Dancing for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 3)

by Hayley Faiman

  Dancing for the Badman

  Copyright © 2016 by Hayley Faiman

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editor: RC Martin, Another Pair

  Cover: Cassy Roop, Pink Ink Designs

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Quote

  Authors Note

  Russion Bratva Structure

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Living for the Badman

  Also by Hayley Faiman

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Crystal —

  Your kindness and help is more than I could ask for.

  Thank you.

  Authors Note —

  This novel begins after the last chapter in Seducing the Badman, just before the epilogue. Coincidentally, this book also takes place after Rough & Raw (Notorious Devils #2) …

  RUSSIAN BRATVA STRUCTURE

  Pakhan – The Boss: Controls everything.

  Sovietnik – Councilor: Advisor and most close trusted individuals to the Pakhan.

  Obshchak – The Bookmaker: Collects all money from Brigadiers and bribes from the government.

  Brigadier – Authority: Captain in charge of a small group of men.

  Boyevik – Warrior: Soldier, works for a Brigadier.

  Kryshas – Covers: Extremely violent enforcers.

  Torpedo – Contract Killers

  Byki – Bulls: Bodyguards

  Shestyorka – Associate: Errand boys. Lowest rank in the Russian Mafia.

  Ten Years Ago

  Brooklyn, New York

  “PLEASE,” I WHIMPER AS his fingers lazily pump in and out of me. He grins wickedly, a look I love on his handsome face.

  “I want you to beg for me, moyo zolotse,” he murmurs huskily.

  My gold—his gold.

  I shiver when he calls me that—every. single. time.

  “I’m begging you, Kirill. Please, please, I need more. I need you,” I cry out. He chuckles before smothering my lips with his hand.

  We are in my dorm room, the all-girls dorm. No boys allowed after ten in the evening, yet here Kirill is, in my bed—after midnight. He never follows the rules. Honestly, I don’t think rules apply to him in general.

  Kirill does what he wants, when he wants, and how he wants. No man, woman, or child could ever stop him or tell him differently; and if they try? He shrugs them off and does whatever he wants to anyway. His no bullshit attitude is what drew me to him. A shy virgin when we met, he melted my panties before I even knew what was happening. He made me addicted to his hands, his mouth, and his cock. I am starving for him on a twenty-four-seven basis.

  “Then you shall have me, krushka,” he mutters. Babydoll. He slides deep inside of me, slowly filling me.

  I groan at the sensation of his cock stretching me. I will never tire of this feeling, of him on top of me and inside of me, of his dark gray eyes focused solely on mine, and of the way he makes me feel.

  “Kirill,” I breathe. He quiets me with a hard kiss before he pulls out and thrusts back inside.

  Kirill’s fingers dig into my hips as he slams in and out of my body, my breasts bouncing with each thrust. His eyes never leave mine. He is focused, and he is intent on showing me something—what, I don’t know.

  I shiver when one of his hands leaves my hip and his thumb presses against my clit.

  “Come on my cock, Tati” he mumbles, his voice deep and raspy. I know that he is close to the edge.

  “Yes, Kirill,” I breathe on a sigh, closing my eyes as I arch my neck back.

  I shouldn’t have closed my eyes. I should have kept them open. Had I known it would be the last time I would watch Kirill come undone inside of my body, I would have watched every. single. second.

  “Oh, God,” I whimper as I come, my eyes pinched tightly and my body shaking beneath Kirill’s strong frame.

  He takes his hand from my clit and buries it into my messy blonde hair before he wildly fucks me—hard. No rhythm, no rhyme, just primal and animalistic. When he finally comes, he buries his face in my neck and fills my body with his climax.

  “Ya budu vsegda lvublt tebya,” I hear him mutter against my skin. We fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, and I wake alone the next morning.

  Kirill and I were together for six months.

  I thought we were happy.

  I thought we were in love.

  I thought I was going to marry him and be his wife.

  I never thought the FBI would be at my door, explaining to me exactly what he was—who he was. I wanted to go to him, to ask him exactly what was happening, but they wouldn’t let me. I had a choice to make and I had to make it immediately.

  I was young and scared.

  I made a choice.

  It was the wrong choice.

  I should have stayed with him—trusted him.

  Kirill’s last words to me were a mystery, since I didn’t know Russian. Kirill was very Russian. I went to the library and combed through Russian to English phrases. A poor old soul helped me. I asked him what Ya budu vsegda lvublt tebya meant and he looked at me with wide eyes and said—I will always love you.

  I cried.

  I broke down and cried.

  He would always love me?

  I left him.

  I was scared.

  I was desperate.

  I was pregnant.

  Present Day

  San Francisco, California

  I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH about my father. He is this mysterious man that I have glimpses of in my hazy memory banks. I remember his thick, Russian accent and his light, blond hair. I remember his dark eyes and how big and scary he was. He never smiled, and he never played with me.

  “Tatyana,” he calls. I run over to him obediently.

  “Yes, papa?” I ask, looking up to meet his gaze. His dark eyes are trained on me.
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  “I will be gone for a long while, Tati. You must behave, be a good girl for ma,” he orders. I nod. I am always a good girl, the best girl.

  “Yes, papa,” I whisper with a smile on my face.

  “You are special, my Tatyana, do you know this?” he asks.

  Then he does something he has never done before. He sinks down, crouching in front of me, our eyes leveling. I inhale and smell the cigarette smoke that still clings to his suit.

  “No, papa,” I say softly. He smirks.

  “You are. Stay a good girl, listen to your ma, and always do what is expected of you. One day you will find out just how special you are in this life. A beautiful little shakhmatnaya figura,” he murmurs.

  I look at him with confusion until he touches the tip of my nose with his finger, straightens, and walks away from me.

  I never saw him again.

  Years later, I asked my Russian boyfriend, Kirill, what shakhmatnaya figura meant, and he told me it meant chess piece. My own father called me a chess piece. To this day, I still do not know what he meant by the words.

  My daughter, Kiska, will never know her father, either. Except it was by my own doing, not his. Kirill Baryshev, the love of my life. Leaving him was a foolish thing, the biggest regret in my life but I did it out of pure fear, nothing else.

  I believed what a man in a fancy suit told me. I blindly believed him, instead of simply asking Kirill. I was young and so very dumb. Now that I look back, I realize it. But hindsight is twenty-twenty. If I could go back, I would change everything about that cold winter day where I packed my bags and disappeared, vanishing into the night.

  I hike my duffle bag higher on my shoulder and put my head down, hoping nobody will notice me as I walk through the Tenderloin area of San Francisco. I have to work tonight.

  I’m a dancer.

  A stripper.

  I hate it.

  No, that’s not true. I hate the way it makes me feel sometimes, but I can’t deny that without it, my daughter and I would be destitute. So no, I don’t hate dancing, and I’m good at it, so there’s that.

  But when you run away because of rumors, when you don’t finish that pointless Classical Studies degree, and you’re eighteen and find yourself a single parent, you’ll do anything to feed and clothe your child. I became a topless dancer in a city too expensive to live in so we could merely survive.

  San Francisco wasn’t my first choice, but the FBI Agent, Ryan Green, talked me into it. He said since he was in Los Angeles, it would be easier to keep me safe. His intentions became clearer as time went on. He didn’t want to keep me safe; he wanted me to rat out Kirill, and he wanted me in his bed. Possibly as a big fuck you to Kirill.

  I doubted he wanted me for anything else, except to prove to Kirill that he could take his woman. I never gave him the satisfaction, and in turn, he took my government allowance away from me. What a complete joke. The whole charade.

  By the time I figured out all of the missing pieces of the puzzle, it was too late to search for Kirill. It had been years, and I was too scared of what the outcome would be.

  Fear.

  It is a tricky emotion. It took me away from the love of my life, and it has kept me away from him for ten years. I don’t know that I will ever gain the strength and courage to actively seek out Kirill Baryshev.

  I know that my heart still aches for him. I know that no other man could every compare to him. I also know that I never really knew him. I knew his heart, but I didn’t know the man.

  I step off of the bus onto the dark city sidewalk of Columbus Avenue. There are half a dozen strip clubs clustered together in this area, and I work at the most exclusive one. I suppose I should be more proud of that fact.

  I’m not disgusted with myself, I’m disappointed. I was in college at one time. I thought I would be something special, something more. Life has a way of getting in the way of our hopes and dreams, bringing us down to reality.

  I reach for the back entrance handle and freeze. Something is off. I feel as though somebody is watching me. Unfortunately, I know that feeling all too well, and it isn’t something I can just brush off.

  I slowly look around, to my left, my right, then behind me. I see nothing. Though, that does not mean that nobody is there; it just means they do not wish to be seen yet.

  Once I am safely inside of the building, I breathe a sigh of relief and head toward the dressing room. The lights are already dimmed, and the stage is lit and ready for dancers. My eyes scan the room and I see Tony, one of the bartenders, washing glasses. He lifts his chin toward me when I catch his eye. I, in turn, lift my hand in a half wave before I hurry to my dressing area.

  I don’t want to be stuck talking to him. One night at a special event, I had one too many shots and we kissed. He tried for more, but I refused him. He didn’t take the rejection well. Things between us since then have been—tense. He still hits on me. I try to be nice and let him down gently.

  Carlie and Sapphire are already halfway finished applying their stage makeup when I sit down at my own mirror to prepare. I don’t particularly care for them, or most of the other dancers. I tolerate them. I’ve been here the longest, eight years to be exact, and I’ve seen so many women come and go. It’s hard to forge friendships just to lose them. I’m cordial to all of the girls, but I’m nobody’s BFF.

  Once I finish applying my thick stage makeup, I curl and tease my hair, making it a big, blonde mass around my face, head, and shoulders. Then, it’s time to change.

  I’m the All-American kind of girl, blonde hair and green eyes, so I play that up on stage as well. Tonight I’m wearing a full rhinestone, matching red bra and panty set with a skimpy sailor costume over the top, paired with white knee high stockings and red platform high heels. I take one last look in the mirror after Stu, our manager, calls my name.

  I sigh heavily.

  This is me.

  This is my life.

  Tatyana.

  I never bothered with a stage name. My real first name is stripper sounding enough. What’s the point? They all see my face, my tits, and my ass anyway. I’m plastered on their website and featured in their fliers. There is no denying and no hiding that it’s me up here working for a buck. If anybody has a problem with it, then that’s their issue. Nobody else is going to pay my bills and put a roof over my baby’s head. So this—this is what I do.

  I dance.

  News that the FBI had some informant on their payroll from the Bratva surprised me. Shocked the shit out of me, actually. Usually, if anybody in the organization looks like they might talk, even twitches, they’re taken care of.

  After some more research, I found out that not only had this person been on the FBI’s informant list, but she was also a part of their witness protection, then she was terminated from their list. It intrigued me. How did this happen? How did one of our own turn their back on us and nobody in the organization found out and eliminated them?

  Then I found out the name.

  Tatyana Orlova.

  It was as if a ghost had come back to haunt me.

  I had to see it all for myself.

  I watch as the pretty blonde opens the door to the strip club. She stops and looks around. Her eyes scan over me, but I’m too hidden in the shadows for her to see even my silhouette. I saw her face on the webpage, but until her bright green eyes looked right at me, I didn’t know if it was truly her.

  Now I know.

  The woman who haunts my dreams is in fact alive and not dead as I’ve imagined for the past decade.

  How? I do not know.

  When her car blew up, the police produced a skeleton of her charred body. Then going through her dorm, I found the ultrasound and her note. She didn’t love me and she didn’t want her baby raised in my life. She had been told that I was Russian Bratva—a piece of shit gangster. She had to leave me. Only she didn’t make it.

  I had always assumed she somehow killed herself. Why a person would choose to be burned alive, I didn
’t know. I was too distraught and young at the time to question anything. My woman was gone, my baby—gone.

  Now. Now she is back, or she never left. She’s alive, and she has been just eight hours away from me this entire time. Right under my nose for ten goddamn years.

  She doesn’t know the truth, though. She never did. She doesn’t know who she belongs to. What her life was truly meant for—who she was truly meant for. I’ll tell her. I’ll inform her of the truth.

  I look into her gorgeous green eyes and I feel as though I’m being pulled under a current, drowning. I should be fucking terrified, but I’m not. If I’m going to drown, if I’m going down, at least it is because of this creature grinning over at me. She’s so damn innocent and pure. How she has stayed this way, I don’t know, but I’m glad for it. Something so beautiful should be treasured and I aim to do so, repeatedly—treasure her.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks as she traces my brow with her slim finger.

  “That I want you again,” I lie.

  I want to tell her the truth. I want to tell her everything, but I don’t. One day she’ll know, but I don’t want to see the hurt, and betrayal in her eyes. I don’t want that hurt or that betrayal aimed toward me. I can’t be the person that makes her cry out of sadness. Not my Tati. I want her to always be happy.

  “Do you now? I’m sure I can help with that,” she laughs. It goes straight to my cock.

  “You can. I want you to touch yourself, Tati. Show me just how badly you want me,” I urge.

  “I-I-,” her face heats with pink embarrassment and it turns me on that much more. So shy, my Tatyana.

  I drag my hand down the center of her chest to her warm pussy and start to touch her gently. My lips touch the side of her neck as my finger slides inside of her warm pussy, still wet and swollen from our previous round.

  “Kirill,” she moans.

  “Ya budu vsegda lvublt tebya,” I whisper.

  I will always love you.

  I will always love her, too.

  She’s my forever.

  Moyo zolotse—my gold.

  I pick up my burner phone, shaking memories off of the past, and send a message to Radimir, my second in command. I inform him of a child and a woman, my past, in code. I hope that he understands the words I’ve sent. I will not be able to join him back in West Hollywood for a while. I don’t know how long it will take to get back home, but I will not be going alone.