me, which is good because I don’t plan on grabbing her tonight.
The cargo ship I’ve arranged to transport her to the U.S. won’t dock for a few days. I’m just keeping an eye on her for now. It’s probably not my smartest move, since I have no practice in subtlety when it comes to stalking. I don’t want to alert her to my presence. But I also don’t want to lose her. I’ve been looking for her father for over a year now. Ever since he gave me the slip after I burned down his sex slave den masquerading as a sofa factory.
When Dima, my bratva brother and Russia’s finest hacker, told me he discovered Poval had a daughter, I had to seize my chance.
I won’t hurt her. Not like Poval hurt Nadia.
But I sure as hell will make him think I have. I want him to suffer, believing I’m going to enact every last indignity and trauma he inflicted on my sister.
The bus stops a few times, and Kateryna hops off. I wait a few beats until the doors close then surge toward the front door, making the bus driver curse and throw the door open again.
I slip out without her seeing me and follow at a distance. She’s in a sketchy, industrial part of town, but there are cars parked everywhere. Something is definitely happening. A warehouse party. Or maybe they still do raves in Liverpool. Either way, I’m going to have to go in if I don’t want to lose track of her. It looks like the place is packed.
I watch her knock on the door. When it swings open, music blares from the place and a big guy who appears to be some kind of bouncer lets her in. I wait sixty seconds then follow.
“Password?” the door guy demands.
I pull a fifty pound note out of my pocket and tuck it in the guy’s palm. “Appreciate it,” I say, wishing my Russian accent wasn’t so damn strong. At least the tattoos on my knuckles don’t work against me with a guy like this.
He gives me a once over. “You gotta friend in here?”
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I say, my brain scrambling. “I’m friends with Kateryna. Ukrainian girl? Rocks a schoolgirl outfit?” Maybe if I’m lucky, this guy will think my accent is Ukrainian, too.
It works. He pushes the door open. “Kat just got here.” He jerks his head inside.
I hope giving her name doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass. I would’ve been better off making something else up. Oh well, too late now.
I enter the darkened warehouse. It’s lit with colored lights like a nightclub and music blasts from big speakers. There’s a DJ playing in the corner, and nice lounge furniture around the edges of the room. The place is packed with bodies bouncing and undulating to the beat. It’s definitely a rave. Kateryna–or I guess it’s Kat here–is nowhere to be seen, but she fits right in with the other scantily-clad girls.
The good news is that I can blend in. The bad news is that I have no idea where my mark has disappeared to. I shove my hands in the pockets of my jacket and make my way casually through the crowd, bobbing my head to the music like I’m just here for the beats.
Turns out, it’s not hard to find Kateryna at all because she climbed on top of a large wooden crate and is swaying her hips in half-time to the music, inviting every mudak below her to look up that short fucking skirt of hers.
Which isn’t my problem, obviously. Still, my fingers close into fists in my pockets thinking about the bad things that could happen to her here. She came alone–which is pretty fucking strange. Girls always run in packs. And now she’s inviting all kinds of male attention.
Oh shit. I look away when we make brief eye contact. Stepping back, I move along the wall and pull out my phone, pretending to text someone.
“Hi.” A female voice pulls my attention at the same time the speaker tugs my sleeve.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
I’ve been made.
Kat stands in front of me, a wide, saucy smile showing off the straightest, whitest set of teeth I’ve ever seen. She looks up at me from under a curtain of dark bangs, and I discover her eyes are a surprising shade of electric blue. She’s not wearing any color on her lids, but the thick black eyeliner that extends beyond the outer corners of her eyes only accentuates the light color of her irises.
I don’t answer her because…fuck. I shouldn’t have let her see me to begin with. I might be a decent cleaner, but I’m a piss-poor tail.
She’s still holding my sleeve, and she slides her hand down to close her fingers around my fist. “Nice tattoos. That's Russian, right?” She pulls my knuckles closer to her face to examine the Cyrillic letters that are an acronym for my bratva cell. Her hands are small, her touch soft.
I pull my hand back and scowl, trying to get her to leave. Although I guess it’s too late. She’s seen me. She won’t forget my face now. “Da.”
Her smile grows wider. “I’m Ukrainian. My name is Kat.” She holds her palm out for me to shake. When I don’t take it, she grips mine and gives it a single pump.
Bozhe moi, this girl has terrible instincts. Can she not tell that I’m trouble? I’m literally here to ruin her life. I wear a permanent scowl. I don’t look like a nice guy. I wasn’t particularly friendly even before her father destroyed my sister, and now? I’m fucking lethal. She’s touching the tattoos that prove it.
Poor judgment must be why her father sequestered her away in England. Even so, it’s a wonder she hasn’t been torn apart yet.
I force myself to pretend I belong here. I’m just another party-goer. I arch a brow and scan her outfit. “You old enough to be here?”
She snaps her gum at me. “What do you think?”
“I think you should go home before your daddy finds out you snuck out the window on a school night.”
Her smile dims. I’m not sure if it’s the mention of her father or my continuing assholery. She flips me the middle finger and finally leaves, her skirt swishing up when she turns, giving me a flash of chaste white cotton granny-panties.
What. The fuck?
I watch her departing back trying to figure out what just happened. Kateryna Poval is nothing like I expected. I thought she’d be spoiled, certainly. Possibly sheltered and naive. I guess I braced myself in case she was fragile and sweet. A delicate flower I would crush and sully to get back at her father.
Well, pretend to crush and sully. I’m not a monster like Poval. I don’t defile and destroy young girls for profit or pleasure.
I didn’t expect an over-sexualized wild-child running around Liverpool begging for trouble. But maybe this is what spoiled crime princess looks like on her.
I guess it makes my job easier. I wasn’t sure I’d have the stomach for frightening an innocent girl. This one doesn’t seem to know when to be scared, and she certainly doesn’t seem innocent.
Kateryna Poval is trouble waiting to happen.
And I’m the guy who’s going to bring it crashing down on her.
Kat
That guy was an asshole. A hot asshole, but still. Why am I always drawn to the jerks?
Oh yeah: daddy issues.
That’s what Delaney, my psychotherapist, seems to think anyway. She said I will continue to act out, rebel, and seek attention from the wrong kind of men until I’m willing to work on healing the wounds my father inflicted.
But working on anything related to my father will happen when Hell freezes over.
Also, maybe I want to act out, rebel, and seek attention from the wrong kind of men. I secretly desire being taken in hand and punished. I sort of feel like she was kink-shaming me.
Hating the way that guy made me feel off-kilter, I picture myself as a lump of clay on the wheel and find my exact center as I head to the bathrooms at the back of the warehouse. There’s a long queue, so I take my place with the crowd of other girls.
“Hey, girl,” Shellee, a frequent party-goer says as she comes out of the stall, grabbing my arm. She’s already rolling on ecstasy; her pupils are almost as big as her irises. She’s fully in love with me in this moment because she’s fully in love with everything right now. “Do you have a tampon?”
“I sure do.” I whirl my backpack purse off one shoulder to dig in and grab the tampon, which I hand to her.
She closes her fingers around it and my hand and strokes my cheek with her free hand. “Thank you so much,” she gushes. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re here. You’re amazing, do you know that?”
We’re not actually friends. Just acquaintances. I honestly don’t have real friends. I’m too extra for most of them. Too popular with the boys. Too sexual. Too rich, even for the girls at the prep school. Plus, I’m different. I’m not English. My father’s businesses aren’t legit. I learned the day I arrived in Liverpool that I didn’t fit in and should stop trying.
Delaney says that’s why I seek out intense sexual experiences–I’m filling a void created by my lack of meaningful friendships.
I think I’m just kinky. Is that so wrong?
“So are you,” I tell Shellee. “Here, cut in line with me, so you can get back in there.” I tug her in front of me.
She turns around and starts petting me again, fingering a braid as she smiles dreamily in my direction.
“You’re having a good time?”
“So much fun.” She squints her gaze at me. “Are you rolling?”
“Nope. I can’t. I have a history test tomorrow.”
“Oh my God!” Her eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “Why are you here?” She tugs my braid. “Just kidding.” Her playful shove makes me stumble in my platform heels. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m always glad when I see you. You’re the best.”
I’m not even sure if she knows my name, but it’s okay. I have no illusions about what this scene is. It’s not where you go to make lasting meaningful relationships. Which is why I happen to love it.
I came to reward myself for studying all day for my exam. My father’s stipulation for me staying in England for college was that I maintain 7s–the UK equivalent of straight A’s. Considering I got 4’s and a few 3’s in high school, it’s a bit of an up-level. But there’s no freaking way I’m going home.
Especially not when I finally found something I like.
I mean, beyond rave parties and kinky sex, which Delaney says are extensions of my Daddy issues.
My last term in secondary school, we got a new art teacher, Ms. Banff. She got the school to buy a wheel and taught us pottery. I suppose it was another way to flip my dad the bird–show him I’m the useless, brainless, waste of space he apparently thinks I am–but I decided to become a potter. I totally fell in love with it.
I like the feel of the clay in my hands. The spin of the wheel. The way a bowl takes shape and collapses with the touch of a finger. So now I would do anything to stay in England and keep studying art. I crave the pottery wheel as much as I crave these dance parties. Or a big, muscled guy who scowls and never shows you that he likes you.
It’s finally my turn to use the toilet, and when I get out, Shellee has already disappeared. Which is fine, since I didn’t come here to see her anyway.
I’m not sure why I came, actually. It’s more of an addiction than anything else. I crave the sensuality of the place. I like to dress up and feel sexy and maybe hook up with a hot guy. Preferably one who’s into a little kink. I love a big rough guy who will hold me down and choke me. Or spank me. Or tie me up. I’m a little maso at heart, and the endorphin release and thrill I get from acting out my fantasies is what I need to get through the week.
Let’s be honest, though. That big, rough guy doesn’t actually exist. Or when he does, he comes with a slice of danger I really shouldn’t tempt.
Yet tempt it I do.
I make my way out of the bathroom. The warehouse is packed with people now. Probably more than a legit club would allow for fire code. I soak up the energy like a drug. Looking for trouble, I climb on top of a platform to dance again. I bounce and swirl to the music, scanning the crowd. I spot the Russian up against a wall watching me. He has dark hair, brown eyes and wears what looks like a permanent scowl.
Why would he be such a dick if he’s interested? I could’ve sworn he was interested before, which was why I went over to him. He has the right vibe. Definitely my type. Surly. Rough. Tattoos that probably mean he’s done bad things. His shoulders are broad. It’s hard to tell under his leather jacket, but they look well-muscled. I bet he could dish out a spanking that would make me cream my panties. I totally pegged him as a sadist.
Guess I was wrong.
It’s not like I’m really good at picking the right ones. I’ve had a half-dozen fails in the last three months alone.
I keep my gaze on my Russian while I dance, but he looks away with a scowl. I know he feels my gaze. I swear he’s looking away on purpose. What is it about hard to get that just makes a girl want to try more? I check my tits–the double D’s I had by age twelve. They are perfectly displayed by my blouse. I definitely look hot. No reason for him not to respond. Unless he’s here for someone else. But why does he keep looking at me?
There. He looked again.
I turn to give him a view of my ass as I take a slow swivel to the floor and back up again.
“Kat!” A guy calls me from the floor below.
Oh great. David, one of my past mistakes. I blow him a kiss but keep dancing.
He grabs my ankle, forcing me to stop dancing or lose my balance. Yeah, this was why he was a mistake. I mistook his disrespectful vibe for dominance. Truth is, he’s more of a bully.
“Come here!” He reaches for me.
“No, I’m good,” I say. Just because we hooked up once doesn’t mean I’m your go-to, buddy.
He flashes a tiny Ziploc baggie at me. “Wanna roll?”
I shake my head again. “No thanks. I have a test tomorrow.” He wins no points with me for offering free drugs. I’m not fooling around again with him even if I’m not sober. He was sloppy and only in it for himself. Yech.
He shrugs and moves on, and I continue to dance. I’m joined on the platform by a few other guys who dance closer and closer until one settles a hand on my waist and connects his hips to my ass to grind against me. I let him because it feels good. I came here for male attention, and I’m getting it. Another guy moves in from the front, so I’m sandwiched between them.
The guy from behind palms my left breast. He’s not completely unskilled. He finds my nipple and pinches it through my blouse and push-up bra. I shove my ass back and let my head rest against his shoulder.
“I like your outfit,” the first guy shouts over the music.
It’s not a particularly stupid thing to say, but I sort of wish he’d just keep his mouth shut. I’m trying to have a fantasy moment here, and the inane comments pull me out. The guy behind me slides a hand down the front of my thigh and squeezes my leg muscles.
I’ve never had two guys at once, but the group-grope thing happens at these raves. Everyone’s feeling the love, and they just want to pass it along. The problem is, it’s usually a lot of groping and no finish. The ecstasy makes people too blissed out to have any motivation to get to climax. Another reason I skip the drugs, other than a CBD gummy now and then when I can’t sleep. I’m looking for a different endorphin hit.
“How old are you?” the guy in front of me asks. He probably wants to make sure he won’t end up in jail or something.
“Twenty.” I don’t feel twenty. I feel thirty because I’ve been away from home for so long. And also thirteen, the age I was when my dad shipped me off. He caught me making out with a boy and decided I needed to be sent off to an all-girls boarding school.
As if that would keep me out of trouble. It only cemented my desire to be bad.
Do you want to be bad, Kat, or are you actually craving someone to tell you you’re good? That’s what Delaney asked me last time we discussed me going to raves.
“I wouldn’t mind being called good girl when I obey,” I’d sassed back.
“Nice.” The guy nods, his leer appreciative.
We dance for a while, but things don’t escalate much. People lose focus when they’re rolling.
“I’m going to take a break,” I tell the guys after a while because I’m getting hot, bored, and thirsty.
They immediately jump down off the box and follow me to the makeshift bar where three kids in knit caps and earrings are selling energy drinks and water. I buy water, crack the bottle and turn to find my two admirers are still standing there like eager beavers.
Meh. I was kind of done with them, hoping for something a little more interesting. My gaze wanders, looking for the Russian again. I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with him. I guess because he turned me down. Why do I always go for the one who will reject me?
The guys each take me by a hand, dragging me to a dark corner. I’m not on board, but I’m not totally ready to jump-ship either. I mean, I guess I’ll see what they have to offer.
“What’s this?” David cuts off our path with a giant smile in place. “This looks very fun.”
Now I'm done.
“Yeah, I don’t know.” I try to shake loose from the two guys holding my hands.
“You need a little mood enhancer,” David says, pulling out the baggie of pills again.
“Can I have one?” the guy to my right says.
“No. It’s for her.” David extracts the pill, and before I know it’s coming, he pops it between my teeth.
“Hey!” I try to spit it out, but David laughs, clapping a hand over my mouth.
“Wait, wait, wait. Just swallow it, Kat. It will be fun.”
I struggle, but the other guys don’t help me out even though they’re crowding into me from the sides, holding me in place for David to keep his hand over my mouth.
I’m pissed now, and–dammit–I already swallowed the stupid pill! These fuckers.
“Here, drink your water, Kat.” David wraps his hand over mine on the water bottle and brings it to my mouth.
I’m still struggling just to get everyone’s hands off me. As I flail, I hear a loud crack of bone on bone and then David falls. I stare at him sprawled out on the dirty concrete floor. Did I do that?
And then I understand. Because there are six feet of pissed-off Russian standing in front of us.
His lips peel back from his teeth in a snarl, and he glares at the two guys standing next to me. “Go.”
They go. They disappear so fast you’d think there was a fire in the place.
I open my mouth, about to protest that I didn’t really need the help when the Russian tosses me over his shoulder and clomps out of the warehouse.
