Sold to the Mob Boss: A Mafia Romance (Lavrin Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  “Where am I?” The words squeak from my lips without permission. I wish I could take them back.

  The crowd once again breaks into a bout of laughter. I hate being a source of entertainment for all of them. They’re demons. What other explanation is there? How could any human do this to another person?

  A fat man, bald and sweaty, in the front row glares at me. His bloodshot eyes twitch. Bloody red stitches climb his crooked neck, under his leering grin. A cackle erupts from behind his chipped teeth that slant in every direction like broken piano keys. He’s crouched awkwardly, and for some reason it reminds me of a tarantula, the way he clings close to the ground, all pent-up kinetic energy and whirling, watching pupils.

  Then he springs forward and runs his slimy tongue across my foot.

  I flinch and yank my foot away, bile crawling up my throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you all?” I gasp. “Where am I? What is this?” My last wisp of courage is gone now, and in its place there isn’t anything left but pure, wide-eyed panic. I want out. I want home. I want my mother. I want to be anywhere in the world but where I am right now—trapped, chained, and about to be sold to a beast.

  The man who tongued my foot looks at me, eyes bulging. As if he can read my mind, he licks his lips and says, “Baby, you’re in the underworld. And we’re the devils who live here.”

  It’s like he said the magic words that unlock a whole new level of unfiltered lust, of dirty energy that now expands to light up the eyes of every man in the dark room. The crowd erupts into cheers, fists pumping into the air.

  I know the man is telling the truth. I’m in some kind of hell. A hell where men like him buy women like me. A hell where strangers rip open my clothes to expose my breasts to onlookers. A hell where a grotesque bastard licks my foot without permission.

  The goon behind me unlocks my handcuffs and leads me closer to the auctioneer. But the creep from the front row jumps up on stage, reaching his hand out and squeezing my breast. “Just want to test the merchandise.”

  Without thinking, my free hand comes up and my fist connects hard with the guy’s jaw. There’s an audible pop, and the crowd falls silent. My hand is hurting, but the adrenaline muffles the edge of the pain. All I can think is how good it felt to hit back. To not be helpless. To go down swinging, if it turns out that this is indeed the end of me.

  For one brief moment, I’m in control of my own life.

  Then it’s gone. I look at the man. His sneer has vanished and now his lips press into a tight line. Before I can react, he cracks me backhanded across the cheek. My head jerks back and I stumble. Stars flash in front of my eyes.

  “Dumb bitch.”

  Tears cloud my sight, the blow making me dizzy. The stinging pain is familiar and before I can stop it, the floodgates in my mind burst open. Memories rush in, unwanted but unstoppable.

  I haven’t been slapped like that since my father was still alive.

  ***

  Years ago

  “Mom, what time is Daddy coming home? I need his help with this school project.”

  “I’m not sure, Annie. I know he has a meeting with his bosses. Is there anything I can help you with?” Mommy laid a hand on my shoulder.

  “No. We’re writing a story for Father’s Day in school and there’s an interview I have to do with Daddy.” My shoulders sagged as I put away the assignment sheet and grabbed my math homework. Hopefully, my dad would be home before bedtime. I wasn’t sure what I’d say to my teachers this time if he didn’t show up.

  Mom kissed my head and made her way back to the stove. “I made some mac and cheese, honey. I know it’s your favorite.”

  I forced a smile. Mom was always trying to make me feel better, ever since Daddy had started this new job that kept him away at all hours of the night. His mood had changed, too. He was more nervous, more tired than he ever had been before. And when he was here, things were different. Darker, somehow.

  He wouldn’t tell us what his new job was, only that we couldn’t tell anybody about it and we couldn’t ask any questions about the people he brought over. The men who came home with him sometimes were cocky and rude, bossing my mom around, cursing or slapping at her if she got their drinks wrong. She told me to stay out of sight when Daddy had guests, but I couldn’t help peeking at them, with their cigarettes dangling from their fat lips and dirty shoes propped up on the coffee table. Mommy always yelled at me if I put my shoes on the furniture, but for some reason she never said anything to them. She seemed scared of the men my father worked for now.

  A crash sounded from the living room and my heart stuttered as I jumped out of my chair. I tried to look out into the hallway, but Mommy forced me behind her. We inched to the doorway and peered into the living room where the noise had come from.

  Shattered glass was strewn across the floor. In the middle of the mess was a brick. I looked up and saw a huge hole in the living room window. Mom huffed and straightened her spine. She turned to me, her hand pushing my hair back from my face. “Annie, please get the broom and dustpan.”

  I nodded and turned toward the kitchen as my mom walked towards the front door. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but it seemed bad. Why would someone throw a brick through our window?

  I brought Mom the broom from the kitchen closet and stood silent in the corner as she swept up the shards of glass. Neither of us said a word. I held the dustpan for her until the mess was cleaned up.

  Then Daddy walked in just as we finished.

  “What happened?” he growled.

  “Someone threw a brick through the window!” I blurted. Mommy glared at me, like I’d given away a secret.

  Daddy’s brow furrowed. He raked his hand through his hair, walked over to the couch, and plopped down, pouring himself a big glass of whiskey from the bar table next to him. “This is my fault. My bosses are angry. I’m not meeting my quota.” He leaned forward and pressed his face into his palms.

  I’d never seen him so upset before. It was weird and uncomfortable. I wanted to ask questions, but before I could open my mouth, my mother cut me off.

  “Annie, go to your room so your father and I can talk.” She sounded like she was about to cry.

  “But—”

  “NOW.”

  I didn’t dare resist. The warbling edge in her voice was frightening.

  I made my way back down the hall to my bedroom, closing my door but pressing my ear against the crack in the bottom.

  I didn’t hear everything they said to each other, just bits and pieces.

  Drugs. Packages. Bratva. Money, someone owed someone, and someone was going to get hurt if they didn’t pay someone. Bricks, warnings. It didn’t all make total sense, but by the time I heard my mother pad past my room, I knew enough to be afraid. Daddy had gotten us mixed up in something really bad.

  That wasn’t the first brick through the window, either.

  But I would’ve preferred a thousand more bricks, a brick every night for the rest of my life, compared to what came next.

  It was a few months later. Things were worse than ever. I walked on eggshells when I was at home, terrified of making my dad even angrier than he normally was. My mother had stopped eating and was wasting away to skin and bones. Whenever I asked about the bruises on her arms after she and Daddy had been up all night arguing again, she just snapped at me and told me it was nothing.

  “Annie!” I heard her calling me from the kitchen. “Annie, go check the mail!”

  I walked outside and saw a package leaning up against our doorframe. Picking it up, I noticed the bottom was sticky and wet. It must have been raining outside.

  I walked into the kitchen and set the box on the crowded countertop, then went over to the sink to wash the cardboard residue off my hands. I noticed the water turned red as it rinsed my skin.

  “Mom, the box is leaking something.”

  She came over, picked it up, then sat down with it at the kitchen table, knife in hand to slice the tape off.

 
; Then I heard the knife clatter to the floor. My mother screamed. My heart froze.

  I ran over to her. “Mom, what, what is it?” Her eyes were wide with terror, face pale, hands trembling. I looked down at the opened box.

  It was a finger.

  A bloody finger.

  Bile clawed at the back of my throat. I pulled away from my mother and ran back to the sink to puke. Tears fell from my eyes as I retched again and again. Was that my father’s finger? We hadn’t seen him for two days.

  “Is Dad dead?” I looked up to see she hadn’t moved from her seat at the table.

  It took her a long time to answer. “I don’t know, Annie.”

  Neither of us slept that night.

  Eventually, my father did eventually come home, bloodied and beaten, scabbed-over stump where his right middle finger had been. He’d been tortured by the Bratva for failing to sell enough product once again. How much longer could this dark secret persist? What would happen to him if he couldn’t make things work? What would happen to us?

  Fate decided that for us. And our dark secret became public news when we woke up after another night without my father home, to find his face plastered over the front of the local paper.

  Arrested. Charged with racketeering, intent to distribute, possession of a mind-boggling amount of illegal drugs. No bond. No hope.

  We lost our house; assets were all frozen. With no living relatives left to help and no friends willing to open their doors to the family of a criminal, Mom and I had to move into a homeless shelter.

  Mom eventually found a job as a secretary and we made some ends meet. A new city helped us put some distance between the bricks and bloodied fingers that still haunted my dreams. I buried myself in my studies to try and forget.

  But forgetting was impossible.

  My father ended up dying in jail. It was no more and no less than he deserved for what he did to me. To my mother. To our family.

  I swore I’d stay far away from the kind of men who had taken everything from us—the men with cigarettes and dirty shoes on the coffee table. The men who slapped my mother if she messed up their drinks. The Bratva was no sexy fantasy—it was a living, breathing beast. And it had ruined my life.

  ***

  I look around the room from the stage once more. So much for my promise to myself, because the reality is that my past has come back to haunt me. I’m once again in the belly of the beast I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape.

  But this time, there’s no getting away.

  Chapter Six

  Nikita

  I swallow hard, hypnotized by the scene up on the stage.

  The beautiful brunette continues to pique my interest. Her fighting spirit, still scrapping even though there’s no way out, is admirable. And her innocence. So rare. Two traits that shouldn’t naturally blend together but, in her, they do. Marvelously.

  The delicate skin of her breasts is similarly captivating. But her fire is what holds my attention. She holds a hand to her cheek, a red handprint visible even this far back from where that fool in the front struck her. And while a mix of tears and makeup streams down her face, she recovers and glares at the man who even now lingers on the stage.

  I fight to keep up the appearance of complete control and utter disinterest. But the truth is the girl has touched a nerve in me. Too much. It’s becoming harder to look away. I turn to Eitan. “Where did Augustin get this woman from?”

  He shrugs, his attention on his iPad. “Not sure. I know he scouted a few clubs tonight with some of the other men. She must’ve been at one of them.”

  “She’s too innocent to have been a hooker. Maybe a runaway?” I steeple my fingers and press them to my lips. I run my eyes over her body for the millionth time tonight. While the miniskirt and stilettos scream experienced, the basic bra says otherwise. Almost as if the woman on stage isn’t the woman she truly is. There are mysteries to be unraveled. Undressed.

  Eitan finally looks up from the computer to the woman. I register a note of concern in his voice. “She’s too clean. Her skin too perfect. And look at her hair, clean and shiny. Most of the runaways and addicts have dry skin and their hair looks like shit—brittle and broken strands. And not one would have thought to punch a mobster. Even a low-level charmer like our friend at the front of the stage.”

  Eitan and I chuckle. She has guts. And she must not know who she’s dealing with, otherwise she wouldn’t have slugged the man. Or maybe she would have. My lip twitches at the thought. From the corner of my eye, I can see Eitan looking at me, a hint of worry still on his face.

  So, what if she belongs to someone? What if they come looking for her? I shake my head. Once she’s sold, it’s not my problem. I won’t have to worry about the feds or her family looking for her. And I would hope one of my men would know better than to kidnap someone that others will be looking for.

  Because I don’t take kindly to costly mistakes like that.

  The auctioneer grabs the microphone, walks up to the girl, and stands next to her. He faces the crowd and grins. “Bidding for this wild filly will begin at ten thousand dollars. Do I hear ten thousand?”

  A hand immediately goes up. The auctioneer moves to fifteen thousand and another hand goes up. From the back of the room, I watch as every boss in the room vies for the girl, her value rising with each passing second. Eitan tracks each hand waving for the next bid and smiles wide. “I knew this woman would sell for a lot.”

  I nod and continue to watch the action up front. The woman’s head whips around as she tries to follow each person bidding on her, terror taking over her features the higher the number gets. Such a shame. She should be proud about how much everyone in the audience values her. As to what ends they will use her for ... well, it’s better not to think of it.

  The back-and-forth continues on until only two men are left in the bidding war. One of them is Gino DeLuca.

  “Looks like our friend Gino has his heart set on the wild one,” Eitan says.

  I grunt.

  The DeLuca don is a constant thorn in my side. I wish he would have passed on the invitation tonight. Actually, I didn’t want to invite him. The man is unhinged and deceptively sneaky, and he’s starting to drift outside his lane. Gino controls much of the drug traffic in the city, a fact I’ve been fine with, up to a point. But lately he’s been making noise about moving into weapons. And weapons are my key line of business.

  My blood begins to boil and my eyes narrow on the Italian. I watch him lick his lips as the bidding swirls around him. “Gino’s not blind. He wants what everyone else in this place wants: fresh meat,” I finally respond.

  “One thing’s for sure: the bid on the girl is up to sixty thousand dollars, so we just met our quota for the night.”

  He’s right, but the thought of our payday is far from my mind. Something is brewing in my chest. A dark, unfamiliar feeling. Hatred for Gino, lust for the girl ... I grind my teeth. What I wouldn’t give for someone to whack the guy. But when it comes to Gino and the Italians, diplomacy over violence has been my policy. There is no telling what a street rat like Gino will do if backed into an uncomfortable corner. Most of the time, I feel that it’s better to keep him fat and happy—where I can see him.

  But tonight, that strategy doesn’t sit well with me.

  “One hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Gino shouts as he stands up.

  “Jesus Christ,” Eitan mutters, nearly dropping the iPad. “He’s out of his fucking mind. Not that I mind the money, but he’s fucking crazy.”

  My gaze falls back on the girl, her eyes as wide as a doe’s—whether from fright or from the staggering sum, I’m not sure. She begins to thrash against the collar again, furiously trying to break free. I don’t blame her. Gino will break her, maybe even kill her. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s killed a slave.

  “One hundred fifty thousand. Do I hear one hundred sixty thousand?” The auctioneer looks around the room as he walks back and forth across the stage. “On
e hundred fifty thousand going once.”

  The girl looks at Gino, then around the room. She yanks on the chain, although she, I, and everyone else in the room knows it will not yield to her. She swings out her leg to kick my lieutenant. She’s not giving up, full of fight instead of flight, even if she’s going to end up dead for it.

  Then, out of nowhere, like a ghost whispering in my ear: “Son, the poor creature needs my help. I’m not leaving it to die.”

  When I look back to the stage, I see a trapped bird. The same bird who kept fighting against the thorny bush. And I can’t turn away from her. Something inside me wants her in a way I don’t understand. It wants to help her like my father helped the bird.

  My pulse quickens until my temples throb. I need to move, not be stuck sitting in this chair. But pacing isn’t an option, not in present company. Control. Control. Control yourself.

  But it isn’t meant to be. My eyes swivel to the auctioneer and before I know what I’m doing, my hand is up in the air. “One hundred sixty thousand dollars.”

  Fuck.

  Every head in the room turns to the back. To me. I look straight ahead and avoid the glances from those around me. I fight to keep my expression blank, controlled, all business. No chink in my armor must show to these people, though I know by jumping in I have just caused a stir in the atmosphere, especially since I never act on impulse.

  Everything I do is calculated. Everyone knows that about me. It’s my lone trademark, the calling card that has taken me to the top. I’m just hoping that, instead of seeing a moment of weakness, they’re wondering what game I’m playing.

  My eyes fall on the girl once more. The slight tilt of her head and the way her eyes narrow suggest she’s trying to focus, to see who I am. But I’m all the way in the back of the room. There’s no way she can see me through the glare of the lights.

  “One hundred seventy thousand dollars,” Gino growls.