by Henry, Jane
King’s Ransom
A Dark Bratva Romance (Ruthless Doms)
Jane Henry
J. Henry Romance Publications
KING’S RANSOM: A Dark Bratva Romance (Ruthless Doms)
By: Jane Henry
Copyright 2019 by Jane Henry
Created with Vellum
Synopsis
USA Today bestselling author Jane Henry delves deep into the Russian underworld, with a high-stakes, heart-rending story of betrayal, atonement, and a hard-won happily-ever-after
He’ll make me call him daddy.
Demand my obedience.
Drive me to my knees.
I’ve been in love with Stefan Morozov for as long as I can remember.
He’s fearless. Powerful. A vicious leader of the Bratva underworld.
And he barely notices my existence.
That is, until the day I see something I shouldn’t.
The day the man I love makes me his prisoner.
The day my love turns to hate...
Foreword
Please note: although this novel is fictional and deliberately dark in tone, many of the details included in this book are drawn from real life: namely, the large influx of Afghani refugees to Russia and the dangers they face. While researching this book, I was inspired by the bravery and perseverance of these refugees despite overwhelming odds. It’s my hope that I managed to address the very real and heartbreaking circumstances behind my fictional world with care and respect. Thank you for taking this journey with me.
Jane
Chapter 1
Stefan
It’s been too long since we’ve encountered conflict. Too long since we’ve had a skirmish or a battle. We’ve had nothing but peace, and though I appreciate these moments of quiet, I know Bratva life well. I don’t trust the quiet.
I walk the grounds of our compound observing everything. Everyone. Who’s home for the night, who isn’t, if anything’s out of place. As pakhan, I’m father to all and ever vigilant. Trusting no one, I’m always alert for the hint of anything that might put my men, my brothers, my son in danger.
Something’s wrong. Like the quiet before a storm, the still air tonight holds the promise of uncertainty.
Amaliya called me a pessimist. She said I saw a threat in the very moving of the clouds in the sky. But Amaliya is now dead. I’m arguably more guarded than before she was killed.
There are rhythms and cadences, what others might call ups and downs, in Bratva life. It’s not so much highs and lows, but silences. Any musician will tell you that the quiet places in a composition often have the greatest impact.
So when we hit the lulls, the quiet moments, I’m more alert than ever. I hardly sleep.
For well over thirty years I’ve been Bratva. I was inducted as a full-fledged member before I graduated high school. We don’t induct teenagers into Bratva life anymore, now demanding fluency in Russian, signature ink, and jail time sentences served before we even consider new membership. We’ve upped the stakes. I’m glad we have. Teenaged boys need to earn their spurs before they dedicate themselves to the Bratva.
I’d killed a man before I’d even lost my virginity. And I swore to fucking God that wouldn’t be my son, and it wouldn’t be the boys I brought into Bratva life. And I’ve kept my word. Though I still recruit and welcome younger men into our brotherhood, I demand a high school diploma and life experience before I’ll even consider a new applicant.
Christ. I’m getting too old for this shit. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’m barely over fifty, having had Nicolai in my early twenties, but being Bratva since adolescence ages a man.
I sigh, scrub a hand across my brow, and make a mental note to have the landscaping team trim back the bushes by the main entrance. They obscure my vision.
I can’t shake this feeling I have. My instincts say shit’s about to go down, and soon. I think of calling Nicolai to check on him but stop myself when I swipe the phone on. He’s a full-grown adult with a child and a pregnant wife, and I don’t need to be waking him to check ghosts. Soon enough, he’ll be giving me hell about getting old and senile. I don’t need to start now.
So tonight, I make more than one round of our compound. I check every lock, every window. I sweep the beam of my flashlight in every corner of our interrogation room, though we haven’t used it in months. I swear that when I turn away from the ominous darkness, the screams of the men that we’ve interrogated echo behind me.
We should move this room. It’s not hidden well enough.
I even walk back to my office and scan security footage. I see nothing, and almost get up to leave, when a shadow crosses my vision. Someone’s awake, moving. I turn back to the screen. It’s one from my private home.
I squint at the image. It’s a shadow of a woman. I look more closely and breathe out a sigh of relief.
It’s only Taara. Of course.
When Taara’s mother could no longer fill the task as housekeeper and personal assistant, I hired Taara. I like keeping non-Bratva employees within the same family when possible, and Taara is the most attentive assistant one could have.
My worries forgotten momentarily, I sit back in my chair and watch her. It soothes me, and for a moment, I forget my troubles. She’s in the kitchen, wiping down the counters, but she must have some type of music playing in the background, for the girl is dancing like no-one’s watching. She knows I have cameras trained on every inch of our property, but I think she either forgets sometimes or no longer cares.
I watch in rapt fascination as she sways her hips and skips to a beat I can’t hear. And hell, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Born a Russian refugee, Afghani blood runs in her veins. With her exotic dark skin and thick, straight black hair she reminds me of a foreign princess. It’s easy enough to imagine her swathed in magenta, her head covered in a traditional chador.
If she were mine, I’d dress her in a burka. I’d cover every inch of her stunning beauty.
My phone rings, shaking me out of my reverie. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, letting my mind wander like that. Taara is young enough to be my daughter, and she’s my employee. I heave a sigh.
It’s been way too long since I’ve had a woman warm my bed. I’ll have to do something about that before I make a decision I fucking regret.
I glance at the image of Taara one more time as I answer my phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Nicolai. He never calls me this late. He should be at home with his expectant wife. I scowl at the screen.
“Nicolai.” My gut instinct tells me this is the call that brings the cadence of Bratva life back into full swing. “What is it?”
“Tonight, Marissa went shopping with Laina. The plan was for them to stay at a local hotel, as we’re several hours away from home.”
I wait for the other shoe to drop.
“They were attacked in the parking lot.”
“Jesus.” I’m on my feet, willing myself to be patient, to hear the rest of the story before I act. “Are they alright?”
“Yes. They had three men on them, and what their assailant didn’t realize was that I was one of them.”
Of course. He’s training one of our youngest new recruits. I wait to hear more details.
“I insisted we take the man back to our compound. I’ve got him in the car with me now, and I’ll take him to the interrogation room, but I don’t need a fucking interrogation room for me to tell you who he is.”
His voice is hard, the tone he gets before he’s about to make a ruthless, irrevocable decision.
I hear a muffled voice in the background, a hard thump, then silence.
“You know who he is then.”
I watch Taara spin and swirl on the screen in front of me in rhythmic circles. So pretty. So innocent. In such contrast to the violent world outside her door.
“I do. He’s one of the fucking traitors that worked with Myron.”
“Christ.” Myron, Marissa’s father, would have been Nicolai’s father-in-law. Several years back, he sold his daughter into slavery to pay off a debt. Nicolai systematically tracked down every fucking traitor who worked with Myron and eliminated them so none would pose a possible threat to his wife. Or so he thought.
“I was under the impression you got all of them.”
“So did I. I wouldn’t have settled until I did. But he’s said enough that it’s obvious. He’s said way too much.”
“Are Marissa and Laina taken care of?”
“Yeah. I secured Marissa and Laina. Now I’m heading home with this motherfucker.”
Home. That’s here.
I swallow hard. I don’t want another man’s blood on my son’s hand. Not again. “I’ll be waiting. I’ll deal with him for you.”
Taara puts the broom away, then comes back to the kitchen with a rag, wiping down the counters and appliances. I didn’t know she did this at night, but it makes sense. She keeps my home impeccable.
I don’t like having this conversation with Nicolai while Taara is right there. Though she can’t hear me, and isn’t privy to our conversation, it feels wrong. I want to keep her safe, and well insulated against any threat that could harm her.
“No. I know why you’re offering, but I can’t allow it. If I’m to take over as pakhan, you need to allow me to do this.” He takes in a deep breath, and I feel a sense of pride rise in me at my son’s words, despite my desire to keep his hands clean of this. “And anyway, this is my battle to fight.”
When the time comes, he’ll be ready to assume the role of pakhan.
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Where are you?”
“On the road, and I’ll be home in a few hours, but once I arrive, I’d like you to give me time with him before you join me.”
I automatically nod again. He wants to be sure no one else is implicated before he kills him.
Neither of us will sleep tonight.
“Let me know.”
I hang up the phone, staring unseeingly at the dancing girl on the monitor. I don’t want her to suspect anything’s awry. I’ll go back to my home and spend the next hour doing what I normally do, my evening ritual. I’ll let her think I’ve gone to bed.
Then I’ll join my son and witness the execution.
Chapter 2
Taara
I wait for Stefan until the wee hours of the morning. I’ve cleaned every room, and left the fire burning in the hearth. Though it’s warm in Atlanta in springtime, the evenings sometimes get a little cold, and Stefan likes to relax by the fire.
I always wait up for him.
He works hard, often staying up until late in the night to make sure that the men under his care are well taken care of. That whatever job or task of the day well finished. Like a father, he looks out for his brood of men of the brotherhood with steadfast care and concern until everyone’s settled for the night. And when all has finally been put to rest, he pours himself a shot of vodka, sits in front of his fireplace, and drinks it in silence before bed. He never wavers in this ritual.
I wonder what he thinks about then.
He’s had the same nightly ritual since I’ve started working for him, though I suspect he’s done it even longer than that. I never knew what he did at night when I was a little girl. I just remember him bringing me sweets or books when he traveled, and taking very good care of me and my mother.
Tonight, I watch him from the top landing where my bedroom lies. I don’t interrupt him. I don’t speak to him. I don’t let him know I’m even here.
Stefan doesn’t know how I feel about him, and it’s better this way.
Hell, I didn’t know how I felt about him until about a year ago. And to be honest? I think I’ve been in denial about it.
My mother fled to Russia as an Afghani refugee when I was just a child. I don’t remember anything about our trip to Russia. All I know is that when I came to this country, I spoke English with a Russian accent, even though I look as if I don’t have a drop of Russian blood in me. Not now, though. That was years ago. Few would ever suspect my roots.
I don’t know who my father was. My mother told me so little. But given her obsession with the men of the Russian Bratva, I suspect that my roots aren’t purebred Afghani.
In Russia, my mother fell in love with a man of the brotherhood. And when he moved to America, she followed. She never pursued him, though. Theirs as not a love story but a tragedy, as her love for him remained unrequited. Destined to fulfill the Bratva mission to marry strong, he wed someone else. I don’t know who and never will, now that my mother’s left to wisps of memory and broken thoughts, her mind consumed by Alzheimer’s, in one of Atlanta’s most prominent assisted living facilities.
Stefan saw to that.
It’s reason number one why I love him.
As she was one of the most dedicated staff to his brotherhood, when my mother became too frail to work, and too mentally ill to care for herself, he ensured she was well taken care of. As for me, he kept me on as paid staff. I graduated college last year, the youngest in my class, but I didn’t pursue the arts as I’d thought. I assumed the role of caretaker for Stefan’s home, a job that fills me with immense pride.
The Atlanta brotherhood owns a sprawling estate, dotted with multiple small houses, apartments scattered about like flowers in a garden. Various members of the brotherhood are single, but some begin married life here at the compound. Stefan’s son Nicolai and his wife Marissa have. They had one child together, and Marissa’s expecting another baby now. I love the way Stefan takes care of his family with such steadfast devotion.
Reason number two why I love him.
Honestly? I could tally these all night long.
I don’t lie to myself. Stefan does evil, wicked things. I know he does. I’ve seen some with my own eyes, though he’s tried to hide them. The man commands a brotherhood of ruthless, fearless soldiers. Though they keep the details of the work they do hidden, I’m no fool. I know they skirt the law and outright flaunt it regularly.
But I refuse to believe a man with eyes that blue, that impassioned, that a man who takes such tender care of my mother, could ever be anything but redeemed in the end.
Tonight, I watch as he pours two shots. I observe silently from my position on the landing and admire him from afar. And I allow my mind to wander, to fantasize about what it would be like to sit on that couch beside him. To share a drink. We wouldn’t even have to talk. Just sitting beside him would be enough.
From where I’m crouched, I can see his muscled legs stretched out before him, his feet clad in thick black boots. The jeans he wears are faded, but well mended. I see to that. My eyes travel up the length of his body, to his trim waist and torso, enhanced by the black t-shirt he wears. He folds his arms on his chest, and his muscles bulge. Strong and built, he keeps his body in top form. I’ve seen Stefan outlift the younger men in his brotherhood. He’s got tinges of silver in his hair and beard, but his eyes are that of a much younger man. Kind. Probing. Brilliant.
Though he maintains a fatherly air with all of them, there’s good reason he keeps himself in such impeccable shape. Not one of them would cross him.
Last year, when we got my mom situated in her new facility, one of the orderlies decided to give me a hard time about going in to see her. Fortunately, Stefan was with me. One look at him, adorned with signature Bratva ink, and muscles for days, and the jerk forgot how to speak.
“There a problem here?” Stefan had asked in his deep, rumble of a voice.
“No, sir.”
Only there was a problem because I had
forgotten how to speak, too.
But I got my act together and thanked him.
Maybe my mother would scold me for loving a man old enough to be my father. But I’ve never been one attracted to younger, less seasoned men. To be honest? I’ve never been attracted to any other man but the one brooding in front of the fireplace before me.
I want his bed to be prepared for him when he finally turns in tonight, so I creep away as quietly as I can and go to his room. I inhale deeply as I enter his personal space, because it smells like him in here. Strong and masculine and fearless, bold like a wind-swept prairie or snow-capped mountain. My senses come alive with vivid visceral awareness.
I’ll admit, I’ve got it bad. I’ve got it so bad.
I swallow and stand here, inhaling and exhaling, while I look about his room.
Stefan is a moderately tidy man, but I enjoy when he leaves things about, so I have an excuse to clean up after him. There’s a scattered pair of boots by the door, a jacket shrugged off, and coins and bills strewn on his bedside table. Quickly, efficiently, I place the coins in a little basket alongside the bills that I fold, then I straighten his shoes and place them by the door. Next, I go to the bed and smooth out the covers. I fluff his pillows and turn down one corner of the sleek black duvet.
I close my eyes, resting my hand on his bed, indulging in one brief second of fantasy before I leave.
I’d slip into “something a little more comfortable” before he came to bed. Maybe a pale ivory nightie would complement the dark skin I inherited from my mother. I’d sweep my long, thick black hair into a braid, and climb into bed beside him. I sigh. My fantasy only borders the sexual. Just imagining lying beside his strong, strapping body, massaging the tension from his shoulders, and inhaling his scent before bed has me heady with awareness and longing.
