Collared by the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 11)

by Hayley Faiman

  Collared by the Badman

  Russian Bratva Book Eleven

  Hayley Faiman

  Collared by the Badman

  Copyright © 2018 by Hayley Faiman

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer: Pink Ink Designs. Cassy Roop. http://www.pinkinkdesigns.com

  Editor: My Brother’s Editor. Ellie McLove. http://www.mybrotherseditor.net

  Proofreading: iScream Proofreading Services. Rosa Sharon. http://www.iscreamproofreading.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at

  http://hayleyfaiman.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1725809840

  ISBN-10: 1725809842

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Special Note

  Russian 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

  Also By Hayley Faiman

  STAY CONNECTED

  About the Author

  Special Thanks

  I don’t believe the world’s a particularly beautiful place, but I do believe in redemption.

  Colum McCann

  Special Note

  For the final Russian Bratva novel, I would like to make a special note. This series was meant to be three books. Yes, THREE. It is now complete at eleven. I would like to thank every single person reading this note.

  You made this possible. Without you, without the readers and bloggers, which let’s face it have all become friends over the past few years, this would not have been possible.

  This series is as much yours as it is mine.

  Thank you for loving my Russian Bratva men. Thank you for staying with me through ELEVEN books!!! Though this particular journey has come to an end, it is not over. The Russians will forever live through these books.

  There are so many things coming, more mafia men and many more Alphas, plus the strong women who love them.

  Please accept my deepest gratitude for every step of this beautiful journey we have been on together. I now bring you, the anticipated story of Sergei and Raisa.

  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.

  PROLOGUE

  RAISA

  Crawling through the crowd, I try not to look up. If I do, I know I’ll assuredly go back in my cage, then I’d be made an example of. I’ve been there once or twice in the past and I never want to be there again. Inhaling an even breath, I crawl past the expensive shoes that litter the living room. All of the furniture has been pushed against the walls, or maybe it’s always like this, I don’t know. The only time I’m invited up here is for a party.

  I spot a pair of black and silver rhinestone high heels and pause when one of them lifts and taps down in front of me. Shifting onto my knees, and sitting on my heels, I keep my head bowed as I wait.

  “Look up at me,” the female voice demands.

  Lifting my eyes, I look up at the woman. She’s younger than I imagined, her blonde hair pulled high into a sleek ponytail. She’s dressed as a Domme, yet she doesn’t seem overly dominant. Her face isn’t hard, she actually looks almost—concerned.

  “What do you think of my favorite toy?” Master Zakhar asks. Lowering my gaze, I stare at the marble floor in front of me.

  The woman hums. “Pretty, but thin,” she says as if she’s bored or not at all interested in me. That’s okay, I personally don’t care for female dominants. They can be crueler than the men at times.

  Master snorts. I feel his fingers in my hair before he lifts me up to standing. I try to stand quickly, but I’m not fast enough, I never am. He keeps me underfed and slightly dehydrated at all times so that my reflexes are slow. He loves to see me struggle.

  He drags me toward the center of the room and lets out a whistle. I hear the contraption fall from the ceiling, managing just barely to keep my eyes downcast. I force myself to continue my even breaths. If I panic, I’ll pass out, and then this will be so much worse when I eventually wake.

  “Mistress Katrina says my slave is too skinny,” his voice booms.

  There are a few murmurings, but I don’t even try to make out their words, not when Master begins to attach my wrists to the metal chains that have fallen from the ceiling. My legs are next. I try not to show any type of wincing, or expression at all, as my legs are lifted, and spread.

  Leather straps are wrapped beneath my knees and attach to the chains at my wrists, spreading me wide as I dangle in the air. I know what this means. He’s going to prove to the Domme that I’m not too skinny, that I’m exactly what everyone finds attractive and desirable, by allowing anyone who wants a turn, to have it, with me.

  “Who would like to play with this slave first? This too skinny hanging carcass?” he asks with a chuckle.

  The first man steps forward, a hungry look in his eyes. He lifts his chin in my direction. “Nyet,” Master Zakhar shouts. “No blood play with this one.” The man grunts, before taking a step back.

  Another one comes forward, and this time he doesn’t push him away. A line forms. Master Zakhar’s laughter fills the room as the men fill me. I come, over and over, they force me. Using their fingers against my clit, causing my body to shake and sweat, forcing me to yearn and crave more.

  Master Zakhar proves that his slave is desirable, that I am wanted over and over again. All the while the Mistress watches, her words now a bitter taste in her mouth as he shows her just how many men in this room want his skinny slave. How much pleasure this skinny carcass can provide.

  This shell of a human.

  SERGEI

  Lifting the bottle of vodka, I pour some into my glass. The light photograph in my hand threatens t
o blow away with the breeze on my balcony. I grip it tighter, one of my only pieces of evidence of a life that I let go, that I completely abandoned.

  At the time I thought it was the right thing to do, now that there is no way to recover it, to go back. There’s no way to apologize and make shit right. I know it was the exact opposite of the right thing to do. It was wrong, I was wrong.

  Picking the glass up off of the table, I bring it to my lips, taking a gulp of the liquid. It burns as it travels down my throat. My eyes finally feel brave enough to scan the photo in my hand.

  It’s her birthday today. Taking in the picture, I stare at it.

  Two people are there, me and her. Me and my daughter, Tatyana. She’s a little girl, around six. I look so hard and angry, mostly because that’s exactly what I was then. I’m still that man, though I’m not as angry these days, I’m more resigned.

  Resigned to my life alone.

  Resigned to the fact that I couldn’t protect my baby.

  Just fucking resigned.

  This was one of the last times I held her in my arms. I can practically feel her small body wrapped around mine in an embrace. Her sweet little American accented voice whispering to me, calling me Papa. She was my greatest joy. My only joy.

  It’s because of me she’s dead.

  Suicide with no body.

  I refused to believe it was true. I’ve searched for her throughout the years, all over New York and even up into Canada. I’ve always felt that a part of me would know if she was truly gone. Maybe it’s just me being hopeful, me wishing that she was still alive. Me hoping that I’ll be able to hold her in my arms again, to tell her all of my regrets in life where she is concerned.

  All I know is that I miss her.

  Blue eyes, bouncing curls. My baby. My only child.

  Finishing the glass of vodka, I throw it over the balcony. I listen, waiting for the glass to crash against the sidewalk. I smirk when it does, something is satisfying about the damage I’ve inflicted on the innocent glass.

  “Mr. Sergei, go to bed,” Panya, my ever faithful servant, urges.

  Turning to her, I lift my chin. “You know what today is?” I ask.

  “Yes. Go to bed. You will do her memory no justice if you act out your frustrations.”

  Standing, my thighs shake. I nod, taking a few swaying steps forward. Once I reach Panya, I lift my hand and wrap my fingers around her shoulder giving her a squeeze. She is my faithful servant, my friend, and the only person in this world who knows even a glimpse of the real me.

  To the rest of the world, I am a hardened criminal.

  Soulless.

  Heartless.

  Deadly.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SERGEI

  Bringing the cigar to my mouth, I puff on it as I look out at the crowd of bodies in front of me. I feel dead inside, as always. It’s a feeling I’ve come quite used to these days. Lifting a glass of vodka to my lips, I take a sip letting it burn as I work it down my throat. Scanning the room, I wonder if I will ever feel again.

  I turn my gaze to a woman, she’s strapped and chained against a St. Andrew’s Cross. Completely naked, her legs and arms spread wide, a collar around her neck and her owner, or playmate, standing directly in front of her.

  Glancing down, I notice he has a Dragon Tail whip in his grip. I let out a low whistle as he reaches back and brings his arm forward. She cries out as the whip lands along her inner thigh, it’s aim true and it’s strike unyielding.

  “Sir,” a soft voice calls from beside me.

  My eyes shift away from the sensual scene and I take in the woman next to me. Her head is bowed, an obvious act of submission to my dominance. However, she is anything but submissive.

  “Katrina,” I murmur.

  She lifts her gaze to meet mine, a smirk tipping her lips. My eyes drag down her body and I can’t stop my cock from twitching at the sight of her dressed head-to-toe in latex. It isn’t usually my style, but it’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed release, and Katrina’s body is spectacular.

  “My eyes are up here,” she purrs.

  Lifting my eyes from her full breasts, I look up at her face. She reaches out with her long-pointed fingernail, dragging it down the side of my jawline and then over to my lips. Katrina is the only woman I would allow to touch me this way. She is as close to a friend as I would ever allow, aside from Panya. A daughter of the Bratva, a woman of the lifestyle, and a Domme.

  “I have something I need to propose,” she says, tilting her head to the side.

  Lifting my chin toward the leather sofa across from me, I silently invite her to sit. I watch as she slowly sinks down into the leather, her latex bodysuit stretching as she does. Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, her makeup dark and heavy, her lips blood red.

  If I were a different kind of man, she would be extremely pleasing to me, and I would probably attempt to play. However, I’m not that kind of man, and I would never bow to her desires. She, in turn, would never to mine. So, colleagues and friends is what we shall forever remain.

  Her lips turn into a smile and her eyes search mine. I don’t know what she sees, but she must find whatever it is she’s looking for. “I have a rescue,” she whispers.

  Shaking my head, I stand. “Nyet, Katrina. I don’t do rescues. I do not do broken women. I break them, I play with them, and I send them away when I’m finished. I do not rescue and repair.”

  She stands, reaching for my hand, squeezing my fingers and I force my gaze back to hers. Her mood has shifted completely and she’s no longer cocky, or in her Domme persona.

  “Sergei. You’re the only man I truly trust. Please, she needs you. I know your style, and only you can help her.”

  Lifting my hand, I wrap it around the back of my neck, squeezing to relieve pressure. “Take me to her. Let me see her before I make my final decision.”

  Katrina practically squeals as she turns on her toes, releasing my hand she begins to walk. I follow close behind her, knowing exactly where she’s headed. Katrina doesn’t deal in human sales often, but she does every now and then. And when she does, she keeps them in a special holding cell.

  Walking through the club, I no longer feel like being a voyeur. The blurs of black leather and naked flesh don’t appeal to me. My mind is consumed with one thing, and one thing only, this rescue, and why Katrina has decided I would be the perfect man for this creature.

  Katrina touches a keypad on the wall and I watch as a hidden door opens. Slipping in behind her, the door automatically closes behind us. Continuing to follow her down the narrow hall, walking farther into the club’s hidden security features. She turns, I follow her down a long narrow staircase.

  The only noise is the sound of our footfalls. Katrina in her sexy black heels, and me, a pair of New & Lingwood Russian Calf shoes. Katrina pauses at another wall and presses her thumb against a panel.

  “I had a breach of security last year. I’ve since updated and upgraded my system,” she announces as the door slowly slides open.

  I grunt, following her inside, and as the door slides closed behind me I’m met with rows of closed metal doors. “Katrina?”

  She turns her head to look behind her, those eyes lowering slightly, and her lips pressed in a straight line. “I’ve had quite a few special requests, Sergei,” she whispers.

  “Do I want to know?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Probably not, but all of my girls and boys are contracted and sold consensually. Unfortunately, all of my acquirements are not so lucky,” she says.

  Without further explanation, she walks forward. I count three rows of doors, one on each side of the hall before she stops. She turns toward a door and steps to the side. She doesn’t approach the metal piece. Instead, she flips a switch next to it.

  My eyes round when I realize that there is a one-way glass window to the side of each door. There sitting in the middle of a bare room is a woman. She’s naked. Her dark hair hanging down, her face tilted to
the ground. Most of her body is hidden by her long dark hair, but I can see the slim outline of her shape.

  There are chains from the wall to each wrist and as my eyes take in the rest of the room, I notice there are also chains attached to her ankles.

  “Why is she chained?”

  Katrina doesn’t look back at me before she speaks, she keeps her gaze directed at the girl behind the window. “She has been badly used and mistreated, Sergei. She panicked when we took her chains off for transportation. She was inconsolable until I put them back on. I hate to see them on her. She is such a soft creature.”

  I can hear the sadness in Katrina’s voice as she talks about the girl. “Why don’t you repair her, then? It is obvious you hold affection,” I gently urge.

  Katrina looks back at me, tears swimming in her eyes. “She’s too far gone for me to help, Sergei. I would do more damage than good. She needs someone strong, someone who will not only be patient but be stern and attentive,” she explains.

  I lift my chin. “I would like to examine her,” I state.

  Katrina’s mouth drops open slightly. “You can’t be serious, Sergei, she has been through enough,” she barks.