Page 1 of Baby for the Bratva King

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SASKIA

I celebrate my twenty-third birthday in style by making Felix Pozharsky’s bed, which is a dream come true for a lot of girls.

But I try to separate the art from the artist. The man might have unbelievable shoulders and piercing silver eyes, like the stars on a clear night, but he’s an ass.

The biggest ass in New York, actually.

He makes everything look easy. While I’m mopping his floors, making every cent count, he’s cruising around in his private jet sipping champagne, living the life of a celebrity.

Which is exactly what he is in New York. Felix only has to glance at the cameras once to make headlines the next day. He rarely engages with the press, but they’re always circling, hoping to snap a picture, and to mostly hear some gossip about the women he dates. He always has at least one girl at his disposal, treating human beings like cash he can throw away. There will always be more money to make, more hotels to build; new girls to climb in bed with.

And still, the unwanted part of me goes to bed at night wondering when it’ll be my turn to sleep in his bed.

This particular one is for sleeping only. Felix uses his hotel rooms for the fun stuff, which is probably why he built them in the first place—for fun.

Interestingly, Felix seems rather dull as a person. But people seem to like dull, myself included. He’s proof that you can achieve anything in life if you have the right face and body.

I waved goodbye to rich men two years ago when I left my father, but now I’m working under one. I feel myself falling more each day, and all for what? Because his face is handsome? Because he walks into a room and commands respect?

I refuse to give him that, so I tend to walk out of the room before it shows.

I gather up the burgundy sheets, his cologne clinging to the fabric. Pepper. Caramel. Bleu de Chanel is his signature scent, sometimes combined with the smell of aged scotch if he’s been drinking.

I tear the sheets away before I lose myself in his scent. I’d rather not go down that rabbit hole.

Even from London, this man still manages to make my heart race as I picture him naked. I spend a lot of time doing that, since there’s barely anything else to do around here.

Working alone is tough. I hate the silence, being alone with my thoughts. At least when I’m serving customers at the restaurant, or even grinding on a patron’s lap at the club, I’m interacting with another human being.

In the three weeks I’ve worked here, I’ve found that Felix is rarely ever home, and when he is, I find ways to avoid him. Wearing your heart on your sleeve makes you easy to manipulate.

When you’re living to make ends meet, you’ll throw yourself into anything. Me and my sister Fleur have bills to pay and a toxic father to avoid. Beggars can’t be choosers, especially in a city like New York when everything costs a fortune.

I take a break from making the bed, gazing through the window, out into the courtyard. Felix would rather spend money on garden foundations and sculptures. I inspect one of the sculptures in particular, the head separated from the body, placed in the palm of their hand. Their face is deliberately smashed in, like it was designed that way.

This man is ridiculous.

But I don’t complain. I do as I’m told and keep my head low…

Low enough to avoid eye contact with him. My self-control is running low. His starburst eyes are making me fall under his spell.

But I won’t fuck this up for myself. Two grand a week to clean an already very tidy house is a good deal. I would be a fool to ruin that.

I return to the linens, running the fabric through my fingertips, feeling the natural fibers brush against my skin.

Sleeping in a comfy bed does not automatically mean you’ll get a good night’s sleep. The cheap polyester bedding I sleep in back home does the job just fine. I sleep peacefully knowing I no longer have to wake up with my father to answer to.

Luxury equals comfort to a certain extent, but it’ll never set you free.

Me and Fleur were always driven around in the flashiest cars. We had limited-edition purses, designer everything, but it never meant anything. I was a Chanel bag for my father to wear when he needed to elevate his own status. I was an accessory, not a daughter, and as I stare hard at these sculptures in the courtyard, I wonder how it might feel for rich men like my father and Felix to be decoration instead of a huge pain in the ass.

You can’t rule the world when you’re made of stone, although Felix seems to have succeeded…

I stare harder at the sculptures, trying to understand their hidden meanings, if Felix even cares about art.

I frown at it and turn away. I’m done faking the smiles, pretending to be someone I’m not for the sake of a rich man…