Page 32 of Baby for the Bratva King

8

SASKIA

After tossing and turning all night, I decide to get my ass into work early the next morning.

May as well seize the day and kick this day off with a bang. Lying in bed, waiting for the alarm clock to ring, is a big waste of time. I live my life on my own terms. I’m a free woman. I can roll out of bed and start work at 6 a.m. if I want to.

And if I start earlier, I finish earlier. My body is itching to head down to the studio. After a few days away from the pole, I’m ready to disappear into music today and spend most of my time dancing.

But first, I have Mr. Pozharsky to face.

I unlock the front door, footsteps echoing through the marble lobby the second I step in. My plan is to avoid the kitchen at all costs this morning.

Felix can make his own green juice. A billionaire like him should have plenty of time on his hands, if he’s not scrubbing blood off them constantly, like the media say.

“A little water cleans us of the deed.”

Gossip Central Magazine like to quote Macbeth on a regular basis. I wonder if Felix would even feel guilty about committing murder.

People spend hours talking about his tattoos on their podcasts. A lot of the tattoos apparently reference the Russian Orthodox. On his left scapula is a tattoo of a forest. There was a lot of discourse online as to whether the trees were meant to be pine or spruce. Journalists have asked Felix this question numerous times, but he lowers his head and zones out the paparazzi as usual, ignoring all of their questions.

The word ‘Volya’ is written at the bottom of his scapula, which apparently translates to something like “absolute freedom” and “the world bending around your control.”

I can see why Felix gets hit with the mafia allegations on a regular basis, but I haven’t come across anything strange in his house… except the leather blindfold.

“Some things are worth ruining yourself for.”

His voice finds its way into my mind. I closed my eyes last night and he was my final thought…

Until the dreams started.

Seeing my father on TV must have triggered something in my brain. I see him most nights. I visualize the spark disappearing in his eyes. He can change personalities on command. One minute the lights are on; the next minute you’re staring into an all-consuming black hole.

And you’re willing to do anything to turn the lights back on.

I glance at the time on my watch. I should be able to make coffee in the kitchen without any disturbances. The morning is still early, and Felix’s meetings usually begin around 9 a.m. The man loves sleeping in like the rest of us.

I grab a coffee cup from the cabinet, spoiled for choice—that’s one thing I’m never short of around here.

It was the same at my father’s place. There were always lots of different plates to choose from; a wide selection of cheeses stocked up in the fridge. He had more rooms than we needed, two guest bedrooms and a spa. Fleur and I had everything, except love. That was one thing my father refused to give away freely.

I unstack the dishwasher while I wait for my espresso shots. Emptying the dishwasher is a pain in the ass as I walk back and forth like a yo-yo, probably already close to hitting my step goal. The kitchen is way too big.

“The early bird gets the worm,” says Felix, spawning out of nowhere.

I gasp, clutching the fine bone china plate at my chest as I jump out of my skin.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Good save,” says Felix as he takes the plate from me. “Your chest offers a lot of cushioning, and this plate is extremely delicate, quite like yourself.” He grazes my cheek, analyzing me for a moment before walking away.

I release an aspirated breath when he leaves, forgetting my surroundings. Where was I?

Coffee, right.

I scamper back over to the machine, my fingers fumbling over the catch as I pull and release…

Pull, release.