The King: Bratva Blood: (A dark mafia romance)

by SR Jones

  Then my mind helpfully supplies an image of Cassie as I imagine her to look naked, reminding me painfully that I didn’t get the sex I wanted. Sex with Cassie would be better than any deal I could ever make, or any company I could buy up and turn around.

  I must be fucking insane to be denying myself with Cassie just because Liza is pregnant. I should put Liza up in an apartment and have Cassie.

  Yeah, and be like my piece of shit father?

  My mood dips as I consider that maybe, after all, the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. The only thing stopping me being just like that fucker is a will of steel. I’m not naturally good. I haven’t welcomed Liza back into my life and decided to love and care for her the way an honorable man would.

  I head back to the road and hail a taxi, preparing to go home and face the bitch in question. There’s a part of me, the dark part, that wants Liza to have this baby and then pay her off and threaten her so she leaves the kid with me, and then I can raise him or her on my own … with Cassie on the side to fuck when I like. It keeps coming back round to a way to get to have my sunshine.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cassie

  By the time the end of the week comes around, I’m terrified. I’ve managed to get into a lot of this Popov character’s information, and he’s scary as fuck!

  He’s a criminal. Not a pickpocket or someone who shoplifts. No, this man runs weapons. I know how bad you have to be to deal arms. The worst of the worst. Arms dealers are truly bad people. He shakes down businesses too, and demands a cut. He has people tortured if he wants them to talk, and he has people killed for nothing. Nothing.

  I’m so damn scared I don’t know what to do.

  The thing is, if this is what Popov is like, and if Konstantin has asked me to investigate this man and hack into his life, then it stands to reason that this is also what Konstantin is like.

  I knew Konstantin wasn’t a good man. I wasn’t naïve enough to think he was an angel, or even that he was the sort of businessman whose work was purely legal, but I didn’t think he was a bona fide mobster, which I’m now convinced he is.

  I want to hide, to run away, but where to go? All I can do is finish this job, take the money, and get out of this place. I never want to see Konstantin again when this is done and dusted. He’s got to be a deeply dangerous man. Popov is a sociopath, more than anyone I’ve ever come across. He’s evil, and Konstantin is after him, so what does that make Konstantin?

  I pray every minute of every day that I have covered my tracks well enough that Popov won’t find me because if he does, he’ll surely kill me. If he doesn’t kill me, Konstantin will for getting caught. Damn, I want this done, over, and me out of here.

  The latest thing I’ve found out about Popov is the most disturbing of all. He bought himself a woman. Like other people buy a car. He bought her, and now she lives with him in his house. I presume she wanted to be bought because she was a high-end escort before, but now, she’s his. A possession, for him to play with when he wants, and judging by the photos in his phone, he wants to often.

  He’s given her two hundred thousand pounds to live with him for three months. Jesus, so much money for sex.

  Why not simply get a girlfriend. Then again, looking at his face, he’s never going to get a woman who looks half as good as the one he’s purchased.

  Men.

  I determine there and then that I’m going to be celibate going forward. They’re all untrustworthy weirdos.

  Tired and aching, I decide to take a break and go grab a coffee.

  I head out of the room, taking care to lock the door, and then I walk quickly to the on-site café. There’s a restaurant too, but right now I want a peach tea and a cake. When I get there, I pause in the doorway as I see the man I’m starting to hate sitting at a table with a striking dark haired woman.

  Why does he still make my heart flip when I know he’s a gangster? A liar. A mercurial, sullen bastard!

  He does make my heart race, though, no denying it. His broad shoulders fill out the deep blue suit he’s wearing to perfection. His hair is dark, darker than normal. I think he’s put some product in it, or maybe, I peer closer, had it cut shorter. Yes, that’s it, it is shorter, and it makes it seem darker.

  The woman sitting opposite him is talking animatedly, and he’s listening, rapt, or so I imagine. I can’t see his face, but she looks like the sort of woman to keep a man rapt. Dark hair, light blue eyes, slim figure, and kick ass style.

  “She’s allegedly the new hire,” Suzy whispers in my ear, making me jump. “And where the fuck have you been hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding. I’m working.”

  “Have you seen the new guys who arrived today?”

  “No, what do you mean?”

  “When the big K got here today, he had two guys with him who I’ve never seen before. Fucking drop dead delicious. One’s as big as a house, and the other, oh my god”—she fans herself—“So fucking hot. Hotter than the big K.”

  “Don’t believe it,” I say, because I might hate him, but someone hotter than Konstantin doesn’t seem possible.

  “Believe it, bitch; it’s true. I’ll show you. What’s your extension? If I see them around, I’ll call you, and you can come look for yourself.”

  I give her my extension, and with one last glance at Konstantin and the mystery woman, I head back to my prison of a room. I used to like that room. I loved the comfy chair and the view, but now that room scares me because it’s where I’ve committed the sin of spying on a damned mafia leader. No, not mafia, no, no, no. It’s maybe much worse because Popov is Bratva. Russian organized crime. The alleged worst of the worst, scariest of the scary! And I’ve been snooping around in his shit.

  Konstantin is obviously organized crime too, of some sort, but what? He’s not the same as Popov. He’s a very wealthy businessman, with lots of legitimate businesses, and he knows some extremely influential people globally. I’ve seen photographs of Konstantin dining with Prime Ministers and movie stars. Sure, he’s an oligarch, but he can’t be mafia, right? Or rather, Bratva, I correct myself. Maybe he merely dips his toe in that world?

  My stomach is sour as I sit at my desk and stare at the screen I’ve come to loathe. The one thing I’m relieved about is that I think the help I got from my online friends, in helping me hide any trace of my actions, has worked. Thank god. Because otherwise I’d be a dead woman. I doubt Popov would treat me leniently.

  Everywhere I go now, I see things I didn’t notice before. I see the seedy underbelly of life. I see criminal activity and thugs hanging on street corners. I think I’m getting paranoid.

  Maybe, after this, I’ll go away. Spend a few weeks, or months, on a Greek Island. The idea is tempting. Help Grandma and Grandpa while he goes through his treatment and then bugger off for a long while, hide out until any possible heat has passed.

  Why does Konstantin want this information on Popov? Maybe he’s going to give it to the police and bring Popov down? That would mean I would be safe. Or perhaps, he’s going to blackmail him? Reveal to the world that Popov has paid for his girlfriend. But then, would Popov care? I doubt it.

  I bite my nail and sigh. I’ve wrecked my nails too. Not that I had long manicured ones; they were short and neat though, and now they’re a ragged mess. I need some sun and a rest. I look like crap. Hell, I might even get highlights like I’ve been considering because this morning when I saw my reflection in the elevator mirror, I actually grimaced. In fact, I glance at my watch, why not go now? I’ve worked tons of extra hours this week. Why don’t I take an extra-long lunch and do something I’d never normally do? Pamper myself.

  I think about it for a moment. Should I? Taking out my compact, I look at myself in the small mirror. My hair is so dull, lifeless. My skin too. Damn it, I’m wilting like a flower that never sees the sun anymore. I’m not a particularly vain person, but no one wants to look sickly. I’m only another week or two away of no sun from starting to appear as if I’m
suffering from consumption.

  Mind made up, I grab my bag, make sure I’m logged out and the screen is locked, and then I close and lock the office door behind me and rush out of the building.

  There’s lots of salons and beauty parlors around here, and I spy one that is small and relaxed looking after a five-minute walk. The big, swish places intimidate me. Pushing the door open, I walk in, and a friendly lady smiles at me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Can you fit me in for a cut and color?” I ask.

  She comes over to me and looks at my hair with a small frown. “What did you want to have done? I only have an hour to spare, so not long.”

  “I just wanted a few highlights and a bit of a trim.”

  She lifts my hair, looking at it. “I can do that if you don’t mind Stacey here doing your blow-dry after? You’ve got a lovely base color, but I can see the line where you used to get some sun and haven’t for a while, yes?”

  I nod because she’s correct.

  “I can scatter you some highlights just through the top; you don’t need a full head. I’ll put more around the front, to mimic what would happen if you spent a month on the beach. Then I’ll just give you a few face framing layers.”

  “Sounds good,” I say with a smile. “I’m a bit nervous. I’ve never had my hair colored before.”

  “I’ll basically mimic your natural color when you’ve been in the sun. It will be subtle; don’t worry.”

  She sets some pots out and stirs horrible smelling potions together, and then she gets a broad brush and starts to paint the stuff on strands of my hair, covering them with foil. When she’s done, she brings a lamp over and lets me bake for about twenty minutes. She washes my hair, dries it off with a towel, then wheels me back to the mirror. Snipping at my hair expertly, she squints her eyes in concentration as she cuts bits here and there.

  “Jo, Mrs. Bartlock’s just cancelled.”

  The stylist stops mid snip, smiles at me, and shrugs. “Oh, well, no rush. I can do your blow-dry too.”

  She asks me if I have any holidays planned to which I reply, no. She asks me if I’m going out this weekend to which I reply, no. Then she asks if I’ve got a boyfriend to which I reply, no.

  She narrows her eyes further and stops cutting to put one hand on her hip. “Let me get this right… No holiday plans, no social life, and no man in your life? You’re a pretty girl; what’s going on?”

  “I’m not pretty,” I say.

  Not like Suzy. Not like the mysterious dark-haired woman talking to Konstantin, and most certainly not like the women I saw him with in the photographs I found of him out and about.

  Any foolish notions I had of Konstantin pining for me were smashed on the rocks of reality then. Yes, he flirted with me, maybe he had a mild interest in me, but he hasn’t ever pined for me the way I have for him, and he never would. The man has dated genuine, world famous supermodels. And I thought he might be half in love with little old me. I’m such a fool.

  I’m not doing any of this for him. I’m doing it for me. To brighten my day and my mood. I’m fed up of looking unwell and tired. As if the worries of the world are weighing down on me, which they are.

  “Do you want me to do you a fake tan?” Jo asks. “I’ve got the time now, and it will make your hair color really pop. We use the spray tan so it will dry instantly, and it gives a wash of color straightaway. Go lovely with your freckles.”

  “Erm, not sure. Does it smell bad?”

  “No, it smells like coconuts,” Stacey supplies from her place filing her nails behind the cash register.

  “Okay then, why not?”

  Jo smiles and finishes cutting my hair. “I’ll blow-dry you after the tan,” she says.

  I find myself with my hair in a plastic cap, my face wiped clean of all makeup, and my body naked as Jo sprays me down with brown gunk. I feel like a fence being spray varnished. She wipes my hands and feet down with a wet wipe, so they don’t look too brown, and rubs in any bits that aren’t even. Then she dabs at my face with a small towel and smiles.

  “You look healthier already. Okay, let’s do your hair, and then I’ll put you the tiniest bit of makeup on so you don’t look weird with just fake-tan on your face.”

  I get dressed and go sit in the chair. Stacey provides me with a magazine and a coffee as Jo does my hair, and then I’m wheeled over to another station while she dabs makeup on my face. I tell her I don’t like a lot, and she says she’ll keep it natural. She smears concealer on, to hide my dark circles, she tells me disapprovingly.

  “You need to sleep more,” she says. “I won’t use a foundation, though, because you’ve got lovely freckles on your nose and cheeks.”

  Then she comes at me with a brush loaded with blusher. She adds a coat of mascara and a pinky-brown lipstick.

  “There, very natural.” She sits back and smiles.

  “You look like you’ve had a wee holiday,” Stacey says with a grin. “Much better.”

  “Come on, take a look.” Jo takes the gown from my shoulders that she’d replaced before blow-drying my hair, in case of any stray hairs she said.

  I stand and go to look in the mirror. Oh, wow! I look … like me again. The old me. The me from the coffee shop. The me who used to spend her work-free time in the garden at her grandparents or out walking. The me who used to sit outside every lunch break reading literature I loved. The real me, if I’m being honest. Not the me who took a job she’s not really enjoying because she thought she had to be a success, and because her cheating-bastard-fiancé got her the interview.

  “Thank you,” I say sincerely with a big smile.

  “Look at that smile.” Jo sighs. “You could light a city with that smile, lovely. You need to find yourself a man. And some friends. And go have some fun!”

  “Oh, I have friends, and I do go out sometimes,” I tell her. “I’ve just been busy lately, and my grandpa is sick.”

  I say it out loud. The thing I don’t normally tell anyone.

  “Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, darling. I hope he gets better soon.”

  She gives me an impromptu hug, and I hug her back.

  I pay the inexpensive amount they charge me, Jo refusing to let me pay for the tan as she says it was on the house, and I leave promising to go back again in six to eight weeks to get my roots touched up.

  I feel lighter with shorter hair and a bit of color to me. As if I’ve somehow washed some of the dirt and grime I’ve dug up on Popov out of my hair, literally and figuratively. As I pass by a shop window, I turn to look at a coat and almost do a double take at my reflection. It’s amazing what a difference a bit of hair color can make. Wow. I should keep this up for sure. And Jo giving me the free tan was lovely, so I feel I owe them really to go back and use them again when I need a touchup.

  Birds are singing, the sun is out, and suddenly the world doesn’t seem such a dark place anymore. By the time I arrive back at work, I’m smiling on the inside. My phone goes, and I pull it out of my bag to see Suzy on the screen. “Yeah?” I answer, balancing the phone between my face and shoulder as I grab onto my bag with the other hand, and press the elevator call button.

  “Bitch, where are you?” she hisses into the phone.

  Shit, have I missed a meeting or something? Maybe I should have told someone I was taking a long lunch, but then again, I was owed the time, more than, and we’re pretty chilled about these things here, or rather we were. How Konstantin will run the company, who knows?

  “I’ve been on lunch, why? What’s going on?”

  “Come to the smoking courtyard. Now.” Then she hangs up, not giving me the chance to reply.

  The bell dings and the smooth metal doors of the elevator slide open, but I don’t step in. Instead, I turn on my heel and walk through the double doors, down a corridor, and out the back door. Down one set of stairs and to the courtyard at the back of the building. It’s unofficially where people come smoke and even have the odd spliff while they think creative
ly, but no one admits as much. The management must know, though; some days the place smells like a student dorm.

  When I push the heavy door open and step into the cool, shaded courtyard, I almost bust out laughing. Suzy is lounging against a brick pillar, attempting to smoke a cigarette and look sultry at the same time. She doesn’t smoke, so she’s making a hash of it. I don’t smoke either, but I know you suck the smoke in, not pretend-inhale a tiny bit then blow it out, while narrowing your eyes and screwing up your face.

  “What the heck are you doing?” I ask as I reach her.

  “Oh my God. What did you do?” she shrieks, loudly enough for everyone near us to turn and gawp at me.

  Great.

  “Nothing… I mean, I had a haircut on my lunch.”

  “And the rest,” she says with a grin. “You look hot, and I know who this is for.”

  She does? How?

  “You want Timbo to be jealous, don’t ya!”

  I laugh, relieved more than anything that she’s got it so wrong. “Not jealous, no, but I was looking dowdy, and I wanted him to remember what I looked like when I worked in the coffee shop before I spent my days chained to a desk, or locked in a room as it is these days.”

  “You’ve got to tell me what you’re doing in there? What has the big Kahuna got you doing? Huh?”

  “Big what?”

  “The big man, that’s what it means … I think. Anyway, we call Konstantin it because it suits him.”

  “Why are you pretend smoking, and why am I here?” I ask her, impatient to know what is going on as I need to get back to work.

  “The big Kahuna, of course.”

  She points very indiscreetly to the far end of the courtyard, where under the deep recess of the building stands Konstantin and two other men. One is even larger than Konstantin; he’s huge. Like some massive, overgrown bear. His hair is a shaggy blond mop, and he’s rugged and tan. The other is leaner, but still big, maybe a little leaner than Konstantin, tall, and even from here I can see he’s very good looking. The sort of bone structure that could cut glass.