The Bratva’s Stolen Bride

by Cole, Jagger

  I jump out and dash around to his side. He hisses in pain as I help him out, grunting at the weight of him. The tough-guy façade is fading, and I can tell he’s really hurt. And weakening. And I’m not a nurse, but he’s losing a lot of blood.

  The panic surges inside of me, but I clamp it back down.

  “We can’t stay here,” Lev groans.

  “Feel like teaching me stick?”

  He smirks and then turns to look into the darkness of the garage with no doors. I peer in too and see it the same time he does: an old pickup truck.

  “Mid-90s Ford,” Lev nods. “Definitely automatic.” He suddenly starts staggering towards it with me following quickly.

  “Wait, there’s no way—”

  He grunts and yanks the door open.

  “Lev, what are you…”

  I gasp as he whips his gun out and suddenly slams the butt of it against the dashboard next to the steering wheel. The cheap old plastic shatters.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Borrowing this truck.”

  He yanks some wires out, rips a few of them apart, and suddenly taps two together. Sparks crackle, and suddenly, the truck rumbles to life. My jaw drops.

  Lev turns to grin at me through the haggard look on his face. “Never seen that before I bet.”

  “I’ve never seen any of this,” I whisper.

  His smile fades, and he pulls me close. “I’ll be fine, Zoey. But…”

  “But maybe I should drive now?”

  He grins. “That might be best.”

  “Well hop in.”

  “Hang on.” He hobbles back to the Chevelle and pops the trunk. He pulls a big canvas tarp from inside and nods at the car. “Can you…”

  “Yeah, hang on.”

  I help him drag the cover over the old muscle car and clamp the edge down under the chassis. When we’re done, Lev looks at it forlornly. I take his hand and squeeze.

  “No one’s going to find it here. It’ll be okay.”

  He sighs. “The first car I ever bought when I came to this country.”

  “Careful, a girl might get jealous.”

  He chuckles. “Of this car?” He grins. “You should be.”

  I laugh as I hook my arm around his waist and help him back to the truck.

  “If you weren’t shot, I’d whack you for that one.”

  He chuckles again as I help him slide into the truck. He pulls his phone out and dials a number.

  “Nikolai,” he grunts. He starts to say something in Russian. But then he stops and glances to me. “English, Nikolai. I’m with her.” He nods again. “Listen to me. Fyodor found us.”

  He scowls at the stream of what sound like swears though the phone.

  “Da, I’m fine. Da, she is too.”

  He turns to smile at me, and I blush.

  “We’re heading north to the Wisconsin border. Da, Lake Geneva, where we…” he glances at me. “That job that time. Da.”

  He frowns. “Nyet,” he growls in response to a question. “No, Viktor is on vacation. Listen, if they start to go after Kashenko interests, or anyone else, then it’s something else. But he won’t.” He scowls deeper and glances at me. “Because this isn’t a war. It’s a hunt; for me, and for what I took from him.”

  He smiles at something Nikolai says. “Thanks. I’ll call when we have a place to lie low.”

  He hangs up. I sigh. “Well, where to?”

  “North. There’s a place over the border in Wisconsin that I know.”

  “From ‘that job’?” I say quietly.

  Lev nods slowly. “Lastachka, there are many parts to my work that are not…” he shakes his head. “I won’t lie and tell you I’m not proud of them. They are not always nice, good things, Zoey. I’m not a good man,” he growls. “But what I have done, I have done for the family that took me in when I would have died on the streets. I owe the Kashenko bratva a debt I will never repay in full. But I will gladly keep giving back for as long as I can.”

  I reach over and squeeze his hand. “You’re wrong, you know.”

  “About?”

  I smile. “About being a bad man.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “Yes I do,” I say fiercely. I squeeze his hand. “Yes, I do know you.”

  He slowly smiles and squeezes my hand back.

  “Here, keep this on that wound.” I pass him the roll of the gauze and then take the old truck out of park. Miraculously, it’s even got a mostly full tank of gas. We pull back onto the main road and keep heading north through the woods.

  Lev grunts next to me, holding the bandage to his bloody side and occasionally pointing the way to go. We pull into smaller and smaller towns. And then more touristy-oriented ones, until we’re creeping along a wooded road. Next to us, the moon glints off the water of a good-sized lake through the trees.

  We pass summer lake house after summer lake house—mostly log cabin type looking places with docks out back going down to the water. I twist my lip between my teeth and glance at him

  “What am I looking for, specifically?”

  “A house with all the lights off. Because it’s peak tourist season, and if the lights are off—”

  “No one’s home.”

  He grins at me. “Exactly.”

  The road keeps winding, the houses thinning as we get away from the trendy part of the lake-side town. I peer through the trees as we slowly round a bend, and I tap the brakes.

  “There.”

  Lev grunts and looks past me. He nods. “Let’s check it out.”

  I kill the lights and pull down the gravel drive. When I turn off the engine, Lev takes his gun out and grunts as he slides out of the tuck.

  “Wait—”

  “Stay here.”

  I watch him poke around the house, which looks boarded up entirely. Eventually, he turns and nods. I step out and walk over to where he’s by the built glassed-in porch overlooking the lake. He yanks his bloody shirt off and wraps his fist in it. I gasp as he winds back, and punches through one of the glass panes.

  Lev reaches through and unlocks the door. We step in and close it behind us, and I glance around.

  “Well, it’s empty.”

  “And dark,” Lev flicks a switch on the wall, but nothing happens. “Electricity must be off.”

  He frowns, using his phone to poke around before he finds matches and a lantern. He lights it and it flickers to life.

  “Okay, sit,” I say gently. In the dim lantern light, I can see how haggard and pale he’s looking. “Let me find some more lights so we can fix you up.”

  I find candles and some battery-powered LED lanterns, too. When I come back to the living room, I roll my eyes.

  “I said sit,” I mutter.

  Lev is on his hands and knees starting a fire in the fireplace. And he’s looking really, really pale.

  “Sit down, damnit,” I frown. He glances up at me and grins as the fire crackles to life.

  “Okay, I’ll sit.”

  He stands, wincing, and then slumps onto the couch with a heavy groan.

  I swallow. “Okay, what do I need?”

  “Needle and thread,” Lev says softly. “If you can’t find that, a flat knife will work.”

  I frown. “Wait, what?”

  “And a towel. Oh and booze, please.”

  I nod quickly and duck into the kitchen with one of the electric lanterns. I don’t find any needles or thread. But I find strong looking if not cheap whiskey, a clean dishtowel, and a flat butter knife. I dash back into the living room with them, and Lev smiles weakly as he takes the bottle from me.

  “Okay, get the knife hot in the fire.”

  I stare at him. “You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?”

  He takes a heavy, big gulp from the bottle and hisses. He shakes his head. “No.”

  I let out my breath. “Okay, thank God, you really freaked me—”

  “You are,” Lev growls quietly as he looks up at m
e.

  I stare back, shaking my head. “No. No fucking way.”

  “I can’t reach it with both hands, Zoey.” He glances down at the gash on his ribs. He winces for second, his abs tightening. “It’s not a hole, just a graze. But, I need to close it.” He nods at the butter knife I’m holding. “You’re going to cauterize it.”

  I blanch. “No fucking—”

  “Zoey,” he groans. He looks me in the eye and nods slowly. “You can do this. I need you to do this.”

  I swallow thickly as I turn and walk over to the fireplace. I kneel down and slide the blade between to glowing logs and then turn back to Lev. I pass him the towel, and he splashes some whiskey on it before he lowers it with one hand to his wound.

  “Ublyudok!” he swears, hissing in agony.

  I wince as I jump in. “Hang on, let me do that.”

  I splash a little more whiskey on the towel and then gently start to clean the wound. Lev grits his teeth, clenching tight. When I’m done, I head back to the fire.

  “Hang on, use this to touch it.”

  Lev throws me the towel. I swallow as I use it to reach into the flames and pull the now-faintly-glowing butter knife. I glance back at Lev, and he swallows. He takes another heavy drink and looks at me.

  “Can you take my belt off?”

  I smirk. “Something to take your mind off the pain?”

  He grins but shakes his head. I pull it off and look up at him. “And now?”

  “Put it in my teeth, please.”

  My smile fades, and I pale. “Uh, why?”

  “Because this is really going to fucking hurt.”

  He bites down on the belt and nods. “Do it,” he grunts through his teeth. I tremble as I look down at the gash, still holding the glowing knife.

  “Zoey—”

  “Give me a sec,” I mutter. I take a breath, center myself, and push the blade against him.

  The sound is awful.

  The hiss of searing flesh is haunting. And his groans of pain are just as bad. But the smell is the worst. It takes everything I have to keep the blade there, knowing it’s hurting him. But after a few seconds, I choke and pull back.

  I stare in horror at the awful burn on his ribs. But the bleeding is stopped, and the wound is sealed. Lev is breathing slowly through his nose, his eyes closed tightly. I take the belt out of his teeth and he groans slowly.

  “Lev—”

  “Whiskey,” he croaks. I quickly press the bottle back into his hand. He nods slowly like he’s in a fog, and then he slams back two heavy swallows of the liquor. He gasps, shaking his head as he winces.

  “Fuck me,” he grunts. He looks up at me and grins. “That is some shit whiskey.”

  I half laugh, half exhale as I throw my arms around his neck. I hold him tightly before he groans.

  “Zoey…”

  “Oh, fuck, sorry.” I pull back from crushing his freshly cauterized gunshot wound.

  Lev grins as he looks at me. “Thank you.”

  “Hey,” I shrug and grin smugly. “Don’t mention it.”

  “Zoey,” he groans quietly.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to lie down.”

  I choke out another half sob, half laugh. “Come on,” I whisper. I help him up and to stagger to the bedroom. He kicks his shoes off, and I slip his jeans down before I help him into the bed. I head back to the kitchen and rummage around until I find another clean dishtowel and some packing tape.

  Back in the bedroom, Lev grunts as I cover his wound with the dishtowel and tape it down at the edges. I snuff out the last of the candles and the lantern. Then I crawl in next to him, on his non-shot side, and I snuggle close.

  His hand finds mine, his fingers entwining with my own.

  “Zoey…” he says quietly.

  “Yeah?”

  After ten seconds of silence, I frown.

  “Lev?”

  I look up, and I smile. He’s totally out, breathing quietly and rhythmically. His hand still holding mine. I grin as I pull tight against him.

  Whatever this is, it sure is different. And I like it.

  15

  Lev

  Three Weeks Ago:

  It’s a ritzy, elite block of addresses. They’re not the modern all-glass super-high-rises by the lake. But the row of brick, ivy-covered townhouses on Charles Street probably go for close to twenty million a pop.

  It’s the charm that really sells it. The ancient trees covering the street in a soft green glow. The wrought iron lampposts every twenty-five feet. The cobblestones on the street, the brass plaques marking historical properties on the uneven sidewalk.

  The street is home to financial titans and famous actors for the two weeks a year they’re not in LA or on location. That famous lifestyle blogger with all cookbooks and the fashion line owns the second one from the end.

  But I’m not here tonight for celebrity sightings or fucking autographs. I’m here for her.

  I’ve taken the Range Rover tonight. Slightly more subtle than the 70s blue Chevelle with the double white racing stripes. I park it at the end of the block and get out. The street is silent—serene even. Which is something you pay for when you buy one of these three story brownstone palaces.

  I’m in a suit, too—casual, no tie, the top button undone. I look like any random hedge fund fuck coming home late from the office, or from drinks after. An older woman walking her dog smiles at me. I grin back and nod, as I would a neighbor.

  But I don’t live here. Even with my wealth, there will never be a place for me at these people’s table. My money isn’t old enough. Or prestigious enough. Or famous enough.

  Also, I’m a murdering criminal shot-caller with compartmentalization and violence issues bordering on psychotic.

  I glance at the house numbers and keep walking towards my target. Well, she isn’t my target, per se. The orders—if you can really call them “orders,” coming from my best friend—are to look around for any trouble. Apparently, Zoey’s been having problems with an older guy sniffing around, creeping her out. That’s why I’m here tonight; to check in and make sure she’s okay.

  I know it’s indescribably below my current rank within the Kashenko organization. I’m second in command only to Viktor, who is king of the Chicago branch of the Bratva. Any of our men could do this tonight. But this Zoey girl is best friends with Viktor’s… well, I don’t know what to call her as of yet.

  His prisoner? Captive? The object of his lust and attraction? It’s far bigger than that, I know. I’ve known my friend long enough to know this is far beyond a fling or carnal desire. That’s why he’s asked me, not a random enforcer, to check in on Fiona’s friend.

  Another dog walker passes me—this one the famous lifestyle blogger, actually, with her equally Instagram-famous Frenchie. But again, I’m not here to gush or beg for a fucking selfie or some shit. I’m here to be invisible.

  I nod and give her a small, wordless smile before I keep going. As if she’s just another person out for a stroll. I pass by two more properties, and then stop. I glance up. I’m here.

  I turn and covertly check out the street in front—a clean row on either side of parked luxury vehicles. I walk a little further, checking out some of the ones with tinted windows. But there’s no one here. No one lurking, or waiting for her.

  Turning, I stroll back up to her address. Up ahead, the lifestyle blogger is picking up her dog’s shit. I smirk, but then I turn and slip into the shadows of a tree. I glance up at Zoey’s address. It’s one of those brownstones where the first floor is up flight of steps. Like the Huxstables, I think with a smirk, thinking of one of the random American shows that was translated to Russian televisions in the 90s.

  The rest of the brownstone is dark, given that it’s midnight. But the first-floor lights are on. I glance around to the side of the building, to the gated alley between it and the next one. I frown as my eyes narrow: the gate is ajar.

  I glance back up the street. The famous woman and he
r dog are gone. I glance back the other way, and it’s the same: empty. Slipping from shadow to shadow, I move to the opened gate. I slip into the alley and pull my gun out from the holster under my jacket. I quietly check the chamber and safety and twist the silencer on.

  My ears prick as I move like a shadow down the side of the building. My eyes scan the darkness for any sign of a predator or peeping tom. But the side yard is empty. When it opens into the backyard garden patio, I do the same. But again, I find nothing.

  The scream curdles through the night, and I move with instinctual precision.

  I whirl, silently charging up the back staircase to the little deck there. The backdoor is ajar, and my jaw clenches as I smash through it. Gun out, I rush around the corner into the huge, open-concept living room and kitchen and—

  And I stop short. There’s a blonde-haired angel hanging from the farmhouse style rafters.

  She turns her head as I skid into the room, and she screams. This one is a scream of real terror, too. She scrambles, her feet thrashing and kicking, trying to find purchase on the ladder that’s currently skewed to the side, well out of her reach.

  With a grunt, I holster my gun and rush to her.

  “Get away!!! Help! HEEEELPP!!”

  “Stop screaming!” I grunt. I yank the ladder up, but I hear her scrabbling for purchase with her hands just as she screams again. I drop the ladder and look up. My arms move instinctually, and just as she slips and falls, I’m there to catch her.

  Sort of.

  The rafters are fifteen feet up in the air. She looks like she weights a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. But she hits me hard, sideways from the fall. With a grunt, I topple back and hit the ground. She lands right on top of me.

  Time stops around us. All I can feel is the softness of her curves against me. All I can smell is the sweet, citrusy scent of her long blonde hair across my face. Her fingers close across my chest, and she slowly raises her head. She brushes her blonde locks away, and I just stare into her deep blue eyes. Slowly, her pouty pink lips draw into a curious smile.