Brutally Broken: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Loki Renard

  We ascend stairs. I watch the curve of her hips, the sway of her waist—then I notice that there’s a turret at the very top of the stairs. It is hidden in what looks like a light fixture, but I recognize a high velocity barrel when I see one. The more I see of this woman’s life, the more convinced I am that I may have been safer in the ring of death. Not that I care. Life is not about safety, and I do not intend to remain in this dark little pocket of the world for long. Russia calls me, though I know a return is a death sentence. At this point, death surrounds me on all sides, so I am not sure that matters.

  There’s another series of reinforced doors. Three of them this time, then a short passage, then another door, then we reach a bedroom. It is the only part of this entire house that looks remotely as though it has been designed for human habitation.

  Light flows in through shutters, which I am sure are also reinforced, but there is a romance to the sun as it falls across a golden floral bedspread, set between four white posts. I don’t know what I expected from her bedroom. Something more severe and mature. This is light and almost girlish.

  “This is my bedroom,” she says, explaining unnecessarily. “You will stay here with me.”

  “In the same bed?”

  “You sleep on the divan at the end of the bed. Between me and the door.”

  She points to a low small bedlike contraption with a pink and gold blanket on it. It is far shorter than I am. To sleep on such a thing, I will have to curl up. It is a humiliation, and I suspect an intentional one. She wants me to sleep at the foot of her bed, like a dog. Admittedly, the divan itself looks more comfortable than anything I have slept on in months. Concrete floors have been my bedding lately, but in some way they were less humiliating than this. It is manly to be imprisoned by one’s enemies. It is emasculating to sleep at the foot of a woman’s bed, a woman who already has the upper hand by merit of owning me, at least according to the terms of the underground ring that sold me, which ultimately, does not count for much.

  I will leave her soon. When we go out of the house, I will take my opportunity to simply walk away in public and leave her to whatever mystery is keeping her here behind all these doors.

  She sits on her bed, but not in a comfortable cross-legged way. She leans a little and perches on the very corner of it. I have a flash of imagination of what she might look like with her long blonde hair down in loose curling waves, her body clad in something light and lacy, her neat little body half exposed beneath it... I cut that line of thinking short. It has been a long time since I was with a woman, and my lust could get me into trouble if I am not careful. A man may be brought down by many things, but a woman is the most likely.

  “Let me explain your role,” she says, kicking one of her high-heeled shoes off, exposing the stocking-clad foot, toes curling in the heel of the other shoe to remove it as well. I find myself watching her every movement, noticing everything about her. She consumes my attention without trying, but I cannot allow myself to fall under any kind of spell.

  “I have enemies,” she says. “They are not enemies I earned. They are not enemies my father earned. They are far older, and far more dangerous. They have killed my entire family, and they will kill me if I ever take a husband or lover and produce a child. By the same token, if they believe that I am not going to take a husband or have a child, they will kill me. So I have to keep up the illusion that I may be married. And that is where you come in. You will play the part of a lover of mine. You will sleep in my room. You will attend parties with me. If anyone tries to kill you, you will kill them, and one day, you will likely die.”

  * * *

  Sophie

  He looks at me with that hard green stare that tells me nothing. My previous escorts, as I refer to them mentally, did not believe me. They played along because I am young and beautiful, and men want sex. Most of them never got it.

  I can see the same lust in his eyes, but I see more than mere lust too. I see bitterness. I see hate. More interesting, I see belief.

  “You understand?” I prompt him.

  “Da,” he replies.

  “You believe me?” I don’t like asking the question, because it makes me feel weak, as if I am asking for his approval, but I am curious.

  He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

  It doesn’t usually, but there is something different about this man. Maybe it is his silence. Or maybe it is the way he wrapped his hand around my throat when we met. His hand controlling me completely, only for a few seconds. He took away the control I’ve struggled to maintain for years now. It was the closest I’ve been to losing my life, my greatest fear, and yet I did not find myself overwhelmed with fear. I was charged with rebellion and excitement. When he let go so swiftly, I was almost disappointed. That makes no sense. I am not the sort to admire violence. I have seen too much of it. But he was gentle and restrained, even in his display of power.

  “It matters, because I need to know if you understand. The last one of you was killed in a matter of days because he was arrogant, stupid, and walked in front of a truck.”

  “He was run over by truck?”

  Vadim has a real habit of dropping words when he is confused, surprised, or doesn’t feel like forming a full sentence. It would be attractive, if I were to allow myself to be attracted to him. I refuse to do that. Everything I so much as like is taken from me, so I will have to dislike him. It is the only way to keep him, and me, safe.

  “Yes. He walked in front of a truck. Because he was an idiot. So, don’t be an idiot.”

  He looks at me stonily, and then the faintest hint of what might be a smile appears on his lips. Oh, fucking hell. He’s handsome when he smiles. It transforms that rocky expression of his into something still dangerous, but somehow electric. That smirk hits me right between my legs.

  Hell, no. No. No. No. I can’t fuck him. At least, not right now. Fucking him is basically a guaranteed death sentence. Maybe in a few weeks or months, when I’m sick of him. I’ve done that before. It’s quite the superpower, to be able to have someone killed simply by wrapping my sex around them.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he repeats in that thick voice, crossing his arms over his chest, keeping his gaze steady on me. I’ve never met anyone who looks at me this way, with a perfect intensity, inspecting every part of me, making me feel thoroughly exposed. “Good advice.”

  “Tell me how you ended up here,” I say. “I want to know why you were sold.”

  He presses his lips firmly closed and I instantly know he will never tell me that, not in this lifetime, or the next. Very well. He can keep his secret. I don’t need to know anything more than his name.

  * * *

  Vadim

  “Don’t want to talk? Fine.”

  I absolutely have no intention of telling her that my brothers turned on me, made me scapegoat for a fuckup that cost the lives of several of us, blamed me for a betrayal that I would never have perpetrated. I gave my life to my Bratva family. I gave them everything. And in the end, those men who I would have died for, decided that death was too good for me and sent me to America to be sold like a dog. I will never share that humiliation with her, or that betrayal. What she will know... what she already knows, is that I do not care about death. Not anymore. Not since it became obvious that there is no real loyalty in the world. Blood binds Bratva with ties that can never be severed—except mine were.

  “If anything happens to me. If you harm me in any way, you will be shot,” she says coldly. “I have already engaged one man to do it, and another to take his place if the first man is to fail.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you, woman. I do not hurt women.”

  “And you do not obey them either,” she says with that smirk. “But you will have to, Vadim. I am not Russian. I am American. And that means I don’t give a single fuck about the fact that you have a dick.”

  I let my gaze run the length of her and my thoughts run wild with the things I could do to her. That soft, curvy body of hers. I
would spread her and I would... I abandon the thoughts. Arousal is weakness here. This girl has no power besides her money, and I know where the limits of money are. I know how little it really counts for when shit goes wrong. I was rich once. I was powerful. I made men bend to my will. Then they turned on me and I found myself here.

  She talks big words, acts as if she is in control, but I can see the fear in her eyes. She’s keeping it deep down inside her, but it’s there, driving her every breath. I want to know why. She hinted at it in the car, but that was not enough information.

  “Who are the Vristok?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Then how am I supposed to protect you? You want me to save you from shadows. It can’t be done. Whoever they are, they will come and they will swallow you whole, and there is not a man with a gun on this planet who can save you.”

  She looks at me and her eyes go cold. The fear swims away behind the ice of her gaze. She has stunning eyes. There is no doubting her beauty, just like there is no doubt that it means absolutely nothing. My life before this tainted land was one of beauty. I would have a dozen girls like her begging for a place in my bed. I don’t think this one knows how to beg, but I think I could teach her.

  I take the shirt off. It is made of cheap material and it itches. She watches me disrobe, and I see her lips move as if she’s thinking about telling me to stop, then decides against it.

  Now that I am more comfortable, I sit down on the bed and lean back, putting my hands behind my head. “When you decide you want to tell me what I need to know, I will listen.”

  * * *

  Sophie

  God. The way his arms ripple, that tattooed skin covering so much sin. I can’t tell him exactly what is coming for me. I just need to keep him close, so if what I think is coming does come, I’ll have a chance at survival.

  “You know what you need to know,” I tell him.

  I have to keep him in his place.

  I don’t know him, but his past is written in the furrows of his brow and the hollows of his eyes. I half want to know what got him here, and half don’t. He has to be disposable. Because inevitably, he will be disposed of, one way or another.

  “The less you tell me, the less I can help.”

  Why is he talking like he is doing me a favor? He’s not my knight in shining armor. He’s a man I dragged out of a pit fighting ring. I wish I could make it clear that he shouldn’t be this calm or this arrogant. He should be afraid, but they’re never afraid, these men who I use to defend me. The last one took a bullet right in the middle of the forehead and I saw the inside of his skull. Can’t get attached to any of them, I remind myself.

  “Just stay close.”

  He gives me that dark stare and I wonder if I made the wrong purchase. There are no right purchases. Only men who will die.

  “As I said, you sleep at the foot of my bed. You will be cuffed at night. If I need to, I will uncuff you and give you a weapon.”

  He laughs at me.

  “You can’t have a guard dog if you’re afraid of the teeth,” he drawls in that accent that makes my toes curl. “I can’t do anything for you cuffed at the foot of your bed.”

  Oh, he could do plenty, I think. Especially if I gave him enough chain to get his face halfway up the bed. I could ride that mouth of his. I could use him like... I stop myself from thinking that way. If I think that way, I’m no better than the men who go to the markets to get female flesh. Besides, I tell myself, aesthetics don’t matter to me anymore. I’m past the point where I can care if people are sexy or ugly or anywhere in between. I care if they serve a function in my survival.

  Chapter Two

  Vadim

  She didn’t cuff me.

  She had me take a shower, and she took one herself and we sat in silence until it was time to go to sleep, her reading a book, me staring out the window, thinking my private thoughts. I am used to women who chatter, but she barely says a word. I don’t think that is because she is made differently. I think it is because she has become unaccustomed to having anyone to talk to.

  This house is large and mostly silent. The only sounds I hear are the beeping of patrols checking in all clear. It’s a regular pulsing tone that can be heard inside her bedroom every ten minutes, and I notice that if it is delayed by even a few seconds, her eyes leave her book and her posture stiffens until she hears the sound.

  When it is time for bed, she takes to hers, leaving me with the humiliating short foot of the bed. I consider simply claiming hers along with her, but I do not. I get as comfortable as I can and I go to sleep with thoughts of home dancing in my mind.

  * * *

  “Fuck you!”

  I wake up in the middle of the night, unsure of where I am, but hearing a malevolent voice somewhere nearby. I bolt up from the bed, taking several seconds to orient myself to what’s going on.

  “Fucckkkk youuu...”

  A raspy woman’s voice is emerging from the shadows. I don’t scare easily, but that voice contains such strange fury, I feel the hair on the back of my neck standing erect. I’m almost reluctant to turn toward the sound, but I’ve trained myself to look fear in the eye over many years.

  It’s her.

  The sound is emerging from the girl. I still don’t know her name. I haven’t asked, and she hasn’t told me. She’s sitting up, her eyes blank, her face white and contorted with frightened anger. She is hissing awful curses and vicious words like a possessed thing. As I rise to my feet, she looks right at me with those unseeing eyes.

  “Fuck you,” she hisses. “You can fucking die.”

  I think she might be talking to me, but only for a very brief second. It is soon obvious that she is having a night terror. She looks straight through me, to a man who isn’t there. Her fists clench at the bedclothes, her teeth are gritted. She is such a beautiful woman in the light of day, but night transforms her into a terrified little girl. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she is troubled. Nothing about her seems happy or healthy.

  I lie back down. This is not my problem. She will fall asleep eventu...

  “Aaiiiieeee!”

  She lets out a banshee wail of a scream, piercing the night. Even with the pillow pressed against my ears, I am not going to be able to sleep through this.

  I stand and reach for her. You’re not supposed to wake a sleepwalker up. I don’t know if the same rules apply to people experiencing sleep psychosis, but I know I’m not going to be able to stop the pain she is in easily one way or another. If she were not such a wicked woman, I would feel sorry for her.

  She screams again, louder this time. Her throat sounds raw, and I realize the husky tone to her voice isn’t because she’s a smoker as I had suspected. It’s because she screams like this every night. Perhaps all night. None of the other security people come to her aid. They must be used to the sounds she makes in the dead of night, wails desperate enough to frighten the most stoic of men.

  The scream dies into a cry, and then falls into a whimper, and it is the most pathetic little sound I have ever heard. I look at her face, lit in the soft glow of the nightlight she would likely deny is a nightlight, and I feel a rush of uncharacteristic pity that moves me to her. She is clutching at the covers, still emitting those hopeless sounds.

  “Shhhh,” I say as she collapses into my arms. “Shhhh...”

  She is whimpering like a little wounded animal. Her hair sticks to her face, slick with tears, her shoulders shaking.

  I cannot feel sorry for her, or at least, I do not want to. It is impossible not to feel pity for something this small, weak, and pathetic. She has the quality of a whimpering puppy, something that pulls at my heart and makes me want to make it better.

  “Wake up,” I say softly, hoping my voice will rouse her.

  It does not. As animated as she is, she is still fast asleep. I don’t think she is aware of any of this. She would be horrified if she woke up and found herself cowering in my arms, her cheeks wet with tears. It
would humiliate her, I think. This is exactly the opposite image she projects when conscious. Then she’s an icy bitch, a cruel mistress who will stop at nothing to stay in control. But she’s not in control now. Now she is losing control all over my lap, filling my limited clothing with her tears. I will be damp for the rest of the night.

  And that’s when I know I’m sick. Or maybe just male. I don’t know what the reason is, but I’m guessing it has something to do with the soft female body pressing against my privates. She is sparking urges in me. Thick, hard urges. I want to fuck her. But I also want to look after her. And that scares the hell out of me.

  I don’t have a tender side. I wasn’t called on to look after much of anything in my former life. In that world, that life, feminine vulnerability did only one thing: aroused me. It is having the same effect now, feeling her pressing against me, holding me so tight.

  A chivalrous gentleman would not find this arousing, but I am no gentleman. I am a desperate man who has lost everything that ever mattered to him, who has been stripped of his dignity down to the bone. Now whatever good or noble impulse made me comfort her originally is giving way to something much more base and opportunistic.

  My cock is rock hard and damp, thanks to the torrent of her misery. I grip myself and start to stroke, feeling the slight lubrication of her tears with every repetition. She clings to my side as I hold onto my cock, every frightened sound she makes only serving to heighten the desire that would be wrong if right and wrong still existed in my world.

  Gritting my teeth, I feel my seed rising. It’s been a while since I came. Being under lock and key wasn’t exactly arousing. I’m not sure this should be either. It is a perverse kind of pleasure to make myself climax this way, but wetness is wetness and touch is touch, and she has given me more of both than I have had in a very long time.

  I endeavor not to wake her. I don’t want to frighten her, and this is not really about her anyway. This is about me. My animal need. She is incidental to it, a catalyst, that is all. I am getting closer, my fist tightening, my motions faster and jerkier. She is quieter than she was before. Maybe that means she’s slipping into a more peaceful sleep. I don’t know. In this precise moment, I do not care. I’m so close all it takes is two more swift tugs and one little whimper from her and seed spills from me, coats the sheets between us and sets me free.