Chapter Eighteen - Ruslan

I didn't want the driver to take us home. Not when I can visibly see how shaken up Fiona is. I refuse to make her an open target, and I'm not in total control as the driver. If I am—it's on me to keep her safe. Once I watched Bergin's tires screech, the dirty plume of smoke swirling behind its wheels as he fishtailed out of the restaurant parking lot, I stood in the car's place ringing Andrei.

"We need Bergin gone. Hear me? Plate number 657QTR. Black Mercedes SUV," I told him, my jaw was clenching because I missed the earlier sign.

"Say no more. What happened to Fiona?" Andrei asked.

"Bergin happened to Fiona. He tried to kidnap her. Don't worry, I didn't kill him, but I need one of the soldiers to. Keep it clean. I don't want any more heat around the files if we can help it. Just exterminate the Irish rat. I've never been a fan of him anyway."

"Hmm. His brother Bracken is worse, but we'll get the job done. Does that mean dinner is over? Because the party's just getting started here. My aunty has all sorts of questions for you, cousin. You've got some explaining to do," Andrei teases, but I'm in no mood for jokes as I quickly walk back to the restaurant and Fiona.

"Shut up, Andrei, and sort it out," I push out, barely containing my rage.

"Okay, okay. I'm on it. Relax. Report back when it's done."

"Good." I hung up and when I reached Fiona, her face held a dazed expression. It's obvious to me she doesn't understand how many people want this file.

"I'm taking you home. Now. Dinner's over. I don't want to risk you walking back through the main restaurant either. Andrei and I will clear the restaurant first. I'll tell Olga, and don't you move out from there until I collect you. Do you hear me?"

Clearly word has spread on the Chicago streets, and with Jamie Bergin's loud Irish mouth, the treasure hunt for the Omerta files and Fiona will be the hot topic of the Windy City, and I'm making it my duty to keep her safe.

"I get it." She shudders, rubbing her hands over her arms for comfort. Dropping her off near the kitchen, Olga offers her a glass of water, and satisfied she's safe for the moment, I announce our departure from the family dinner.

"Hi, I want to thank everyone for coming tonight, but Fiona and I have to cut the night short. She's not feeling very well, but you'll get an opportunity to get to know her at the wedding."

My mother being the savvy woman she is doesn't buy it. "Bullshit! What's going on?"

"It's better not discussed at the table, Mother. I have it under control." After a stare-off she smiles, standing to give me a hug.

"Okay. If you say so. Get home safe and call me in the morning."

"Yes. I will," I reply succinctly, wanting to get back to Fiona as soon as possible.

By driving Fiona home, I feel more in control of the situation. It's probably a blessing in disguise to cut the family dinner short in the first place. Fiona's embolden declaration about her father was enough for them to gossip for the rest of the week. I know I'm going to receive several calls from my mother about it, but she's part of the Bratva lineage too. She lives and breathes this life, despite my father being murdered. He died for his family, and I will do the same if necessary. He led us valiantly, but now, it's my turn. She's just as smart and vindicative as I am.

I kick myself as I start the ignition. "I should have killed the bastard. Andrei could have handled the rest." Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I keep my eyes trained on the streets ahead, scanning for any nasty unwanted surprises.

I showed mercy to a man who my Bratva men wouldn't have hesitated to shoot between the eyes on first sight. Personally, I've shot men for less, but I'm not stupid. I tamed the dark beast within, not wanting bloodshed in the parking lot at my family's favorite restaurant. If they heard the shots, my cousins, mother and aunts would stream out of the restaurant like roaches to join me on a killing spree. All of them were armed, and that's just the price you pay as a Bratva family member.

Bergin has been a tough adversary for us on the streets of Chicago for years, but I don't blame him for wanting the files. I want them too, and for the first time in my life as a shaken Fiona sits beside me, I feel a vague sense of guilt about it. Except now—circumstances have changed. I'm having a kid, and the one thing I promised myself and my Bratva family is that my child would live out in the open, but they would be protected. What good am I if I can't follow through with my talk?

Fiona's ashen face is riddled with the trauma and the burden of what she holds close to her vest.

"Everyone is after me for the files. That's all they want, and now everybody knows," she blurts out in a hauntingly flat tone, zoning out as I change my normal route of getting home, turning down the back streets as a precautionary measure. Seeing her break does something to me on the inside. I can't pinpoint what exactly, but I don't lie to her either.

" Yes. Everyone is after you for the files, and it's only going to get worse, Fiona," I warn, half expecting Bergin to return with his own pack of soldiers. I check the rearview mirror. Andrei and a few other associates are following a few cars behind, and my gun is ready for easy access in the middle console.

"Ruslan," she whispers, her face as pale as a sheet. "Make a left turn up after the next stop sign." Her voice is clear, but the furrow in her brow and fidgeting hands tell me she's still unsettled by the attempted kidnapping.

"Why? Do you see someone following?" Automatically, I scan our surroundings, checking the mirrors, but she shakes her head.

"No, that's not it. I want you to take me to my apartment." She's silent a beat, her hair illuminated from the moonlight. A weird shot to my heart twinges as my need to protect Fiona increases. Things have changed, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Sighing resolutely, she nods her head. "I'm willing to give to you whatever my father left me," she concedes with a hoarse whisper, her bottom lip quivering. Finally, Fiona has surrendered, and I don't have to play games to get what I want. The Omerta files are mine, and the bonus is hers.

It doesn't get much better than this.

I compose myself, exhaling with a deep breath, and looking skyward, reaching out to rub the back of her hand with my thumb.

"It's okay. You've made the smart choice," I rasp, a surge of renewed fire raging through my veins. We are about to become renamed "The Untouchables" of Chicago, because obtaining these files are as close to ruling the world as possible. Still, as we draw closer to Fiona's apartment, I want the details of what Bergin said to her.

"I don't know if it's a smart or a dumb choice, but it's a choice. I don't have room to make any other," she admits in defeat.

No, you don't, but if you didn't give me the files, I would have protected you anyway.

That's an internal secret I keep close to my chest. A powerful surge of anger shifts through me as I blink, the chaotic events bleeding into my mind. If Bergin had succeeded in kidnapping her, I don't know what I would have done. One of the options springing to mind is setting the fucker on fire.

"Trust me. You made the right choice. Tell me what Bergin said to you."

She draws in a sharp breath. "He didn't say anything you wouldn't have already guessed. He just asked me for the files, and he said he'd spare my life if I gave them to him."

Scoffing, I shake my head, the light show of traffic lights, holding us up from around the block of Fiona's apartment. "Let me clear this up for you. He wouldn't have taken the files and let that be it. He would have killed you."

My Bluetooth interrupts and I see that it's Andrei. "Yes?" I answer, turning into Fiona's quiet street.

"Detour?" Andrei quips.

"Yes. To the files. Go. It will be fine," I tell him confidently, not seeing anybody tailing us.

"'Kay. Call me if you need anything."

"You just concentrate on handling Bergin." Hanging up, we park, as Fiona expels an exhausted sigh.

"It's already been organized; I can assure you."

"Good." Hanging up, I don't expect Fiona to say anything else, but she does, looking at me with a soft smile.

"You saved my life. I owe you," she mutters, tears brimming in her eyes. I curl my fingers into a fist, running my knuckles along her jawline. This is where Fiona's naivety is almost endearing.

"Nobody owes anybody anything. I would have gotten the files anyway." I give her a glowing smile, half of my face in the moonlight, the other in the shadows. "But thank you for making both our lives easier. Remind me to get you a gun. No wife of mine will be left unprotected," I declare with clarity.

Mild alarm reads on her face, but she nods as I quiz her. "The files are in your apartment?" I say, disturbed that my men and I missed the oversight right in front of our nose.

How could they be? We turned the place upside down in search of them, coming up short. "Yes. The file is in my apartment," she repeats numbly.

File. Not files. Hmm. Maybe it's all one large file and not many. My mind presses forward, wanting more details, but I figure I'm going to find out soon enough. "Then this should be a quick and easy process. Stay there," I tell her, getting out of the car first, my gun cocked as I round the car, eyeballing the neighborhood.

It's quiet, and all I can see are the dim amber lights from some apartment windows, and the houses that do exist on the street have their lights off. If we hadn't gotten to Bergin, and he's anything like me, he would be working on a plan to infiltrate enemy lines. He's relentless when he wants something—as all good mobsters are.

Fiona's apartment is located on the top end of Chicago's suburbs, but of late this area has experienced a spate of burglaries. I know the thieves personally—a series of smaller gangs looking to establish their street cred. My soldiers are paid handsomely to keep their ears pressed into the dirty asphalt. Assured the coast is clear, I bring Fiona out of the car, beckoning with my hand, her eyes wide like those of a scared lamb when I guide her from the car.

"Is it safe?" she asks, voice trembling as I hurry her inside.

Smirking through the dark, I get her in through the door, the hairs on the back of my neck bristling as a young man and his girlfriend giggle through the lobby. It pays to be diligent, because there's not about to be a repeat of what happened right under my nose again. I watch as Fiona holds her breath until they pass by with a polite wave. She keeps her cool, but I keep my hand on the inside of my jacket where a hot ticket to hell awaits should either of them decide it was a good idea to be a mob insider. Once they pass, I give her the green light.

"You're with me. You can relax now, but if you weren't—" I shrug casually, not wanting to give her a hair's breadth of escaping again.

We reach her apartment on the second floor. As she slots the key in the lock, my breath grows shallow. Who knew a hot temptress from a nightclub would be the ticket to more power for the Bratva.

Once inside, I flick on the light to her spacious apartment, now understanding that it's likely Daddy paid for it. As he should, and I take the split-second decision as I'm minutes away from having the files of my dreams in my hands, I might as well give her a heads-up on the area she lives in.

"There's been a spate of burglaries around here lately. Have you noticed?"

Fiona's surprised face amuses me. "What? No. I've been living in this building for years and it's always been safe," she declares as I follow her past the kitchen to a second bedroom my men and I thoroughly trashed only to find nothing.

"That's because the thieves are better than good and haven't been caught yet. They're not coming up on police radars because of this insider knowledge I'm giving you." I wink, feeling it's only right since she's about to give away something that will change Bratva's fate forever. "I should know, I've hired the Ramirez brothers and the Angels to do work for me. A form of subcontracting, if you will," I tell her, giving her some insight into Bratva business.

She pauses for a minute, her emerald eyes holding a glint of steel in them. I thought they might hold sadness at the revelation, but Fiona's proving to be a wild card of surprises. Maybe she has just the right amount of Marino DNA to last as an Utkin wife. "Sounds about right."

"Yes, it is. Some of your wealthier neighbors hiding out here in the penthouse have become a little too complacent about going away on their fancy, little European holidays. And if there's anything I know about—it's home invasion. It's how I got my start," I admit in a chipper tone, feeling freer about revealing my past. She's to be my wife, so a little harmless information might make her feel better about the marriage.

"Why am I not surprised?" she peppers back as we step further into the study, the room overturned and trashed from my team's last visit.

"Yes. I did. Me and our Russian gang became excellent petty thieves on these gritty Chicago streets, climbing by the skin of our nails through the Bratva ranks."

"Make sense, Chicago is mob country," she mutters, but I cut the small talk wanting the files in my hand before I keep going. Who knows if Fiona's good enough to flip the situation on me, only for this to be a setup. She's already shown me she's a cunning player in the game. I circle around her, keeping a watchful eye on her.

"Sure is. It's why breaking into your apartment proved to be so easy," I remind her.

She sighs, expelling a hefty sigh. "You're cut from a wicked cloth,"

"But it's one you like," I breathe into her ear, weaving a hand around her belly, inhaling the glorious scent of her hair. "Now where are the files?"

Her office is in immaculate condition, and if you didn't have a trained eye, you wouldn't know that we had torn the place apart only a few weeks back. My men and I were very good. Only I knew because of the dent in the wall we left. I glare at it now as Fiona steps out of my embrace, removing the only thing we didn't touch from the wall.

It's a small wooden framed picture of a warehouse. She hands it to me with a bland expression. "This is what you wanted. Here."

"This?" I stare at the old, dilapidated warehouse in the photo, tension riding thick in the air as I think about the fact Fiona might have duped me again. Thoughts of wanting to cut off her air supply enter my mind, but then I remember she's carrying our baby.

"Are you serious?" I demand, peering closely at the photo again. Tears glisten in Fiona's eyes.

"Yes. I'm not trying to be funny. This is what Luca gave me before he died."

Confusion overtakes me as I study the picture. "This can't be it," I expel with an exasperated sigh.

"Yes. It can be. Because this is all Luca left in the box." A liar can sniff out another liar, but this isn't what Fiona is. She's telling me the truth. "He didn't give me files; he simply gave me this picture. Again, I'm sorry to disappoint you," she says lightly.

"Okay," I say to her slowly. "I think I understand what your father did here. He's an even smarter man, than I already knew him to be."

At the mention of her father, Fiona bites her bottom lip, attempting to hide the quiver, the tears streaming down her face.

"Hey, look at me," I say hoarsely, wanting to set her mind at ease. I put my fingers under her chin, making her face me. Her beautiful emerald eyes, clutching on to mine for dear life. "Your father tried to protect you. Now I can and will. Jamie Bergin or any other man won't touch a hair on your pretty little head. I promise you," I tell her, stroking my fingers through the threads of her silky long tresses, her mouth providing an open invite, but I choose intimacy, not seduction, a compelling urge to keep her safe washing over me.

Fiona's face remains puffy, and tear streaked as she shakes her head vehemently. "I didn't want anything to do with my father's lifestyle," she confesses with a sniffle. "And he couldn't protect me either, and he was in this mob game longer than you. How can you do it?" she asks doubtfully, her voice scratchy.

Placing hands on her shoulders, I dip to kiss her mouth. "How do you know that?"

"Know what?"

"That he's been in the mob game longer than the Bratva? My father reigned before I did—and so did my grandfather, but not here, in Russia. Consider it ten times worse conditions than that of America."

"Oh." Fiona doesn't move from her position, but for reasons unknown her doubting me is bothersome.

"You don't know of my ways, but you'll come to understand," I soothe.

"I guess it's been a steep learning curve." A gentle smile curves on my mouth as I chuckle at her lightheartedness.

"Yes. It has, but you're passing the test with flying colors. We can't run from what we are, Fiona. You're part of this life as well. Your mother knew," I remind her, the light of realization coming on for her.

"I know, and I'm sorry for doubting you. I'm going to have to embrace it." As her watery smile breaks, I drop my mouth to hers, wanting to kiss away her pain and show her how good it can be. I do my best, letting my passion shine through as she yields to me.

"You're the mother of my child. I'm not letting anything happen to you, but the way your father did things is not the way I want to protect you," I tell her, delivering the harsh truth in a croaky voice.

"Okay. I trust you to take care of things. I'm just fucked up inside about things," she explains, choking out her reply as I hold her in the middle of the room with the warehouse picture in hand.

"You belong to me, Fiona, and that means I take care of my property. You're going to be an Utkin now. From one mob family to another."

Fiona melts in my arms, accepting her fate. "Seems that way."

As we untangle from our embrace, the beep of a text message comes through.

ANDREI: I have a Bergin update. Giving me a puzzled look, Fiona stares at me.

"Who is it?"

"Andrei." I stare at the MMS of Bergin's slumped body behind a Chicago dumpster on the Southside, grimacing. We might have just started a Chicago street war with the Irish we don't want, but I couldn't let Bergin live. I meant what I said to Fiona.

"Tell me. What's going on?"

No. She doesn't need to see this. Not with the baby. I offer her solace. "Nothing. Just a crucial update, and reassurance that everything has been handled."

Accepting my answer, we leave her study, the Omerta files now in my possession.