The Director - Renee Rose Page 0,29

educator, to come check on Lucy.

Unlike Natasha, who was thrilled with the guaranteed work from me and the fact that I bought her a pregnancy massage table, Svetlana sees the bigger picture and gives me hell. “Why can’t I speak English to her? Why is she locked up?”

“It’s for her own protection,” I reassure her. “She’s carrying my child; if my enemies found out, they’d both be in danger.”

It’s a stretch. I tend to eliminate my enemies pretty quickly. Unless the Ukranians turn into trouble, the only threats I face are from within my organization, and they’d take me out, not my unborn child.

Svetlana narrows her eyes at me. “So you keep her prisoner? Against her will?” The woman knows she lives in a bratva-owned building. That she benefits from it in a multitude of ways simply by being Russian. She’s been happy to accept my generosity and protection without questioning any of my methods until it comes to a pregnant woman.

Her domain.

“Are you refusing to help me?” I ask the question mildly, but the color drains from her face.

“Nyet. Of course, I will do as you ask.” She draws herself up. “But if I see your treatment of this woman endangers the baby, you cannot count on my silence.”

I hold her gaze in silence, and unease seeps back into her posture. I’ve known great violence in my life, but I prefer to simply use the aura of danger to get my way. I don’t have to actually do much, I simply suggest a threat.

I learned it from watching American movies. The ones that keep you most on the edge of your seat—the ones that really instill fear are the ones where the danger is unknown. It’s the sound of scrapes and bumps in the dark, the music that makes you jump or keeps you on edge, not the actual plot. The most tension occurs before the audience actually sees what’s making the sounds. Once the danger is actually identified—when the audience has seen the alien or the girl in the well or whatever it is—it loses much of its power.

People’s imaginations usually concoct far worse consequences than the ones I would actually be willing to dole out.

Svetlana swallows, her breath turning shallow. “I don’t mean to threaten you, Mr. Baranov.”

Now I get to be magnanimous. I hold up my hand. “It’s all right. I am glad your primary concern is with the health of my baby and his mother.”

She nods quickly. “Yes, it is.”

“Good. Come and see her.”

I unlock my bedroom door and push it open. Lucy’s at her desk, typing rapidly on her laptop.

“Lucy, this is your midwife, Svetlana. She’s going to check on you.” I wave Svetlana in and shut the door behind us.

Lucy’s long blonde hair swings around her shoulder when she turns. “My what?”

“Your midwife. Svetlana specializes in home births. You have the extraordinary advantage of having your very own midwife right here in this building, so she will be close when it’s time for the birth.”

Lucy swivels in the office chair and stands. “I’m sorry, did you say home birth?”

I lift a brow as if her question is absurd. “Yes.” In all actuality, I wouldn’t be against a hospital birth, especially if that’s what Lucy requires. But I’m playing a game now where I dictate the terms of everything related to her birth.

“I have an ob-gyn,” she glances at Svetlana, “No offense.” She lasers her gaze at me. “And I’m birthing this child at St. Luke’s.”

“Medically managed births result in thirty percent greater chance of injury to mother or child. You’ll give birth naturally here in the building. Svetlana has twenty-five years’ experience delivering babies in both Russia and this country. She teaches child birthing classes, trains doulas and can even provide you with a water birth. You will be in very good hands. Or don’t you believe a Russian is worthy of delivering your child?”

Lucy flushes. “I—Ravil.” She draws a breath and puts her fists on her hips. “Do not pretend for one minute you think I have a bias against your country or its former citizens.”

I cock a brow. “Don’t you?”

Her flush grows deeper, as if the very suggestion of having a bias upsets her. “No.” She glances at Svetlana before looking back at me. “You know my bias is based on your… profession.”

Svetlana chooses this moment to interrupt. Speaking in Russian, she instructs Lucy to sit on the bed. Lucy obeys her gestures.

“Ah, so you claim to have had complete knowledge