Expose' (Born Bratva Book 3)

Kindle Edition

©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.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

All content herein is protected under copyright law.

This e-book is Rated 17+

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…

Suzanne Steele’s Blog:
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https://twitter.com/Suzanne_Steele_

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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

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 surely 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.