Page 1 of Pregnant By the Russian Pakhan

Chapter 1 - Mikhail

“I will not be part of your cavalier plans to ruin Dostoevsky—”

That was as far as Alex Leonid managed to declare, before the bullet slammed right into the middle of his forehead, killing him in an instant.

Mikhail Nikolai steepled his hands beneath his chin as he regarded the lifeless body of the other man, which had dropped to the floor and was now spreading a deep crimson stain on the very expensive, very exotic, white rug in the middle of his library. It had been a gift from his mistress, Alena Crest. She would have a hissy fit if she saw its state now, he thought with his customary detachment.

His men stepped forward and deftly wrapped the body in a large black nylon sheet before hefting it away from the room.

The man seated across from Mikhail was understandably white as snow from the entire encounter. His tongue darted out in a nervous gesture as he licked his lips. He had, after all, just watched Mikhail casually shoot his companion right in the middle of his forehead.

Mikhail lifted an eyebrow in the man’s direction, daring him to toe the line of his dead colleague and share his fate. “And you, Armando? Do you share Leonid’s sentiments?”

The poor man’s throat was so tight he could barely speak, Mikhail noted with dispassionate pleasure.

“I am yours to command, Pakhan,” Armando Luca said with a small bow, through chattering teeth.

His role as Pakhan of the brutal Bratva he led was a responsibility that Mikhail easily carried on his large shoulders. He had become Pakhan at the ripe old age of seventeen, when Oleg Dostoevsky and his men had murdered Mikhail’s father in cold blood. Now, twenty-three years later, he was still on a mission to end the other man’s reign of terror and relieve him of his miserable life. His efforts had earned him a reputation as the deadliest mafia boss in all of Chicago; second only, perhaps, to Dostoevsky himself.

“I want Oleg Dostoevsky, and you’re going to help me nail that bastard,” Mikhail enunciated in a low, terrible tone that made ruthless men shiver with fright.

Armando Luca was one of the most terrible killers in all of Chicago, working for the Russian-Italian syndicate headed by Dostoevsky. Mikhail noted dispassionately that despite Armando’s well-earned reputation for ruthlessness, he still cowered before Mikhail like a little boy.

Mikhail let his brooding gaze scan the large room that served as his library and den. It smelled faintly of cigarettes, even though he detested cigarettes. He had his mistress, Alena, to thank for that. She seemed to think that being the arm candy of a mafia boss required her to smoke to appear tough.

Mikhail felt his lip quirk to the side in a small smile. Alena was a handful. Sometimes she was more trouble than she was worth, but she made up for it by being a pure firebrand in bed.

His body stirred as he remembered her soft cries of pleasure. Unbidden, his cock pressed against his fly. He wanted sex, he realized.

He looked down at the crimson stain on the rug and instead of the dead body that had lain there scant minutes ago, all he could see in his mind’s eye was the last time he and Alena had been entwined on that same rug in passionate ecstasy. Her long slim legs had looped around his hips as he drove into her tight wet pussy again and again and again.

He climbed to his feet, so focused on his thoughts that he almost forgot the sniveling coward in the chair on the other side of his desk.

As Mikhail started for the door, his men stepped out of the shadows and yanked Armando to his feet. Mikhail’s coal-black eyes swung to the man as he recalled his presence. His nod was a code that told his men to throw Armando Luca out and keep an eye on him to make certain he wasn’t going to squeal to the enemy.

Smoothing down his wavy black hair, Mikhail exited the room on long legs, his strides quick and silent. He often sent for Alena, rather than going to her, but now he wanted her with an urgency that propelled him in the direction of her room. Plus, he longed to see the surprise and breathless wonder on her face when he plunged into her. She was delightfully responsive to his every touch; it was enough to drive any man wild, he thought with satisfaction.

He reached her wing in his mansion and moving on soundless feet—a skill he had learned in the years it took him to survive on the run—he deftly inserted his key into her keyhole and swung the door open, his grin already breaking across his face as he pictured her surprised delight at his impromptu visit.

The room was empty, he realized, coming to a disappointed halt just inside the door. He searched his remarkable memory to recall if she had mentioned visiting the stores today, but he came up blank.

With a frown, he started to pull the door shut when a small, feminine cry of pleasure reached his ears from the bathroom. He froze, everything in his body coming to a standstill.

What was that sound? Was Alena pleasuring herself?

He could feel the earth tilting on its axis as he headed toward the bathroom. The door was wide open, which was how he had heard the small sound.

For the first time in a very long time, Mikhail felt a small spurt of fear in his heart. He could take on fifty enemies single-handedly without flinching, but for some reason, he was almost afraid of what he would discover behind that door.

Was Alena cheating on him? And in his own mansion too?

It didn’t bear thinking about. His insides felt cold and almost dead as he walked slowly toward the bathroom.

As he peered into the steamy room, he felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. Alena Crest, his girlfriend of five years, was pressed against the wall, screaming her head off as one of Mikhail’s men, Dmitri, slammed his unfortunate penis into her from behind again and again while his rough hand squeezed the soft, naked flesh of her breast with unsightly passion and indecent haste.

Without a word, Mikhail turned away and sat down to await the lovebirds in Alena’s room. Several emotions churned inside of him as he considered his options. No question, the penalty for what they had done was death, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to kill Alena.

He was staggered to realize that somewhere between making love, satisfying her every whim, and showering her with ludicrous gifts, he had allowed himself to fall in love with her. His hands balled into fists at his sides and his anger surged furiously until it was all he could do to keep himself from charging into the bathroom and killing her and her lover.

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