Owned by 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
Jenny Simms, Editing4Indies
Cover: Cassy Roop, Pink Ink Designs
Formatting: Champagne Formats
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
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
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
Also by Hayley Faiman
About the Author
Acknowledgements
To my Mom—
Your favorite Russian bad-boy in print. Enjoy.
Thank you for always being there for me. Always being a sounding board and thank you for being wonderful in every single way. Thank you for showing me how to be a mother and wife, for giving me the best example ever.
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.
HALEIGH WALKED OUT ON the stage and she could feel the rush of adrenaline hit her like a two-ton sack of bricks. It was heavy, thick, and it almost made her stumble. If she fell, her life and her career would be over. She stood, tall and proud, stretching out her body as she began to dance. Ballet—it was the reason she breathed. It had been shoved down her throat since she was just two years old. Ballet—it was all that Haleigh knew. It was why she was on this earth. Her purpose was to live out a dream her mother had never fulfilled.
Jacques, her partner, lifted her body high in the air while she arched over his head. Her arms draped down, hanging at his back. She could grab his ass if she chose to, but that would be unbecoming and something she would never, ever dream of doing. Tonight, she was Cinderella and Jacques the handsome prince. He probably wished she were a stable boy instead. He hated Haleigh and called her a fat cow half of the time.
Haleigh was talented. She was born and bred in the ballet studio; even homeschooled because school itself was merely a distraction to her craft, as her mother had put it. At twenty years old, she had never been out on a date, kissed a boy, or even held hands with one. She had no friends, male or female. Haleigh was alone. She felt like a prized animal, only for show, never to live her own life. Her life consisted of practice, conditioning, practice, rehearsals, and shows.
When the curtain closed, Jacques practically dropped Haleigh on her ass before leaving her to get a water. Haleigh stood back, away from the dancers, and prepared for the curtain call. She wondered if this was how her life was going to be forever—alone and pitiful.
Smiling and bowing for the audience left her feeling hollow. They appreciated her beautiful technique—and it was beautiful—because that breathtaking technique had been beaten into her. What they didn’t know was how utterly depressing and lonely the rest of her life was.
Changing into her yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, Haleigh left the theater. It was drab and drizzling outside and she was alone once again. All of the cast had gone to a party—one she had not been invited to. She looked up to see her driver waiting for her. Torrent would take her home, and he would make sure she was safely inside her building before he left the street. He was the only person who ever smiled at Haleigh. It was a sad, pitiful smile, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“Good evening, Miss Haleigh,” he said softly as she slid into the back of the black sedan.
“Hello, Torrent,” she muttered sadly, resting her head on the back of the seat. The fifteen minutes to her apartment building would be just enough time for her to relax from the adrenaline coursing through her veins from the performance.
“I am sorry, Miss, but I was told that your mother wanted you to meet her in the formal living area as soon as you arrived home this evening.” Haleigh’s eyes popped open in surprise. She didn’t see her parents often, and they never requested to meet with her, unless something was off about a performance or tryout.
Haleigh lived her life for the ballet, and when she wasn’t dancing, she was sleeping until the next rehearsal or performance. Her parents had their own lives, social and business engagements taking up the majority of their time.
“All right,” she said softly, the nervous energy gathering around her.
Once inside the apartment, Haleigh saw spots in her vision. She was on the verge having a panic attack. She willed herself to take deep, calm breaths and, luckily, this worked in her favor. The panic subsided and she braced herself for whatever her parents had for her.
“Haleigh,” said Amelia Stockhardt, her mother, drawing her attention to the beautiful woman in the room. She was sitting perfectly still on a soft sage green chair.
“Mother,” Haleigh said. It was never mom or mommy—always mother.
“I have decided it is time for you to marry. You are of age and you need to produce some children of worth. I was sure you would not find a suitable match on your own, so I have chosen for you,” Amelia announced. The air in Haleigh’s lungs disappeared, and her knees sagged in surprise.
“I … I don’t understand,” Haleigh whispered.
Her body began to shake, probably from the crash of adrenaline, her lack of calorie consumption, and the shock of what her mother was actually saying to her—or what she seemed to be suggesting.
“I know you aren’t the smartest woman placed on this earth, Haleigh, but I did speak plain English to you, did I not? You are to be married. The wedding date is in six months,” she announced. Her mother was not giving her an option. She was telling her, formally informing Haleigh of her fu
ture.
Haleigh took a deep breath and gulped down the air lodged in her throat.
“What about my career?” she asked. Her life had been her career since the age of two, surely her mother would not want her to throw away all of the money she had spent having Haleigh trained.
“It will be your husband’s decision whether or not you continue your dancing career. Go to bed now. You look terrible. Sunday you will meet your fiancé.” Her mother dismissed her with an arched a brow before Haleigh turned around.
Haleigh left in a daze, slowly walking to her side of the apartment and her bedroom. Confusion filled her head as she thought about her mother’s words. Amelia had lived vicariously through her daughter’s career. To flip so suddenly left an uneasy feeling in her stomach.
Looking around at her room, truly taking it in for probably the first time in her life, she sighed. It wasn’t her. Not in the slightest. The room was cotton candy pink; the ballet prints framed and placed throughout the space made her head spin. She was an adult woman living in a child’s room. The reality of that truth bothered her, and for the first time, the space was suffocating. She had never been on her own, and now, she never would be. Her life as she knew it was over. In just six short months, she was to be given to some stranger.
The days came and went until it was finally time to meet the mystery man himself. Haleigh’s parents had not told her anything about him. She was nervous, yet excited to meet him. It was odd to feel excitement over meeting a man she would come to know as her husband, but something about the situation intrigued Haleigh. This was not normal in America; nothing about Haleigh’s life had been normal for a child or teenager anyway, so why should her adulthood be any different?
This man, her fiancé, was going to change her world. Gone would be the sterile environment of her family’s apartment, and she would be able to create a home of her own. She only hoped the man she was to be given to would be kind, and she wished this first meeting would go well. However, it didn’t matter what she had hoped for. Her fiancé was unable to attend brunch as he had an emergency business meeting Monday morning that required him to travel. Haleigh tried to ask her mother just who this man was, but she was tight-lipped, which worried Haleigh.
No, it terrified her.
Her fiancé was perpetually unable to attend every single social, or private gathering, arranged for them to meet leading up to their wedding day. He had an excuse for everything. Her parents refused to entertain her questions, even withholding his name.
Nothing but wedding details were up for discussion, and even then, she wasn’t making any decisions for the affair—Amelia was. So although it seemed medieval, Haleigh’s first encounter with her fiancé was to be on their actual wedding day.
Haleigh wondered if he would even show?
If he would be cruel or kind?
Most importantly, she wondered why she let her mother force her, yet again, into something that terrified her.
No matter her love or hate for the ballet, this was more than just a show.
This was her life—her future—and she was scared.
One Week Before The Wedding
I INHALED THE SMOKE before letting it out into the face of a man who would not live to see another day. I need to be done with this man. I have something more important on my mind these days. Haleigh. She will be mine soon.
So very soon.
The suspense of seeing her pretty face waiting for me has me curious. Confusion and possibly hesitation will surely be displayed in her eyes, but she will perform beautifully for the people around us—for me. It is how she was raised. To perform.
I can’t wait to strip her down, see how she looks when she isn’t poised to perfection.
“Please, don’t kill me,” the man whimpers in front of me, breaking me of my salacious thoughts.
“How can you live? What will you do to survive this?” I ask.
“Anything, anything you want,” he pleads. I smell the familiar scent of urine fill the tiny space.
It always happens. Every. Single. Time. Such hard-asses until they are threatened, then they piss their pants like babies.
Pathetic.
“You have nothing I want,” I shrug.
“Maxim…” Dimitri warns. He knows I am on a time crunch and this is just wasting precious minutes.
“Yes, Dimitri, I know,” I agree before I remove my gun from my shoulder holster and pull the trigger, aiming at the man’s forehead.
“Why do you play with them?” Dimitri asks as he motions for the men hanging around the edges of the room to clean the mess up.
“Why not?” I ask with a grin.
“You’re a sick fuck,” he chuckles.
I nod in agreement.
I am.
I am very sick.
He knows exactly how fucking sick I truly am.
“Take me to her,” I order.
I do not need to explain who exactly I wish to see. He knows. He also knows who I go to see after I do this. It is a routine now.
The building is the same. Artistic and tall—pretty, if you are into modern décor. I could give a shit less what it looks like from the outside. Inside is what matters. She is in there. I nod at the man taking tickets. I know him. Tickets are not something I need. I have a season box seat. I slowly walk toward my box. There are men and women in various states of dress. Some are dressed to perfection, ball gowns and tuxedos, then there are those in simple semi-formal attire. I am in a three-piece suit—as always.
“She has not made an appearance yet,” Pasha states as I sit down across from him. I nod once to show that I have heard him.
The lights dim and the stage brightens as the orchestra begins to play. This will be her last time on stage. She doesn’t know it yet, but she will never grace a stage again. I should feel guilty for taking this away from her, but I don’t.
Guilt isn’t something I understand. I have never felt the emotion a day in my life.
My breath hitches when she leaps onto the stage from the side of the curtain. My breath catches every single time my eyes land on her. She is beautiful, like a doll, untouchable and untouched. She smiles brightly at the audience and my dick twitches. My body wants her more than it has ever wanted another woman. It makes me curious.
Why?
Why her?
I shake off the feeling and stand to leave.
“You have only watched a few moments,” Sonia says, wrapping her hand around my forearm.
“I have seen enough. I will see you next weekend,” I offer. She smiles warmly in return.
“She will take your breath away. I already know this,” Sonia grins. I shake my head.
“She already does,” I offer before I turn and leave.
I don’t wait another second. Sonia will try and pry more from me and I do not have any more to give. Haleigh takes my breath away, but I don’t understand it, and I do not understand why.
“You’re next stop?” Dimitri asks as I slide into the backseat of the car.
“You know where,” I grunt. I watch as his jaw clenches before he drives.
Dimitri gives me a disapproving look. I counter back with a challenging look of my own. I know he will speak his mind, he always does—eventually.
However, he stays quiet as we arrive at our destination, and keep quiet when I leave to take care of my business. Once I am back in the car, Dimitri has lost the ability to keep his mouth shut.
“You do this, Maxim, so close to the time when you will marry the ballerina?” he asks.
“I am man. I do as I wish,” I say, unable to form coherent sentences as something foreign forms in my chest at his words. He is right, but I will never admit it to him.
“I do not approve,” he grumbles, causing me to bark out a harsh laugh.
“Good for me I do not need your approval. You work under me, Dimitri. It would be good of you to remember such things,” I grunt.
I can hear his teeth grinding in the front seat. I do not care
. He can be pissed off at me all day long; his wishes do not mean shit to me.
Quietly, Dimitri points the car toward my home and we drive. I do not need, nor do I desire, his thoughts on my life. He is under my employ and his opinions are not accepted nor are they acceptable, unless I specifically request them. He is too comfortable. Yes, he is a friend, but he needs to know his place.
“Maxim,” he calls out as we park in front of my home. I do not respond, but instead wait for him to continue. “You will be good to her, this I know. You are a good man.”
I grunt my response.
I am not a good man.
He should know this.
He has seen the worst sides of me.
I find myself back in my home, in my own bed. I cannot sleep. Six days until this space is no longer solely mine. I walk over to the window and stare out into the darkness. It is quiet—too quiet.
I wonder what she is doing in this exact moment.
Perhaps she is sleeping? Perhaps she is tossing and turning? What has her family told her about me?
The questions swirl around in my mind. I take a cigarette out of my nightstand, knowing this will be the last one I will smoke in this room. I would never harm her by smoking near her. I would never purposely harm her at all. I will treat her as she should always be treated.
Delicately.
Like a porcelain doll. A little ornamental piece only to be handled when displayed.
In one week, I will be a married woman. Married to a man I have never even laid eyes on. I sigh as I finish packing my belongings into my dance bag for the evening. I will probably never be back here again. I have already informed the company that this will likely be my last performance. Jacques grins at me from across the dressing room and I find it hard not to roll my eyes at his smugness.
“So, you’re getting married?” a dancer asks. I don’t know her name. Her parts are with the group, nothing solo, and I have not worked with her often.
“I am,” I admit as I finish neatly placing my things in my bag.
“Is he hot?” she asks, wagging her eyebrows at me. It is confusing. I have never talked to this girl before in my life.
Owned by the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 1) Page 1
