The Bratva’s Bride: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Henry, Jane

  He tidies his room while he waits for me—does he have any patience for a single thing out of place?—then when I’m dressed, he takes me by the elbow and leads me to the door. He opens it, ushers cleaners in, then shuts it behind him.

  “They come every day?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “But it’s only just you.”

  As we walk down the hall, he cuts his eyes to me. “I like things immaculate,” he says. “It’s the only reason I haven’t fucked you yet.”

  I grimace at the implication. Once I’m groomed, I’m his to do with whatever he wants and we’ve discussed what that means. I’m to earn my “wages.” My stomach churns with the realization that I’m his prostitute. I’m not a virgin, but I haven’t had sex in years, and the last time I did it was in the back of my boyfriend’s car in high school.

  A fucking lifetime ago.

  I don’t remember many details from the night before, and now he’s leading me to a place we haven’t gone yet. It’s on the main floor, fairly opulent with thick carpet, ornate paintings on the walls around us in thick, golden frames, and uniformed servants and guards stand all around us. The compound is massive and ornate, like a mansion of sorts. It’s easily the largest place I’ve been to in Russia. I glance at the servants that wait. Feet planted apart. Eyes staring straight ahead. Sober, and ready for instruction. Are they afraid, like me? Do they even care who I am or what my purpose is here?

  Demyan takes me by the elbow and draws me close to him.

  He snaps out commands to the men to our left, who quickly nod their heads and move to obey. He’s leading me to a large room with a massive, gleaming table. Men sit at the table when we come in, but rise respectfully when we enter.

  There’s the large, broad man with dark hair and a thick beard, the two leaner men that look like they could be brothers who sit side-by-side, and several others. They all watch us in silence.

  This looks like a meeting room of sorts. On the wall is a whiteboard with all sorts of things written, of course, in Russian. Books line the walls and if not for the overhead lighting, it would be dark in here. Pulling out a chair beside him, he motions for me to sit.

  “Do not move or speak. Sit in silence unless I instruct you otherwise,” he says. “Do you understand me?”

  I nod in silence. Of course I understand. What else would I do?

  Demyan growls out an order and everyone sits. I place my hands in my lap. I understand some Russian, and I want to see how much I can glean, but they speak so rapidly I can’t decipher much. I do gather they’re talking about some sort of gala Demyan will be going to, and they make mention to “the girl.” It’s a few minutes into the conversation that I realize that girl is me and my cheeks heat with this knowledge. He’s taking me to a big, fancy ball. No wonder he has professionals coming in to groom me.

  Demyan is the one in control. They speak to him with respect, deferring to his authority with nods and questions. It’s as if he’s the father, the patriarch, and they’re his children, though he isn’t much older than most of them. He begins addressing them, and I hear mention of thieves. What thieves are they talking about? I wonder if they’re talking about Calina at first, but I can understand it’s more than one person. It’s a group or something. The men tense when he begins to speak, and one man has the nerve to interrupt him. I freeze, knowing already that you do not interrupt Demyan.

  The room grows deadly quiet as Demyan faces the youngest at the table, a thin man from the night before with a shock of auburn hair that hangs over his forehead. Despite his tender years, he wears a surly expression. I don’t even know this boy, but I already feel sympathy for him when I remember the way I was punished the night before. He may be one of them, but he’s not exempt from the expectation of obedience.

  “Have I given you permission to speak out of turn?” Demyan asks, raising a stern brow. “Have you earned your place as my equal?” The boy bows his head and shakes it, chastened. Frowning, Demyan scolds him like an angry father, and the boy meekly takes his chastisement. “You will listen and show respect to those above you in rank.”

  The others frown at the boy who interrupted, like disapproving older brothers.

  My observation tells me there’s an order of command here, beginning with Demyan, and the others fall in line. I’m surmising this one must be a new recruit who has to learn the ropes. “Then perhaps you have not yet learned your place at this table,” Demyan continues, ruthlessly chastising. “Go. You are dismissed. Clean the cars and report back to me when you’ve done this task.”

  I blink in surprise, initially taken aback by how stern he is with the boy for such a small infraction. But as I think about it, I realize that the lives they lead are dangerous, and the order of command must be obeyed. If not, perhaps they all bear the penalty.

  His cheeks flushed, with a bowed head, the boy goes to leave the room. He’s been kicked out of class, as it were. But when he reaches the door, his hand still on the doorknob, deafening booms ring out. It takes me a second to realize it’s gunshots.

  I look around me in shock as chairs fall to the floor while they all get to their feet. Everyone already has a gun in hand, looking at Demyan, who’s spitting out orders like a lieutenant in war. I don’t understand what’s going on, when the door to the library swings open. It all happens as if in slow motion. There’s a man running in here with a gun, a crazed expression in his eyes. There’s noise and chaos and gunshots blast glass into fragments. I’m shoved to the ground and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Demyan. He pushed me to the floor. He’s on top of me. The other men defend themselves, but he’s my protection. The man that took me, that will hurt me, is covering my whole body with his. My heart races at the sounds of yelling, screaming, more gunshots.

  And then, silence. It all happened in mere minutes. Seconds pass, then Demyan’s voice rings out. To my surprise, he’s speaking in English for the first time since we entered this room.

  Does he want me to know what he’s saying?

  “Who’s hurt?” He’s sitting up but doesn’t release me, pushing one hand on my back to keep me in place.

  “Anatoly,” one man says.

  Demyan lets go of my shoulder. I should stay here, but I can’t help but want to see what just happened. I sit up, and look around the room. The men all appear fine, though one holds a crimson hand to his shoulder, and the room is wrecked. Shattered glass lies on the floor, books tattered, and the table is upturned. I gasp when I realize the two men who look like brothers are holding a man between them like a hostage. His hands are behind his back and he glares at everyone, blood dripping from his mouth, one eye swollen shut. After a few failed attempts at flailing his way out of their arms, he sits back in defeat. Demyan glares, then nods to the two men to hold their assailant. My stomach tightens. Will I bear witness to murder?

  Demyan is leaning over the boy he scolded not moments ago. Gently, so gently it stirs something in me I don’t like, he lifts the boy’s head. My heart aches. He’s just a boy, barely old enough to go to college. His beard hasn’t even come in fully yet, his body still rounded and boyish. Demyan speaks in Russian again, holding the boy under the chin and looking in his eyes with a tenderness that belies what just happened. The boy coughs and sputters and blood-flecked spittle forms in the corner of his mouth.

  Demyan shouts over his shoulder in Russian, and this I understand from visiting Calina. He’s calling for a doctor.

  Heavy footsteps sound in the hallway. Demyan leans the boy on his back, then whips off his own shirt, balling it in his fist and pressing it to the boy’s chest. It stains crimson immediately. I close my eyes as nausea rolls over me in waves.

  Demyan’s cursing and people are running in the hallway. Demyan shouts again, a hoarse order, but even I know it’s too late. I open my eyes when I hear a strangled cry. The boy slumps to the ground.

  Lifeless. That quickly, his life has been snuffed out like a candle with one strong gust of wind.
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br />   Demyan’s jaw clenches, but all he does is run his fingers over the boy’s eyes to close them, then bows his head. Surely a man like him doesn’t pray?

  A beat of silence passes before he turns to the two men holding the hostage. Holding the man who just killed one of their own. I can’t breathe. I’m trembling at what I just saw, shaken with the knowledge their justice will be swift and merciless. Still, he speaks in English. “Find out everything you can,” he says in a voice devoid of emotion. Robotic. “Use whatever methods you must. Find out who sent him. Hurt him, but do not kill him.” His eyes narrow. “Leave that for me.”

  I look at the man and blink in surprise. He looks familiar to me. Why does he look familiar? I shouldn’t know who he is, but something tells me I’ve seen him before. I shake my head, unable to process anything further. They drag the man to his feet and haul him out of the room. Demyan turns to the remaining men, raps out instructions, and they get to their feet, heading into the hallway with guns drawn. Demyan slams and locks the door behind them.

  “Stay on the floor, Calina,” he orders. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I watch him in silence. We’re alone in the wrecked room with the dead body of the boy and I can’t stop shaking.

  “Who was that? Who did that?” I finally whisper.

  He raises a brow to me and looks at me for a long minute before he speaks. “We will know soon,” he says. “We’re sweeping the security footage and my men will extract the truth from the gunman.”

  I nod, a chill running through me. I’m glad I don’t need to witness the methods they use to “extract the truth.”

  “I—I’m sorry he died,” I say stupidly, looking at the dead body on the floor in front of me. I feel like we need to cover his body or something, and I look around the room for something, but find nothing.

  “Thank you,” he says with a sigh, and for one brief moment I catch a glimpse of his humanity. “He was our youngest member. Just joined a week ago, still wet behind the ears and learning his place.”

  “I saw,” I tell him. “I could tell.” I feel like I need to keep talking. “He talked back to you or something?”

  Demyan looks at me in surprise, then to my shock, his lips quirk up in a smile. “You’re an observant little kitten, aren’t you?”

  I don’t respond.

  “Yes,” he says, sighing, facing the boy again. “He was bold and fearless, but needed a little fear put in him,” he says. “Needed to learn to curb his temper and obey instructions.” He raises his eyes to mine and smirks. “Like someone else I know.”

  I squirm and look away.

  Then he sobers and his voice grows angry. “But he didn’t deserve to die, and those responsible for this will pay.”

  “Do you have any idea who is responsible?”

  His gaze grows distant, but all he says is, “There are a few possibilities. When you and I go this weekend, I should be able to put the final pieces in place, if my men aren’t able to extract the truth from our prisoner.”

  He reaches for my hand and yanks me to my feet, and with one hard tug, pulls me to his chest. “You are not injured at all?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good,” he says with a rueful smile that makes my belly flip. “I’m the only one allowed to hurt you.”

  “Lovely,” I mutter, but he doesn’t reply.

  He begins cleaning the wrecked room, when his men arrive and speak to him in Russian.

  He nods, gives a few more curt instructions, then turns back to me.

  “Come,” he snaps. “There are no more intruders and those I summoned are ready to meet you.”

  They’re ready to doll me up for him. I inwardly groan.

  After that… I’m his to do with as he will.

  At least then I can begin paying back what I owe him.

  He takes me in silence back to his room. Once inside, he releases me and shuts the door.

  After a few minutes, a knock sounds on the door, and he lets in a whole team of people carrying bags and beauty supplies. I’m whisked away to the little bedroom, only to find stacks of boxes containing clothes and shoes. After what happened this morning, this feels so wrong, so frivolous and pointless in the face of imminent death and violence. But I let them do what they came here for, allowing them to beautify me, because I know the choice is his. Demyan stands in the corner of the room, occasionally answering his phone and snapping out a brief response before shutting it off.

  For hours… for torturously long hours… I’m pampered and preened, waxed and tweezed. My hair is done, my nails and feet groomed, my makeup applied meticulously, and I’m measured for new clothing. It’s grueling. Who does this for fun? God.

  All while he watches.

  When they have me lie down to wax the bikini area, I try to stop them.

  I’m such a fool.

  “Not there,” I say. “God, please.” It’s so invasive. But Demyan’s watched for a reason.

  “Yes, there,” he contradicts. “Calina, lie still.”

  So I lie there and let them do that.

  It’s so weird, this fashion sort of show thing, when I’ve witnessed a murder and a gun fight in broad daylight. Is this what it’s like all the time with men like him?

  Does it matter? This is my existence now. This is how I’ll pay for Calina’s sins.

  I need to get to a phone. I need to see if she’s okay.

  After what seems like hours, I’m ready. They spin me around to look in the mirror and I blink in surprise.

  This is almost… nice. Almost.

  I’m still his slave girl.

  Who is the girl staring back at me? It isn’t me. This can’t be me.

  My eyes look brighter than usual, framed with the lashes they did… I don’t know, something to. My lips are so full and pink I purse them just to feel if they’re really mine. I’m not sure what they did with my skin, but it glows, making me look almost angelic and ethereal. The clothes I’m wearing are beautiful. I look down at my nails and smile to myself. I’m used to the ragged mess I make of them, but now… now they’re almost pretty. I take a peek at my toenails. They are, too.

  It’s like I was Cinderella in the garden and my Fairy Godmother just waved her magic wand.

  Voila.

  I’m beautiful.

  A little part of me squeals at this, but only for a second, before I realize that… he’ll notice this, too. This is what he wanted. He orchestrated this. And if I think I look beautiful…

  “Turn around to face me, kisa,” he orders. Swallowing hard, I meet his eyes in the mirror, predatory and calculated. A shiver slides down my spine as I slowly turn to obey.

  If he were anyone else… a boyfriend, a lover, even a friend… I would stand with pride before him, knowing I was a diamond in the rough, polished and dazzling now. But he’s my captor, the man who will punish me and extract payment for the dues owed him.

  I can’t meet his eyes when he looks at me like that, as if he’s ready to pounce and devour me in one fell swoop. Nausea swirls in my belly when he snaps out orders, and those that came to doll me up leave as if the room’s on fire.

  We’re alone. And I know without him even telling me, it’s time I paid my first installment.

  Chapter 6

  After this morning, my need to punish her burns in me with ferocity, like a forest fire consuming everything in its path. She’s mouthed off and tried to set me on edge, prattling on like a child when I see right past her. The girl fooled the authorities and had no place in a mental institution. Anyone can tell by looking in those eyes of hers that she’s not only lucid, she’s brilliant. Fucking brilliant.

  When she turns to look at me, anger flares in me that she dare look so beautiful, because I want to shelter her from the eyes of every fucker I see, but I can’t. I have to parade her around like a goddamn pony at a fair.

  I’ll make sure anyone who comes within a mile of her knows she’s fucking mine.

  “Come here,” I snap, angry that she’s so beaut
iful and perfect, that curvy, vivacious figure accentuated with the dress that hugs her curves. Those full breasts that beg to be held and bitten, those hips marked with my cane and soon, my teeth. Her eyes that spark with fire, her too-perfect porcelain skin, those full lips that need to be wrapped around my cock.

  She’ll go to that fucking ball with her body fucking owned by me.

  Fucking owned.

  The door shuts behind me and I know we’re alone. Good to know “get the fuck out” is a very effective way of clearing the room.

  After today… after what’s happened… it’s time I exacted her punishment for her crimes. I need to control her.

  I suspect it’s the fucking Thieves that came here today. They sent someone in a bold-faced attack and didn’t even bother to hide it, for when my men interrogated him and stripped him, the telltale tattoo on his shoulder marked him as one of theirs.

  I left the group, he said, lying through his fucking teeth. It wasn’t the Thieves, he said, before they cut out his fucking tongue and left him for me to finish off.

  Lying fucking bastard.

  Why they came? I have no idea. We haven’t rattled their cages since before our former leader Dimitri was in charge. Though not allies, we’ve come to a sort of mutual agreement that we don’t venture toward each other’s territory. They do their business and we do ours. Though we’re all Bratva, we are not brothers.

  And now they send their man here in a sting operation? And kill our youngest recruit?

  That boy had the potential of being a loyal member of our brotherhood after he’d learned his place. I’d taken him under my wing. Recruited much the way all of us were—orphaned, powerful boys who needed direction and guidance. A purpose. I made him one of ours, like a younger brother. But then the Thieves came and ruined that.

  And they’ll fucking pay.

  Anger burns in me so ferociously I can’t think, I can barely contain it, a flaming hot demon that rages within me. So when Calina gets within arm’s reach, I gather her beautiful black hair in my fist and yank her head back. She screams just before my mouth meets hers, punishing her for the crime of being a fucking goddess in a house of men. For being so stupid to commit crimes for which there is no absolution but death.