War (Bratva and Mafia Chronicles Book 1)

by Melissa Silvey

  As I’m standing in the hotel room where I had sex for the first time last night, pondering how to lie to my fiancé about it my phone pings, alerting me that I have a text. Only two people text me, my little sister, and my fiancé. My grandparents and my mother always call, and my older sister has basically forgotten I exist since her wedding.

  I pull the phone out of my purse, and there’s a text from a number I don’t recognize. There is a picture attached. It must be a wrong number, or maybe a virus. I click the picture anyway, and my heart drops to my stomach. The gorgeous, blue-eyed Russian has sent me a selfie, with his hand on his chin. On his pinkie I see my ring.

  I will murder the Bloody Ivanovich with my fucking bare hands. I will wrap my hands around his neck, and squeeze until he can’t breathe and I happily watch the life leave his sparkling baby blues.

  Another ping sounds, along with another text in the same conversation thread. Meet me for lunch at noon and you’ll get your ring back. Misha. Following his name is a smiley face emoji and a heart emoji.

  He has to know that I’m not going to be seen in public with him. He must realize there’s no way in hell that I’m going to ever go to lunch with him. Besides the fact that someone my father knows might see us and rat me out, my fiancé could see me and literally make me disappear.

  I’ll never meet you in public. You know I can’t.

  I send the text. Then I tie my hair up. I survey my things from last night. I’m going to have to leave the hotel in the sexy dress I wore to the club last night and no underwear. This is humiliating.

  As I get dressed, I expect to receive a return text from him, but I don’t. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, and touch the counter. I need to forget how good it felt to touch him, and how it felt when he touched me. I need to get my ring, maybe murder him, then forget him.

  I grab my purse, head downstairs, drop my keys at the front desk, and step outside, as embarrassed as I’ve ever been in my life. I grab my phone to call a ride share, just as a motorcycle pulls up and stops right in front of me. I try to step back, just as the driver grabs a helmet and thrusts it toward me. I’m not taking that damn helmet.

  The driver’s visor flips up, and I see Misha’s pretty face and sparkling eyes appear from behind it. “Get on, Chi,” he orders, almost angrily.

  He looks as rough and hard as his reputation implies he is. The leather jacket, the thick boots, it all makes sense seeing him on his preferred mode of transportation. His eyes are so blue inside the dark helmet, it makes me shiver.

  I could tell him no. I could run back into the hotel for shelter. But he still has my ring. I sigh as I stare at the damn motorcycle. “I’m wearing a dress, and someone tore my panties off last night,” I remind him, through gritted teeth.

  He frowns as he takes in my dress and my high heels. “Get on, we aren’t going far.” When I shake my head no, he reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out my ring. “Do you want this?” he asks. It sounds more like a threat than a question.

  “Yes, of course I want it,” I growl. I reach for the expensive ring, but he shoves it back in his pocket and again offers me the helmet. I take it, reluctantly, and place it on my head as I try to figure out how in the hell to modestly climb onto the motorcycle. I pull down my dress as far as it will stretch, then slide onto the back. The black dress covers my rear, but my bare thighs rub against his jeans covered hips. I shiver from the sensation, and the memories of him being between my legs last night.

  “Wrap your arms around me,” he says, before he lowers the visor again. He starts the motorcycle, and drives out onto the street.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. Again, I’m having a new and exciting experience with my enemy, the Bloody Ivanovich. The wind whipping past us, and the cars buzzing by, it’s all so exhilarating. He makes my blood rush in my veins. I’ve never felt this kind of excitement about anything, with anyone. Not with anyone but Misha. He makes me feel alive.

  The most stimulating part, though, is having my body up against his. My hands grip his flat stomach, and my chest is right against his back. The vibration of the engine under the extremely soft leather seat is exciting every one of my nerve endings, not to mention all of my erogenous zones. I want his fingers inside me, in both holes, while feeling this vibration. I move closer against him, rubbing my most sensitive spot against the thick denim. I moan, but I’m sure he doesn’t hear me. If I was wearing panties, they’d be melted by now.

  He leans to the side, and turns into an alley between two buildings. He parks, and places the kickstand on the ground. I get this overwhelming desire to reach my hand down, to find out if he’s as turned on as I am. I want to slide around his body and face him, sitting in his lap, with the crotch of his jeans rubbing against my overly stimulated pussy. I’m so wet I’m sure my dress is soaked, along with his leather seat.

  Somehow he easily dismounts the motorcycle with me still on it, then he faces me as he removes the helmet. His hair is a mess, all blonde sweaty spikes. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are flashing. I remove the helmet I’m wearing and he takes it from me and leans toward me. He smells like the city, like the warm spring breeze, the traffic, leather, and something that is distinctly him.

  I lick my lips, anticipating his kiss. Before I feel his lips, though, I feel one of his hands on my bare back and the other under my dress. I gasp, and my eyes go wide as saucers. The thought that I shouldn’t want this man is squashed quickly by the look in his eyes, reminding me that he’s a predator at the top of the food chain, and I’m his willing prey.

  “You’re so fucking sexy, treasure. I’m going to eat you alive,” he groans. Right before his lips touch mine, I feel his finger delve between my folds, and I gasp as he kisses me. His tongue sweeps past my lips easily, and begins an in and out motion that mirrors his finger. My hands go into his already messy, sweaty hair. The hand that has been caressing my back moves over my shoulder and down to my breast, cupping its weight in his palm. He fingers me deeply and slowly, and when he finds the spot inside me, he moans loudly. My muscles tighten and I suck his tongue in hungrily.

  I’m going to come, out here in the open, on the back of his motorcycle. I don’t even care if anyone sees me. I don’t care if his neighbors know. It’s like he feels my orgasm coming from the inside, and pulls away from our passionate kiss to murmur words of encouragement.

  “You look so damn good on the back of my bike, baby. I want you to come all over the seat. I want you to mark it as yours,” he says. The intensity of the look in his eyes as he stares into mine brings me closer. But when he orders, “Come for me now,” I lose control. My body responds for him just the way he wants it to, and he gives me a victorious smirk. Then, after he gently withdraws his fingers, he pops them into his mouth. I moan as I watch him do it. He grabs my shoulders and brings me in to his body. “You’re going to make me insane, Chiara. You’re too innocent, too pure, and way too damn sexy for me.”

  As he speaks, he picks me up to lift me off the seat. Then he carries me into the rear entrance of what looks like a very neat brownstone. Once we’re inside he continues to carry me, down a hallway, past a very modern looking but small kitchen, to a set of steps. There is no art on the walls, no knickknacks on the table near the door. The walls are a boring, drab brown. The floors are wood. When we arrive at the second floor landing, he carries me down another hallway. As soon as he opens this door I realize we are inside a bedroom.

  The walls are the same brown, the bedspread is brown, and the few pieces of furniture in the room are all brown. It’s so clean I swear you could eat off the floors. This absolutely cannot be his place, can it? I mean… the Bloody Ivanovich’s favorite color is brown? Not red or black? That just doesn’t fit.

  He places me on the impeccably made bed, and I’m expecting him to join me. Instead, he walks to the door we just came through and locks it, from the inside, with a key. Then he turns slowly, and walks toward me. The key is in one hand, an
d my ring is in the other.

  Holy shit, what is this man doing? Did he think he could show up on a fucking sexy motorcycle, get me all turned on, finger me until I’m ready to do whatever the hell he wanted, and then lock me in his bedroom?

  Yea, I guess he did. And it worked like a charm.

  “What kind of fucking pervert has the cleanest, brownest bedroom I’ve ever seen, and a bedroom door that locks from the inside?” I ask. I realize I’m lying on the most boring, yet surprisingly soft, comforter, and I try hard to restrain myself from stroking it while he’s watching me.

  He gives me the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen, and that’s hard to do because I grew up around mobsters. He balls his fists, and shoves them and their contents into his jeans pockets. I’d love to punch him right in his gorgeous face with its self-satisfied expression.

  “What kind of pervert lets a guy finger her and make her come in a busy alley? Anyone could have seen you, princess.” Then he winks. I don’t like the way he says princess, like I’m some entitled privileged asshole.

  His vain, conceited ass isn’t leaving this room alive. I’ll take the key and my ring from him after I kill him. It’s going to happen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Misha

  I have no idea what she’s trying to imply about my bedroom. Who doesn’t like a clean bedroom? And what the hell is wrong with brown? But the other part…

  “I installed that especially for you, treasure. And I’m going to keep you in this room until I get what I want.” I take a step closer, so I can watch as her expression changes from confused to afraid. In three… two…

  Why isn’t she afraid? She actually looks very angry, like I can see murder in her grayish blue eyes. I might get scared if she keeps looking at me like that. I can’t keep looking at her while she’s staring at me like she’s going to rip my heart out with her bare hands, and then eat it.

  I clear my throat, and pull the ring out of my pocket. It’s something to look at besides her, and I know she wants it. It is a really pretty ring and it looks very expensive. Like something a famous movie star would wear. I’ve spent too much time obsessing over this damn ring in the last twenty-four hours. It’s time for her to tell me the secret behind it.

  “If it’s money you want, I can make more than you can spend in ten lifetimes, princess.” I can, too. Murder is a very lucrative business, and although I don’t like doing it, it’s the one thing I excel at. I would do it too, every day, for the rest of my worthless life, if that’s what she wants.

  Her expression becomes harder, her eyes becoming darker as I watch, like a stormy sky. Fuck, she really is going to murder me. She reaches out to slap me again, and I let her. She lets loose with all she has, and it causes my head to whip to the side. I want to see how hard she can hit when she’s really pissed. Bad idea, I realize, when I wipe my lip with my fingertip and I find blood. She busted my lip. I’m almost proud.

  “Are you trying to hurt me? Because I like the rough stuff, princess.”

  “Fuck you,” she says, and tries to scramble off the bed. She’s in a dress and high heels, and I’m at least a foot taller than her, and outweigh her by about a hundred pounds. When I grab her shoulders and toss her back onto the bed, she spits at me.

  “Calm down, I’m not trying to insult you. Everyone needs something at some point in their lives.” I take a few steps away from her. She’s perched on my bed on her hands and knees, ready to strike. But she’s just making me harder because I want to fuck her so bad in that position, and I know she’s not wearing any underwear and the dress is barely covering her ass.

  “I don’t need money. What I need is to get out of here right now! I have to meet Frankie at the church.” She’s yelling at me now, and her back is arched like a scared cat. I’d like to climb into that bed with her, and let her fight me, and scratch me, until she wears herself out, and fuck her raw until she comes over and over on my big dick.

  “I know your brother is disabled, and your sister’s not right in her pretty head. Maybe they need special care.” When I mention her sister she turns away from me.

  “My family is none of your fucking business, Russian! Remember that!” she hisses at me.

  Well, I’ve obviously touched a nerve.

  “So, you’re marrying the Moretti heir for your family,” I suggest. She continues to stare at the wall. She gives me no reaction to that statement. “Your sister already married a Moretti. Not the pretty one.” She turns to me with her beautiful blue-gray eyes full of disbelief. “Your older sister is not pretty. You are so much more beautiful than she could ever dream of being.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. At least she’s not contemplating all the ways she’d like to murder me right at this moment.

  My eyes stray again to the ring in my palm. “Tell me why you’re marrying a man you don’t love, and I’ll let you go.”

  “Why do you care about the reason I’m getting married?” she spits back at me. She tugs at the dress she’s wearing, obviously uncomfortable. I walk to my closet and pull a hanger out, and toss the clothes onto the bed beside her.

  Doesn’t she know? I told her she’s mine. I’m never letting anyone touch her beautiful skin ever again. It’s my skin. That’s my pussy. Doesn’t she believe me? Doesn’t she understand how desperate I am to be hers?

  She lifts the sweatpants and sweatshirt off the bed, staring at them. “University of Maine? That’s my alma mater. How did you know?” Then I toss underwear at her, which I pulled out of my drawer. “This is my size,” she says, as she examines them. “Wait. These are mine! You broke into my house!”

  “What, like it’s hard? Your security system is shit, not worth the money you pay for it,” I explain. “You should let me set up your security for you.”

  “Fuck you!” she screams, and looks around me toward my bathroom.

  “I’ve seen every inch of you naked, treasure.” And the mental images are making me so hard it hurts. Can you die from a hard on? “I’ve had my tongue deep in all of your holes, babe. There’s no need for false modesty.”

  “I fucking hate you,” she mutters, as she removes the dress. “Do you have my tennis shoes too?”

  “Of course,” I reply. I can’t look away as she’s wiggling out of the tight black dress, displaying her perfect tits. She’s magnificent. I finally turn away out of self preservation. I literally might die if I don’t fuck her, and she might kill me if I try.

  “I have to pee,” she says, and I turn to find her in her clothes, completely dressed. She’s twisting her thick, dark, silky hair into a knot again. I want to order her to leave it down. When she’s mine it will never be up.

  She’s completely dressed, and I want her more than ever. I catch her scent as she walks past me. She has a tiny bottle of her favorite perfume in her purse. She must have sprayed it on herself. She smells like fruit and flowers, like romance and desire. I pick up the dress she discarded onto the floor and sniff it, before I place it on the hanger and hide it in my closet. She’s never wearing that revealing piece of clothing ever again. We will argue about her habit of throwing her clothes around, but I’ll never get really angry at her.

  “What the fuck is it with you and brown?” she asks after she leaves the bathroom.

  “Who doesn’t like brown?” I reply. She scoffs, and points at herself. “It’s comfortable. It’s calming. You don’t have to think about brown.”

  She shrugs her shoulders and takes another look around my bedroom. There’s nothing out in the open. Everything is in its place. “It’s very clean. Do you live here?”

  “Of course.” She walks toward my bedside table and opens the top drawer. I cringe, but I say nothing. She can look around all she wants. I have nothing to hide from her. If we’re going to live together she’ll have to get used to my need for order. I don’t need to look over her shoulder to know what she’s seeing. Tissues, lotion, a charging cord for my phone, a pen and notepad, a flashlight, a gun, an extra magazine clip, and a
knife. To my surprise she doesn’t grab the gun and pull it on me. I could disarm her before she even thought of taking the safety off anyway.

  “Where are the condoms?” she asks, as she opens the next drawer down. My socks are neatly rolled up and placed in that drawer.

  “In the bathroom,” I answer honestly.

  “Why aren’t they by your bed,” she wonders aloud, as she opens the next drawer to find neatly folded underwear.

  “I don’t have sex in my bed,” I reply. She turns toward me then, and I see a heady mix of doubt and challenge in her eyes. My cock twitches, reminding me it’s there and it’s hard, and it only wants her. “I’d fuck you anywhere you like, treasure.”

  She grins at me, and moseys toward my dresser. “Who does your laundry?”

  “Me.” I pause for a minute. It’s surreal having my walking, talking fantasy searching through my drawers. “I’ve answered your questions, now answer mine. Why are you marrying him?”

  “You didn’t answer the most important question,” she argues. She returns to my nightstand and takes out a pair of my socks, pulling them onto her tiny girl feet. I try not to smile. “Wood floors are cold,” she explains. Instead of climbing back on the bed, she moves toward the chair in the corner, and curls up in it.

  It should be obvious. I shouldn’t have to explain it to her. “If you tell me why you’re marrying that asshole, I can fix it so you don’t have to go through with it, and we can be together.”

  “You can’t fix it.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “And if you think my father would ever let us be together, then you’re not only a psychopath you’re also crazy.”

  I don’t think she knows the lengths I will go to make sure I wake up with her every damn morning for the rest of our lives. “Whether you think I can fix it or not, you will tell me the reason, or you’d better get cozy.”