Owned by the Badman (Russian Bratva #1)

by Hayley Faiman

  “I do not know,” I confess. She stares at me, her mouth hanging open slightly.

  “You don’t know?” she asks, repeating my words.

  “It is arranged,” I admit. She blinks twice before she opens her mouth again, but I hear a throat clears behind me. Turning, I see that Torrent is at the dressing room entrance.

  “Miss Stockhardt,” he nods. I grin.

  “Yes, Torrent,” I say, throwing the strap of my bag over my shoulder and taking a step toward him.

  “You’re just as freaky as everybody has said,” the girl mumbles beneath her breath behind me.

  I don’t respond to her words. I cannot. She is correct. I am sure that I am bizarre in the world’s eyes. I have allowed my parents to choose my spouse for me. I live in America, in New York City for that matter, and I have agreed to an arranged marriage.

  Nothing about me is normal.

  Nothing about me has ever been normal.

  The Wedding Day

  MY BLONDE HAIR IS pulled back, painfully, in a low bun. I am used to the pulling, biting pain of my hair being yanked back as bobby pins are stabbed into my scalp though. My makeup is flawless—my skin looks creamy, and my lips are covered with a light pink shimmery gloss.

  I am like my bedroom in my parents’ home—cotton candy sweet. My earrings are a gift from my father, two carats in each earlobe. They are probably some kind of apology for how this day is going to end up, but even more, I know that they are likely for appearances—for show.

  My dress is gorgeous. Lace lays over a light organza. It has a deep V in the front with one-inch straps on my shoulders, and it’s backless. So backless if I bend over, my crack will show. It is fitted to the floor, and on my feet are ridiculously expensive robin’s egg blue high heels, ones with red soled bottoms. Only the best for me on this day.

  Appearances are all that matter.

  I am to be presented to my future husband as the picture, perfect, bride.

  I don’t have a veil, just some crystals placed randomly in my bun. My something old is the teardrop diamond necklace that was my great-grandmother’s, brought over from France when she married my great-grandfather. My something new is the dress. Something borrowed is a twenty-carat weight diamond bracelet from my mother. And my something blue—my shoes.

  On the outside, I am ready—ready to marry Maxim Lasovska. On the inside, I am terrified.

  I have yet to see the man. Every time we were to meet, he had something mysteriously come up. I wasn’t sure this day would ever actually come. I prayed it wouldn’t, but it did, and here I am, smoothing down my dress and waiting for my father to deliver me to a stranger. Waiting for him to hand me over, like some kind of trophy, to a man I have never even seen in a picture.

  My father walks into the room, his blond hair perfect, his blue eyes focused on his phone; forever the entrepreneur businessman. Father’s suit is Prada, classic, and it fits him perfectly. I am alone in the room, my mother otherwise occupied, and I have no bridesmaids. I am sure the three hundred guests are going to find that odd, but I have no friends and my parents don’t socialize with their families, so I have no cousins who I am close to or even know about. I am actually surprised that my parents didn’t just pay some girls my age to be bridesmaids. Apparently having none is acceptable.

  I wonder if my groom will have any men standing beside him when I walk toward him.

  “It is time,” the wedding coordinator says. My father gives her a curt nod, slipping his phone into his pocket.

  “You look lovely, Haleigh. As always, perfection,” he murmurs.

  This is important to my father, perfection. It is why I strive to be perfect—the perfect daughter and the perfect ballerina. I want everybody to be happy. I am a people pleaser, even if it is at the cost of my own happiness.

  It is ingrained in me to do whatever is needed to be done so the people around me will be happy. Never, ever buck the system.

  “Thank you, Father,” I say softly, dipping my head slightly as I wrap my arm around his offered elbow.

  “You will not embarrass me. This marriage is very important,” he informs me curtly.

  I’m not sure why it is so important that I marry this stranger, but I have always been taught to never, ever question the decisions my parents make for me—and they make all of my decisions.

  “I would never intentionally embarrass you, Father,” I admit softly, and I wouldn’t. I am a good girl. I always do what I am told—always.

  We stand in front of the closed double doors of the church, and I let out a shaky breath. It is time. I watch the wedding planner pull the doors open, and all eyes are on us. Six hundred eyes. Three hundred people.

  All of them focused on me.

  I smile softly, trying not to panic. I imagine I am on the stage as the music begins and we walk toward the altar. I hold my breath, my eyes scanning the man standing at the front—my soon-to-be husband.

  The man is tall, so much taller than I expected, standing somewhere around six-foot-five-inches. He is broad and big, but with a trim waist. His middle is thick with muscle, but his stomach flat at the same time. His body is, of course, encased in his suit. Armani. I can tell the brands of suits almost as easily as women’s shoes. My father adores his suits and my mother her shoes.

  When I finally reach his side, he looks down at me and I gasp. Maxim Lasovska is older than me by at least ten years. He has a scar on his upper lip, but neither of these things makes him less beautiful, and he is just that—beautiful. He has a full head of light brown hair, slightly longer than my father’s perfectly trimmed locks, messier too. Even still, he looks like a model. His face is clean-shaven, and his blue eyes sparkle.

  I do not understand why this man is marrying a complete stranger, not when he could have any woman on the planet at his side. He holds his huge hand out, and I slip my much smaller one inside, noticing the size difference. He wraps his warm fingers around my hand, and I feel a surge of energy flow throughout my entire body.

  I don’t pay attention to the ceremony; I robotically speak at my turn, sliding the tungsten ring on my new husband’s large finger when I am prompted. I feel as though he slides a brick on my own finger. The wedding ring is gigantic. It is at least a ten-carat weight emerald-cut diamond. The ostentatious ring itself makes me wonder just who this man is, and how rich is he to afford such a gorgeous piece of jewelry for his wife—who is a complete stranger to him?

  When the priest announces that we are joined in holy matrimony, Maxim places his gigantic hands on my cheeks and bends down, giving me soft and gentle closed-mouth kiss.

  My first kiss is unexpectedly beautiful. Soft and sweet, his full lips brush mine and send warmth throughout my belly and my entire body, better than I had ever anticipated.

  I smile widely as we make our way past friends and family who are clapping with joy and jubilation over our vows. I feel like a liar. It isn’t right. We don’t love each other; we don’t even know each other, but here we are before God and every person in our lives, claiming that we are truly soul mates, lovers, and friends.

  Once we are outside of the church, I look for the car that will take us to our reception. But there is no limousine waiting for us. Instead, there is a Bentley with a driver standing with the door open, awaiting our arrival.

  “Inside, Haleigh,” Maxim murmurs. His rich, deep accented voice sends chills over my body as his hand leaves mine to slide to the small of my back, and he gently pushes me inside.

  “Congratulations, sir,” the driver says with a smile. He too has an accent, Russian perhaps? Maxim nods and follows behind me into the car.

  Now, we are truly alone, and I am back to being terrified.

  “I apologize that I was unable to attend the pre-wedding functions,” he says coolly.

  The words are an apology, but I don’t think they are sincere. His heavy Russian accent, now completely recognizable to me, is thick and his voice a deep timbre. Not what I expected at all. I smile and shake my h
ead, trying to brush off the disappointment and worry of not meeting him ahead of time. It is over now.

  “I understand. You had business,” I say shakily. His eyes darken to a rich blue, and I don’t know what that means, but they are still alluring, and I am finding it difficult to look away from them.

  “Did your father tell you of my business?” he asks. I can feel his anger throughout the car; it is almost palatable.

  “No, my mother only told me that you were unable to attend certain events because business kept you away. I only meant that I wasn’t upset or bothered because I know how important a career is, and things happen that are unavoidable,” I scramble, trying to defuse whatever the situation is. I’m trying to calm his anger since I do not know him and I have no idea how reacts to being angry. He nods, the displeasure somehow drifting away as he contemplates my carefully chosen words.

  “Do you know what it is that I do?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. I shake my head, again.

  “What do you know of me?” He questions.

  Apparently, this is question and answer time. I decide to oblige because I want to know everything I can about this man, my husband.

  “I was only given your name, Maxim Lasovska, and that my mother chose you to be my husband,” I admit looking around and noticing that we are not headed toward the reception. I frown in confusion, turning to face him.

  “We will not attend the reception. We are going home. Your home now too, I suppose,” he informs me as if he can read my thoughts.

  I suck in a breath; this is not how I pictured this day going. I thought I would have more time to mentally prepare for my wedding night. I thought I could somehow charm him into giving me more time. I thought wrong.

  “I have my mother’s bracelet still and my grandmother’s necklace. She told me I wasn’t to leave the reception before giving it all back to her.” Panic begins to claw up my throat, and my shoulders start to tremble. My mother is going to kill me.

  “Dimitri can take it to her after he drops us off,” Maxim offers. I look up at him in complete shock.

  No, Dimitri cannot take it to her. She will come over to Maxim’s house and beat me just for taking it off without being in her presence. I should have never accepted the offer to borrow them.

  “She ... I can’t … I need to be the one to give it to her,” I finally say, practically begging and pleading.

  Maxim’s intelligent gaze washes over me, reading me, understanding me. His large hand cups my cheek, and then he speaks so very softly, his voice deep and low—almost a growl.

  “She will not touch you, Haleigh. Nobody will touch you but me. Dimitri will take the jewelry to her, and if she has problem with it, she can come to me about it.” He grins and I gulp, nodding as I feel the car slow down and then stop. My eyes focus on my lap. This man is promising to stand in front of me and protect me if my mother comes barreling through here, ready to attack. I don’t understand it.

  I look up from where my eyes are trained on my lap, afraid to look into Maxim’s sparkling blue eyes. Instead, I train my gaze on what will now be my new home. I gasp as I take it in. It is nothing short of a mansion.

  My parents live in a huge apartment. It is three stories high and three thousand square feet. This home, however, makes my parents’ look like a hovel. It looks like a castle with nothing surrounding it but trees. It is hauntingly beautiful and so very remote.

  In the back of my mind, I know that this is where I am going to be kept, hidden away, shown off for business dinners and parties the same way my parents sent me to the stage just to show me off.

  Will I ever be more than something to look at? Will I ever have true worth?

  I won’t hold my breath for that day to come. I decide, at this moment, that I am going to make the best of my new life.

  This is a different show. The players have changed, but it’s a show just the same, and I am to be the female lead character just as I always have been.

  I wonder just who Maxim Lasovska is?

  Why did my parents readily hand me over to him?

  Then I wonder what exactly is he going to do with me?

  The little dove looks terrified. I can see the fight or flight reaction storming behind her lovely green eyes. Never did I imagine I would hold a wife as classy, beautiful, and well-bred as Haleigh. Growing up in the streets of Moscow, I figured the woman I would have as my wife would be some whore or junkie—if I ever decided to take a wife.

  I made my way through the ranks of the Bratva, and now, I am second in command of my area, Brighton Beach. It’s a predominantly Russian area of New York City. So Russian that, in fact, English is not even understood in the streets. I don’t live in Brighton Beach, though. I can’t. The city is too congested. I live in Colts Neck, New Jersey. An hour away from Brighton Beach, and on twenty-five acres of land. I need to breathe, and this is where I can do that. I am secluded here—secure, with staff, and yet solitary.

  This little creature has no clue what kind of monster her father has sold her to. Joseph Stockhardt owed me money, but he also owed me a debt much higher. A life. Since he has no money to give me, I took a life— his twenty-year-old ballerina daughter.

  I always do comprehensive research on the people I come into contact with, and when I saw the photo of Haleigh dancing in Sleeping Beauty, she stole my breath away. I had to have her, and I would have done anything in my power to take her, to possess her.

  I went to her performances to try and lure her only to discover that she did not party with the cast. She would walk out alone, slide into the back of the car driven by her parents’ chauffeur, Torrent, and she would go home.

  I had no way to casually bump into her; the good news was that she was single and her parents assured me that she was pure. It shouldn’t matter to me that Haleigh is untouched because I am filthy. However, I like the idea of owning someone so clean.

  When the opportunity presented itself and her father owed me, I seized it and made my deal. Her life for his. She would become my wife, my property. The weak bastard accepted the terms immediately, without consulting anybody at all. Really, it made me sick. She needed to be out of their home as soon as possible.

  Was it so easy to hand something as fragile and beautiful as Haleigh over to a monster? To save himself? He did not deserve her. Not that I do. I am a cruel beast of a man, but I want her just the same.

  “Come, Haleigh, you are home now,” I say as softly as I can, trying to be gentle so as not frighten the little dove.

  Haleigh nods slightly and slides out of the car. She is grace and beauty personified, her voice sweet and soft.

  I have never had good.

  I have never had sweet.

  I have never had soft in my life.

  Although, I am afraid I will break her, I want to have a piece of her softness in my home and, most importantly, in my bed.

  “Your home is beautiful,” she whispers softly. I simply nod.

  It is massive is what it is.

  While most businessmen live in the city, in high-rise apartments, showing off their wealth and looking down from their appointed statuses above the rest of the people. I can’t handle the claustrophobia of it all. I need space. I vowed to myself when I was a dirty kid, crammed in an orphanage in Moscow, that I would one day have a castle to myself; that I would have room to just breathe. I made that dream a reality as soon as I possibly could.

  “Your home now, too,” I say, taking the expensive bracelet from her fragile wrist, before unclasping the necklace and handing them to Dimitri.

  “Make sure Mrs. Stockhardt receives these immediately,” I order. Dimitri nods before leaving us.

  We are completely alone now. I have other staff but excused them for the weekend. I have also taken the weekend off from all of my duties.

  This weekend I have set my priorities.

  This weekend is to be about my new wife and me.

  I am going to claim something that is mine.

  For the f
irst time in my life, I own something—someone.

  I own something completely untarnished.

  I cannot wait to finally have Haleigh, completely and totally at my mercy.

  I AM A WRECK, an absolute nervous wreck. I don’t know what Maxim expects from me, and I don’t think I will please him. He is big and masculine. No doubt, he has been with dozens of beautiful women. I am a scared, timid, shy virgin who has only had her first kiss tonight.

  He won’t want me, and then what will become of me?

  I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel Maxim’s strong hand rest on my lower back, his lips at my ear.

  “Come upstairs, golubushka.” My eyes widen at his gentle words, and I look at him in question.

  “Little dove,” he responds as he guides me up the stairs and toward the set of double doors at the entrance of the master suite.

  My palms are sweaty and I feel faint; this feels like the death march.

  Maxim opens the double doors. He appears oblivious to my extreme nervousness, or perhaps he just doesn’t care.

  Once the doors open, my uneasiness quadruples and I am taken aback by the sheer size of the room and the furniture.

  Everything is big and black with hints of red, very masculine, and very rough—just like the man himself.

  The gigantic bed has a black leather headboard, and a red comforter with black pillows decorating it. There is a leather bench at the foot of the bed with two red pillows on each end. The dresser and nightstands are also black and modern, plain, without framed photos or anything personal at all on them.

  I can’t see a man like him decorating with throw pillows.

  Maxim has obviously had help decorating his home, and I wonder if an ex-girlfriend or lover put this sensual bedroom together for him. I try to tamp down the jealousy that worms its way inside of me at the thought of another woman with my new husband.

  The only piece of artwork on the wall is a giant framed print of St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. It is bright and colorful and stands out in the dark room. I slowly walk up to the photo and look at the swirling colors. I think about how vivid and exquisite it must be in person.