Dancing for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 3) (3 page)

As if she has the choice
, I chuckle to myself.
She doesn’t.
Choices are a luxury for her that will soon be ending.

I leave the club, unable to stay a moment longer without fucking Tati.
I need to breathe
. I slide into the rental car and drive toward the
St. Regis
hotel. I have to play this smart. I cannot just run into her and give her a chance to contact the authorities. I need her to trust me, to confide in me what she has already told the FBI.

I need her to
want
me again.

I’m going to ruin her as she ruined me. Though I’ll do it better. I’ll do it while I’m buried inside of her and she’s screaming my name. Then when I tire of her, I will leave her forever wanting more of me.

I walk into the hotel bar after I’ve dropped my car at valet, and take note of a woman in a short skirt and high heels—her tits hanging out. I need a hard fuck and she’s just the one to do it for me tonight.

“Company?” I ask as I slide onto the stool next to her. Her eyes rake up and down my body before landing on my face, and her red lips part in a coy smile.

“I would love some,” she murmurs.

“What’s your room number?” I ask.

I’m not going to be swindled by some hooker, and I don’t want any woman to get comfortable in my room.
I want to fuck her and leave her
. She smiles wider and takes my hand before tugging me toward the elevators.

We don’t say another word to each other for the rest of the night.

A few hours later, I turn the handle to my own room. My cock is satisfied, but I am not.
I want Tati
. The climax I just had was lackluster, leaving something to be desired. Now I’m even more frustrated than I was before. I’m not sure how patient I can be with this. I may just have taken on more than I am able.

Tatyana might be in my bed sooner than I originally anticipated, purely based on the needs of my cock alone.

“M
OM,” THE SHRILL VOICE
of my nine-year-old daughter yells through our postage stamp sized apartment. I sit straight up from my makeshift futon bed, and look over at the alarm before I let out a gasp in sheer panic.

I’m late, which means Kiska will be late for school if I don’t hurry.

I quickly run to my closet and grab a pair of leggings, a bra, and an oversized shirt, throwing them on as I hop out of the living room and to the front door. I then slide into my sandals as I put my hair up in an extremely messy knot.

“Coffee, so you don’t kill people with your breath,” she says as she hands me a travel mug.

It’s seven o’clock in the morning. I have only been asleep for three hours. It is our routine.
Normal chaos
. Kiska gets herself up, dressed, and fed, and I rush around as we run out the door.

Is it ideal?
Absolutely not
. Is it the best I can do?
Yes
.

“How was work, mom?” Kiska asks as we walk toward her school.

I never let her walk alone, ever. We don’t live in a safe neighborhood, and my biggest fear is something happening to my baby girl. So every morning, rain or shine, sick or well, I walk my Kiska to school. We walk past the bums and loiters, the cat callers and drug dealers. But together we make it to and from every day.

“Long,” I say with a sigh.

I hide my occupation from her. I am not ashamed of how I make my money, but I don’t want her to feel shame. I don’t want her to tell her friends what her mom does and have them ridicule her for it.

So, instead, I tell her that I clean offices at night. It had been the truth at one time. I had done this, but I didn’t make enough for one person to survive on, let alone two.

“You work too hard,” she sighs as we reach the steps of the school.

“Have a good day, Kiska girl. I’ll see you right here afterward,” I say with a smile.

I don’t kiss her or hug her, because I don’t want to embarrass her. I simply smile and squeeze her hand before she runs off to her group of girlfriends.

Once she has disappeared safely behind the doors of the school, I turn around to make my way home. I need to sleep for at least another couple of hours before I have to go to the grocery store and then come back to the school to get Kiska.

I have to work again tonight, which means that my neighbor, Mrs. Hernandez, will stay with her. She watches Kiska from the time I leave for work, at eight-thirty in the evening, until the time I come home, usually around three in the morning. She’s a beautiful older woman and needs the little extra income I can give her. She makes sure Kiska’s homework is complete and that she’s safe until I can return. She knows my occupation and, while she doesn’t necessarily approve, I can see that she is proud of me. I am a hard working, single mother, even if I do take off my clothes for my rent.

When I arrive back inside of my building, I groan at the sight that awaits me.

Agent Ryan Green.

He’s leaning against my door, looking as clean cut and handsome as ever. Yet, no matter how handsome the man is, I will never want him. He’s ugly on the inside. Completely disgusting.

“Tatyana,” he murmurs as his eyes roam my body. I’m definitely not a prize this early in the morning, so he’s doing it just to be a creep.

“How may I help you, Agent Green?” I ask, unwilling to even attempt to open my door. No way in hell do I want this asshole in my apartment.

“Heard news you may be compromised.” I almost snort, but instead I roll my eyes at his words.

“I thought that I was useless—pointless to protect. Weren’t those your exact words?” I ask, arching a brow.

“These are dangerous people, Tatyana. They will come after you, and they will come after Kiska,” he warns.

I should be scared by his warnings.
I should be terrified
. However, I’m not. Agent Green is more dangerous then Kirill ever was. I can see in his eyes that he is soulless. Pretending to be a nice guy, manipulating scared girls into turning against their lovers, their fathers, and their friends just so that he can get information and then fuck them before he fucks them over. I never gave him the chance to fuck me, but he sure as hell has fucked me over.

“I can handle whatever comes my way. Thank you, Agent Green, for your warnings,” I say, looking straight into his cold, dead eyes.

“You don’t know what these men are capable of, Tati,” he warns. It is like a dagger to my heart.

“Do not call me that,” I warn.

“What? Does it make you think of
him
? You were his Tati, weren’t you? You could be mine, too. I’d give you a nice place to live, a clean place for you and your daughter. You wouldn’t have to shake your ass for dollar bills anymore,” he says with a grin. It pisses me off.

“Leave,” I grind out through gritted teeth.

“You’ll be begging for me soon enough, princess,” he chuckles.

“It has been ten years, Agent Green, and I’ve had some ice-cold lonely nights, yet I have not dialed your number
once
. Hell could freeze over and I still would not,” I smart off as he walks away. He doesn’t reply,
luckily
. I wait and watch as he walks away from me before I turn and open my apartment.

Inside it is cold. Too cold. But the heater doesn’t work, so it will stay cold. I have a heater for Kiska’s room so that she is warm, but I just pile blankets on myself in the living room.

I can only afford a one-bedroom apartment, so Kiska has the bedroom and I sleep on a futon in the living room. It’s not ideal, but I don’t have a choice. I walk into the kitchen and make myself a protein shake. I need the extra vitamins and minerals in the shake. I don’t eat the healthiest. I don’t have the time, to be honest.

I sigh before I walk over to the entry closet. It’s supposed to be for coats, but it is more like my personal storage closet. I try not to open it too often; it brings memories with it.

I stand on my toes and take the little pink shoebox down. It’s covered in fabric and decorated with vintage buttons. A hobby I used to have when I was young—memory boxes decorated with buttons and fabric, glued with the hot glue gun. It was silly, really, but I was a silly girl.

I walk over to my futon and climb into the middle, wrapping the sheets and blankets around me for the extra comfort. Then I open the box.

Inside, the photograph on the top immediately brings tears to my eyes. My nose stings and my hands shake as I reach for it. The picture is of Kirill and me. He was so handsome and young, a boy-man of twenty-four. He’s looking at me with a sly grin on his lips, his face clean-shaven. I’m looking at the camera with the biggest, goofiest smile.

It was taken two weeks before my world crashed around me.

Two weeks before I found out I was pregnant.

Two weeks before Agent Green told me how horrible of a man he was.

Two weeks before I ran from him
.

I quickly put the picture back in the box and slide the lid back on, hiding it from my view. It makes me too damn sad. I shouldn’t look at it until the one day a year I make myself.
Kiska’s birthday
.

Every year I take the box down and we look at the photographs of Kirill and me. I tell her about her father, what a warm and loving man he was and how much we loved each other.

What I don’t tell her is how I was a coward. How I am the reason she doesn’t know him. How I am
still
a coward. It’s not as if there are millions of Kirill Baryshev’s in the world. I think that I could probably easily find him with a simple search on Google.

But I’m scared.

I’m weak and scared.

I lie down, still holding the box in my arms, and I sleep. I try to clear my mind of Kirill, and of my weaknesses, and my many,
many
mistakes.

I watch her from across the alleyway. The empty apartment I rented is disgusting. I wouldn’t let an animal live here, and yet, here I am. She’s sitting in the middle of a futon, wrapped in blankets and visibly upset. I want to hold her, but I can’t allow myself to feel that way.
Not ever again
. She’s beautiful, her face wiped clean of her makeup and her hair thrown into a messy pile on top of her head. She doesn’t need the makeup she wears. She’s stunning bare.

This morning my heart ached at the sight of the little dark haired girl who roamed around the apartment. I recognized her for who she is.
Mine
. My child never died, Tatyana just took her away from me. I want to know why.
I want fucking answers.

Now.

I also want to know why they’re living in such a dump in the fucking ghetto.

There are so many unanswered questions that I find myself indescribably
angry
with Tati. I have every right to be, but anger isn’t an emotion I allow often. I try to steer clear of any emotions since she left me. Emotions fuck with your life. They make you blind and lazy.

Instead of confronting her
, I watch.

I watch as she prepares a meal, then refrigerates it. I watch as she dresses into jeans and a sweater. I watch as she applies a light layer of makeup and then leaves the apartment.

I follow suit, keeping my distance but staying close enough to see the gorgeous curve of her ass.
Fuck, I want that in my hands
.