Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

A knock sounds on the door. Hazel pops in with a shit-eating grin. “You’re gonna wanna clear more space off your desk.”

“Stop. Really?” I glance at my tiny desk, which is already covered with several vases’ worth of champagne roses, notecards signed by Pasha, and a few empty smoothie cups. “Are you serious?”

“Not as serious as Lover Boy is!” She steps aside. Right on cue, several men and women in uniform march in carrying vases of blood red roses, a large box tied with velvet ribbon, and yet another prenatal-packed smoothie with an itemized label of every ingredient slapped on the side.

Okay. I might be enjoying the attention a little bit.

Just the teensiest, tiniest little bit.

“How many roses this time?” Hazel lets out a low whistle as she does a quick count. “Four dozen. And the expensive kind. Don’t these last a whole year?”

I let out a wistful sigh and nod. “As do the ones he sent yesterday. And the day before.”

Every day since our first ultrasound appointment, actually.

Hazel flips over the closest notecard and sighs dreamily. “Listen, you know I’m not one to condone rebounds right after a bad breakup⁠—”

“Haze—”

“But can we say, ‘Upgrade’? I mean, major upgrade?! This man is head over heels for you, obviously rich as hell, and if I didn’t know any better, engaged in one serious pissing contest against Conrad.”

I snort. She’s not wrong—I never again saw the flowers from Conrad that Pasha snatched from my car like some jealous boyfriend. But looking at the office-turned-greenhouse, it’s like Pasha saw Conrad’s pathetic attempt to woo me and decided everything he sends will be bigger and better.

But honestly? The one thing that makes my heart squeeze and the butterflies in my stomach flutter a little more than my baby girl?

The smoothies.

It’s stupid, I know. The man has to be dropping hundreds of dollars per floral delivery, and yesterday, there was even a small, velvet box with a Cartier tennis bracelet inside. But the one thing that shows he’s actually putting thought into what I want and need are the silly little smoothies.

He remembered me mentioning I hate choking on horse pills.

He remembered which flavors I mumbled when he took me in the day he found out I’m pregnant.

He remembered the size, the ice level, even the fact that I absentmindedly mentioned I always love grabbing “the green straws” from the bin.

Every smoothie he’s sent has a thick green straw.

Extra ice.

Prenatal boosters.

And a little heart next to my name. Which might just be the barista or whatever smoothie makers are called, but the hopeless romantic in me wants to imagine Pasha scribbling out some tiny artwork on the side of a cup between doing whatever it is mob bosses do for work.

“Sign here, please.” The lead delivery person holds out a digital clipboard and stylus.

Just as I’m scrawling my name, my phone buzzes on my desk. It’s buried somewhere beneath the forest of roses and I’m about to let it go to voicemail—it’s probably my parents or Conrad—but I manage to spot the glowing screen through a canopy of champagne petals.

It’s my apartment super. Weird.

“Hey, Mr. Marquette? What can I do for you?”

“Actually, Daph, it’s about what I need to do for you.” His gravelly voice sounds apologetic, which doesn’t exactly make me feel at ease. “We had to run a last-minute check of the premises after another tenant moved out. Turns out, the place is infested with bedbugs and what looks like the beginnings of a cockroach clan.”

I damn near spit my smoothie back down the straw. “Ugh! Are you serious?”

“‘Fraid so. But don’t worry, I made sure you’ll be fine before I even made the call. Given your condition and all, the wife and I wouldn’t feel right keeping you near all the toxic fumes while we fumigate.”

Don’t panic. Panicking isn’t good for the baby. “I, uh, really appreciate that.”

“We’ve got a penthouse in an adjoining building, three bedroom, fully furnished and ready for move-in. Only one neighbor, but he’s hardly ever home. Normally, the rent would be higher, but given the circumstances, the building owner would rather maintain the rates and give you a stipend so you can get whatever needs replacing. Clothes, food, you know.”

“I’m sorry.” I sink into my desk chair. I have to set the smoothie down on the desk before I drop it on the floor. “A stipend?”

Hazel’s eyes snap to mine. She mouths her question for more details, but I signal for her to wait while I hear this out.

Mr. Marquette huffs a laugh. “I wouldn’t broadcast it, that’s for sure. But yeah, I’ve got a check with your name on it and I’ll send ya an email with all your lock codes. Also, I hope you don’t mind, but my wife went in to save a few things you might need from the fumigation. She said she’ll put them in your new place.”

“No! I mean, no, I don’t mind, I really appreciate it. Really.” I take a deep breath so I can sound at least a little put-together. “I’ll see if I can swing by a little earlier.”

“No rush. Just let me know when you’re on your way and we’ll meet you outside.”

I set my phone back down and take a moment. In the corner of my eye, I see Hazel impatiently waiting for updates. “Well… I’ve been upgraded.” I glance around at the flowers with a soft snort. “Again. To a penthouse. Three bedrooms. With a stipend.”

“Holy shit.”

Something pings on my phone; it’s an email from Mr. Marquette. The lock codes, as promised, and a note of the amount direct deposited into my account.

I damn near fall off my chair.

Hazel reads the screen over my shoulder when she sees me slump in shock. She, too, is in complete disbelief. “Holy… Who the fuck is your landlord? And do they have any vacancies?”

“I don’t know and I don’t know and right now, I don’t know if I care. I mean, I just…”

I cover my mouth with a laugh. Is this happening right now? Is this really happening right now?

I’m surrounded by dozens and dozens of expensive, luxurious roses. I’m sipping on a personalized indicator of how closely Pasha pays attention to my wants and needs. I’m several thousand dollars richer and about to settle into a penthouse.

And to think: only a few short months ago, I was sobbing as I scrambled to pick up the shattered ashes of a life I thought I wanted.

“I gotta get back to work,” Hazel sighs. She casts one last glance around the office and chuckles. “Let me know if he comes crashing in on a parachute. Or a pumpkin carriage. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if he sweeps you off to some magical palace and goes down on you for five hours straight.”

I wait until the door latches behind her before I let out a dreamy little sigh. This is all so overwhelming that I don’t even know what to do. I should text Pasha, at some point, but I won’t hammer him with questions. I’ll just thank him for the beautiful flowers, the yummy smoothies.

Eventually.

I think.

“Don’t judge me,” I coo to my fluttering baby bump as I settle in to try and get some work done. “I can’t help being a big, fat chicken.” I rub a gentle hand over the swell and feel myself break into a smile. “But don’t you worry—I’m gonna be the best mommy in the whole world. I’m gonna love you and smother you with hugs and kisses and…”

I look around at the dozens of boxes of roses. There’s still so much uncertainty gnawing away at me, but it’s hard to ignore the evidence stacking higher and higher right in my line of sight.

“… and so will Daddy, I bet.”