The War: Bratva Blood Two : (A dark mafia romance)

by SR Jones

  Cassie called her friend on the flight, and I had thought she might gush over the plane, but she didn’t. She seemed…unsure much of the time. I’m hoping the house has her more excited. It’s stunning, and I’m oddly excited for her to see it.

  We’re traveling from the jet to the house in a private limo, and yes, sue me if it’s over the top. I felt like putting on a show for Cassie for reasons I don’t quite understand. The fact that she doesn’t seem remotely impressed so far has pissed me off. Look at her, sitting there all nonchalant. Why doesn’t this impress her? It worked on all the other women, why not her? Is she somehow above this? Above me? The thought has acid burning in my stomach. She might act like she’s better than me, but I can make her kneel for me if I so desire, and not by force either. That she’ll do because she wants to. It’s a heady power rush for me.

  Tonight, I’m going to make her fucking crawl for me the way I would for her.

  I stare out the window, my mind on what I want to do to Cassie, when the development appears around the corner.

  The lights of a few of the homes twinkle in the dusk, and the gatehouse is welcoming, warmly lit up, not looking like the heavily guarded entrance it actually is. Armed men are in charge of the security of this development. No wonder, as the apartments here vary from five million, up to sixty million for the most expensive homes. Mine is twenty million. It’s stunning, but the reason I purchased the property is due to its location. It sits right at the back of the farthest street, away from the other properties, secluded and private. Behind it is a copse of woodland, and beyond that more of the Parisian streets. Looking out from the house, though, you’d be forgiven for believing you were in the middle of a tiny village or the countryside. You can’t see or even hear the bustle of Paris beyond this enclave. It’s there though, the city, and all the life it provides. This is a highly expensive area, heavy police presence, and that makes it safe.

  We pull up outside the house, the crunch of tires on gravel sounding in the car as the door opens and light spills out into the gloom. Madame Bernard opens the door, standing in the shaft of light, her white shock of hair swept up around her head in a style more befitting someone from the 1900s. Her starched uniform is as perfect as ever. She oversees a cook, two maids, the gardener, and a handyman who comes once a week to do any odd jobs.

  When we exit the car, she beams at me. “Bonjour, Konstantin.”

  It took me years to get her to call me by my first name, but now she does so easily.

  I smile at her and pull Cassie forward. “Madame Bernard, this is Cassie. She will be staying with me. Can you see to her comfort and make sure she needs for nothing while she is here?”

  Madame Bernard nods and says, “Of course. Welcome, Mademoiselle Cassie.”

  Cassie gives her an unsure smile and says a weak hello. She’s staring at the house with big eyes. It is impressive and this is the reaction I was hoping for. I want to be a damn king in her eyes.

  It’s beautiful. The huge, arched, multi-pane windows make the building glitter with the golden lights inside. French doors to one side lead out to the front lawn.

  If she’s impressed now, wait until she gets inside.

  Sure enough, when we step over the threshold, she gasps. I bite back a smile, but I look at the house anew, taking it in as if for the first time.

  The floor and walls in the hallway are pale marble, and the vaulted ceiling is fifteen feet high. Large, folding wooden doors lead to rooms on either side of the cavernous hallway. To one side is an informal sitting room, with an hexagonal bay window. French doors open to a marble balcony, looking out over the gardens to that side of the house.

  The other side of the hall leads to the formal reception room. Polished wooden floors compliment the cream walls, and the huge oriental rug running almost the whole length of the space dominates that room. Two stairs to the back of the room lead up to a recessed area, which houses the dining table. To one side of the dining table, tucked away in a corner, is a cards table, with red velvet chairs around it.

  Cassie has wandered into the formal reception room, and I follow her.

  In the main sitting area an antique gold desk sits underneath the windows, and to each side of it are more French doors, opening out to the formal garden running around this side of the property to the rear. There’s an oil painting on the wall, and she wanders over to it, inspecting it. Turning to me, she says, “This must have cost a fortune.”

  “Nah, it’s cheap compared to the sculpture of the boy in the hallway. This was only fifty-thousand pounds,” I say.

  Her face pales as she looks at it, then back at me. “How much was that table?” She points to the French antique desk.

  “About two hundred thousand; why?” I’m getting pissy with her now. She’s pointing at my things, demanding to know what they cost like I’m some sort of evil bastard for having success.

  “No reason. I’m working out that in this room alone there must be like, four hundred thousand pounds worth of stuff.”

  More, I think to myself, but I don’t articulate it.

  “I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised, you own a private jet, but wow.”

  I don’t tell her that the jet comes with the airliner I control, and I don’t outright own it. There’s a board and co-owners. She doesn’t understand the basics of how the business world works, and it shows.

  She turns to me, and there’s a strange light in her eyes. Something I’ve not seen before.

  “You choose this,” she says, not elaborating as to what this is. If I had to guess I think she means my work. “You have more than most people could dream of, and yet you choose to keep fighting; for what?”

  I look around me, at the hired men standing by. At Bohdan and Reece side by side, all glancing away to look at the walls. Swallowing my temper, I take her arm and march her upstairs.

  She attempts to pull away, protesting defiantly, but then she glances my way. Whatever she sees stops her struggling and shuts her up.

  I head straight for my room, throw the door open, and throw her on the bed.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Shut up.” Thank God for her, she does.

  She reconsiders my command, opens her damn mouth, and speaks. “I’m sorry, really. The thing is, though, we can’t have sex. You’re not in the place right now where I trust you won’t hurt me.”

  “You and me both, and we’re not having sex.”

  “We’re not?”

  “No. You’re getting a history lesson.”

  I stride to one of my drawers and rummage around until I find what I’m looking for.

  With great care, I take out the old leather-bound photo album and open the pages into my past.

  There’s my mother, her hair under a scarf, her beautiful face, swollen a tiny bit on one side. You’d only see it if you knew to look. I know to look.

  I sit by Cassie on the bed and tap her arm. “Look at this with me.”

  She does what I ask and looks at the photo album.

  “This is where I grew up.”

  She frowns and shakes her head. “But that’s a shack.” She seems confused.

  “Yes, Cassie, it is a fucking shack, and yet it’s still where I grew up. It was so damp mushrooms grew out of the walls. This is my grandmother.”

  I turn the page, and she stares at the old lady with her long hair and only one eye.

  “What happened to her eye?”

  “Taken out in the war.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. She was gang raped too.”

  It’s not something I tell many people, and it makes what my father did to Yulia so much worse.

  I turn the pages again and show her my mother and my sister. “They’re both dead, Cassie. Both of them. They didn’t fight, and now they’re dead.”

  She swallows, and I watch her throat work, knowing she’s trying not to cry.

  “This is my father, the piece of shit who—”

  “He left; I know.”
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  “Cassie, he didn’t only leave. He did so much more. He raped and murdered my wife.”

  “Raped?” Her face pales.

  “Yes. He’s trash, and he came after me after I walked away from the fight. In this life, you don’t get to walk away, Cassie. Andrius tried, and now he’s back in it.”

  “There must be a chance, a way. Otherwise, you’re never safe; your partners are never safe. If you have children, they won’t be safe. Look at Michael having to stay with the Bianchi family.”

  “So I what? Become a lawyer?” I laugh bitterly.

  “Or do nothing. Look at all you have, all you own. You could travel. Do good deeds.”

  “Good deeds? Jesus fucking Christ, Cassie, you’ve sugarcoated me so much I’m a stick of candy.”

  She glowers at me.

  “You’re fighting ghosts,” she says sadly.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Ghosts, you’re fighting the ghosts of your past, and it’s a war you can never win. You could have something else, something real, in the here and now, but you’re fighting the past.”

  She gets up and walks to the door. “Which is my room?” she asks.

  “This is your fucking room. You sleep with me, and right now, I’m the one leaving.” I walk right by her and slam the door hard enough to do it damage.

  By the time Damen and Maya arrive, my bad mood has calmed a little. Good job because Maya is all sunshiny bonhomie. If I hadn’t lightened up some, I’d have wanted to throttle her after ten minutes.

  I don’t know either of them the way Andrius does. We met and talked a while ago in Athens, but it was a brief visit, and the business talk took a back seat to Stamatis and Rhea’s engagement news. I’ve done my research though, and talked to Andrius about the various people involved in Stamatis’ inner circle.

  “Oh wow, this is so gorgeous. Isn’t it?” Maya asks Damen as she wanders around the living room.

  “Yes, darling,” he says, and I get the impression that some of the time, he says this automatically when she’s gushing about stuff.

  “It’s so Paris,” she says with a wink, and he bursts out laughing at that.

  I don’t get the joke.

  “I’m glad I packed a lot of Chanel. I’d have hated to do this place an injustice.”

  She’s the sort of woman who looks right at home here. She has an innate sense of style and manages to stay the right side of looking wealthy rather than tacky. Cassie most definitely doesn’t fit this house, but she’s the one I want. Still. Despite infuriating me. Maybe, I admit to myself, because she infuriates me.

  I like the balls she displays when she stands up to me. I love the contrast with the way she melts for me if I tell her to submit. Sexually, at least, because she doesn’t damn well submit the rest of the time.

  Footsteps on the stairs have me glancing to the door of the large reception room where we’re all standing around making chitchat.

  Cassie appears, and she walks in hesitantly, throwing me a worried glance. Does she think I’m going to send her to bed without any supper? It’s a tempting thought, but I’d rather have her by my side, so long as she doesn’t start her shit again.

  “Come and meet Damen and Maya,” I tell her.

  She comes to me, and I sling my arm around her, pulling her into my side. “Damen and Maya, meet Cassie.”

  “Little Miss Can’t Hack,” Damen says with a smirk.

  Cassie doesn’t reply. She looks nervous, and I understand why. Damen’s bigger than me, not by much, but he is bigger, and he’s got a face that can look positively murderous in repose. If only she knew he was ten times softer than me, and she could wrap him around her little finger if she played the damsel in distress.

  Damen gets stuff done if it needs doing, but he doesn’t like it. He avoids violence unless necessary or ordered to do so by Stamatis. Unlike Alesso, his colleague and brother in arms. That one positively relishes mayhem and violence, which is ironic because Alesso looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  “Cassie, pleased to meet you. Oh my God, you’re gorgeous. Do you know what? You remind me of Star. She’s a friend of ours, more than a friend. She’s like family, I suppose. In fact, soon she’s going to be my… What is it, darling?” she asks Damen.

  “Well, her mother is marrying your father, so that makes her your stepsister.” Damen rolls his eyes at her, but he’s smiling too, and his face is full of adoration. As if his wife is fun instead of annoying.

  “It’s mental,” Maya exclaims. “One minute, my father was my uncle, and the next he’s my daddy, and now he’s marrying Rhea, who is awesome. But Rhea’s daughter, Star, she’s with Markos, who is like Damen’s brother… I can’t wrap my head around it all sometimes. Anyway, you remind me of Star. Not in your personality, from what I’ve seen of it anyway.” Then Maya leans in and whispers loudly, “Star escaped a cult. She’s very different to most people, but you do have a look of her.”

  Fuck me, this woman is one of a kind. She’s the sort of woman I should be going for, not virtuous types like Cassie.

  “So did her mother, Rhea, escaped a cult, I mean, and now Rhea is marrying my father. It’s all so, complicated.”

  “Not really,” Damen says.

  “I think it is. So many of us, all friends, and now soon-to-be relatives. I mean, Rhea, cult escapee Rhea, is going to by my mother.”

  “Still not complicated,” Damen argues, but he’s got a good-natured, relaxed look on his face as he watches his wife.

  “Damen, you know, I think we ought to get some French pieces.” She wanders over to the desk and touches it reverentially, her mind apparently now on my furniture.

  “Fuck my life,” Damen mutters. “I think you’re about to cost me an awful lot of money.” He throws a glare my way. “Honey,” he says more loudly. “Konstantin is a very. Rich. Man. Don’t get ideas about us buying the same shit.”

  He says it so easily. No seeming issues about my wealth being more than his at all. Damen is a man easy in his skin. Am I?

  “But, babe,” she says with a pout. “Just a few pieces maybe. Something like this would go so well with the Versace dinner service displayed on it.”

  I nearly choke at the idea but say nothing.

  “Your dress is nice,” Maya says to Cassie, who is wearing one of the dresses I bought her from Gap, with a print and cap sleeves.

  “Is it Balenciaga? I saw the paisley dresses in there, lovely.”

  “Erm, no; it’s Gap,” Cassie says.

  “Oh, wow, bargain.” Maya crosses to Cassie and touches the dress. “Nice material too. I’ll have to check it out.”

  “Your clothes are amazing,” Cassie blurts out. “You’re so glamorous.”

  “Thank you. So have you seen much of Paris?” Maya leads Cassie off by hooking their arms as if they’re best friends and walks to the open French doors, toward the lit balcony area leading to the garden.

  Damen turns to me as we both walk away from the women. “I’m digging into as much of the Armenians’ business as I can. It seems that Aram Ohanian has a massive hard-on for both you and Andrius.” He sighs and shakes his head. “He wanted Allyov’s territory and he wants Andrius dead.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Now that you’ve taken out Popov and Tigran, he also wants you dead. The good news? He’s got a member of Brit Intelligence crawling all over him, and he doesn’t know it.”

  I know it. He must be referring to Marcus, but how does he know?

  “How do you know?”

  “Because British Intelligence are good at covering their tracks, but I’m even better at uncovering them.”

  Fuck me, Damen is shit hot.

  “Marcus,” I say. “He’s called Marcus. Thick Yorkshire accent, and looks like he’s about to murder someone any second. Said he’d call, but so far he hasn’t.”

  “He’s about to. Sent a message yesterday to his handler in MI5 stating he’s about to call on you guys. It looks like he’s got something set i
n motion. He told the bossman you guys shot him, and so far from his communications, Aram seems to believe it.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Don’t know. He doesn’t go into any detail, but I’m sure he’ll tell you when he calls. The thing we need to sort out here is what we can do to help. If Stamatis cuts off their shipping lanes, by talking to some very influential friends of his, that’s a start. It doesn’t help you immediately, but it will overall. It weakens the Armenians. It also lets them know they need to behave if they want them back. Stamatis isn’t happy to find they’ve been bringing forced labor in through Greece. Ultimately, though? Stamatis doesn’t control the whole fucking ocean, and there’s other ways they can send their merchandise. If this fucker is determined to make trouble, he’s going to make trouble, whether we make it more difficult or not. We can also supply you with men if you need them. Arms, I expect you have this covered. Mainly, though, I can keep getting you intel.”

  “I appreciate the help on this. Your intel is worth its weight in gold, and Stamatis blocking the shipping lanes will distract Aram enough that the fucker won’t be on his A-game when he comes for us.”

  “That’s the idea,” Damen says. “Then with Marcus setting him up, it’s like a pincer movement. Trapped on all sides. Allyov is in hiding, I hear, but you’ve got Andrius, and he’s the best weapon Allyov ever purchased, so the odds are as good as they’re going to get.”

  The women walk back toward us, and for now, we stop talking about business. There’ll be plenty of chances in the days ahead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cassie

  I stare at Konstantin, perplexed. I know I pissed him off earlier, but then we seemed to have a nice evening. Now, though? He’s pissed again.

  We’re in his room, where he says I have to sleep too, and he’s given me an order.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, standing by the door where he told me to stay when we entered the room. Like I’m a dog.