The Fixer (Chicago Bratva #2) - Renee Rose Page 0,18

the feminine hygiene part.

He pulled back even more. “I’ll tell Maxim what a great job you’re doing manning your station down here. Thanks so much!” I waved my fingers individually and scooted out the door.

Dodging my security is a talent I’ve perfected.

Now I have my phone off, so Maxim can’t reach me, and I’ll be in L.A. by nightfall. Ready to tear up the town like old times.

Although with Maxim, there will certainly be consequences. I think of the way he tossed me over his lap and spanked my ass back in Russia and my lady parts warm. I’m totally warped because I’m actually hoping he does it again.

It excited me far more than I care to examine. But he excites me far more than I care to examine.

I pop my earbuds in my ears to watch reruns of Game of Thrones. After my Downton Abbey binge on the way over here, I’m still in the mood for period pieces. Game of Thrones seems fitting for my life now. That’s what we’re all playing with each other, after all.

Maxim

I return to the penthouse with an emerald ring in my pocket with enough bling to be seen from the moon. It has tiny diamonds all around it and down the band, and I engraved it with our names. I hated seeing Igor’s ring on Sasha’s finger, the constant reminder of what a sham of a wedding we had. I hated the symbolism of it, too. Like she was really married to her father not me.

I open the door to the penthouse with a spring in my step, thinking I’ve finally done something right when it comes to her.

She’s not in the living room. Nikolai and Dima are there, arguing heatedly over the best way to segment and match data from the airlines.

“Where’s Sasha, in my room?”

Dima spares me a glance. “Da. She’s been in there for a while now.”

A niggling of foreboding comes over me. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her alone. I stride across the living room and throw open my door.

No Sasha.

And her big carry-on purse is gone.

Fuck.

Me.

I check in the bathroom even though I know she won’t be there.

Gospodi. Women can never be trusted—they are always full of lies, deceit and tricks.

Unbidden, the memory of my mother’s cruel deception replays like the horror movie I can never unsee.

I know she’s lying, but I don’t want to believe it. I prefer to pretend everything is as she says.

“This is just a temporary thing, Max. I’ll be back in a week or two—a month at the longest. Be good and do as you’re told.”

The director of the orphanage puts an arm around my shoulders, gently tugging me away from her.

Panic wells. I grasp my mother’s arm and try to hold on as she pulls away from me.

The tears in her eyes glitter as proof she’s lying.

She’s not coming back.

I don’t cry because she told me not to. I am a good boy. I do as I’m told. I eat. Sleep. Sit and learn.

I wait.

I wait and wait.

Five years of pretending her words were true.

Then I stop pretending, pry my window open and run away.

I take to the streets with the gems I learned: always watch your back, rely only on yourself, and most importantly—women can’t be trusted.

Now I’ve been saddled with a bride who deals in trickery and deception, too.

“Trace her phone!” I boom to Dima and Nikolai as I come out.

“Oh fuck, really?” Dima says. “I’m sorry, Maxim. I thought she was in there.” He squares his shoulders off to his computer, and his fingers fly over the keys.

I want to shout and rail at them for losing my bride, but really I’m at fault. I should’ve stationed Oleg at the door like Ravil did when he captured Lucy. I didn’t want her to feel like a prisoner, but she’s already proven herself a runner.

Hopefully she’s just out shopping with my credit card. Proving to me and herself she’s not a prisoner, and she can do what she wants.

“Blyat.” Dima curses in Russian. “She’s in Los Angeles. I’m sending the tracker to your phone.”

Los Angeles.

Again, fuck me. That was where she went to college. She probably went to visit her friends. Or her old haunts.

I kick myself for not knowing more about her. I should have visited her when she was in college in the States. But I had no interest in tangling with her again. Not when she’d fucked me over so badly.

Besides, despite being kicked out of