Protected by the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 6)

by Hayley Faiman

  Protected by the Badman

  Copyright © 2017 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, The Green Pen

  Cover: Cassy Roop, Pink Ink Designs

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Russian Bratva Structure

  Epigraph

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Also by Hayley Faiman

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Russian Bratva Structure

  Pakhan – The Boss: Controls everything.

  Sovietnik – Councilor: Advisor and closest 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.

  I THROW BACK A shot of vodka. I’ve lost count for the evening. Maybe I’m on my fifth, sixth, I don’t know. My apartment is quiet, too fucking quiet. She’s gone. Quinn has left me again. This time, I’m too fucking tired of fighting to go after her. She wants to be gone, she can go. I’ve been fighting for her for far too long.

  Quinn decided I was scum the second she laid eyes on me. With her red hair and curvy little body, I thought the spitfire thing was natural to her. It was cute. She was a job. Her father owed us money, and he eluded to using her to gain funds. We didn’t trust him.

  I watched her; I watched everything about her, and I liked her. Then her red hair disappeared and blonde hair replaced it—her natural color. She was beautiful as a redhead, but as a blonde, she was completely and totally stunning. I had to have her.

  Then she started going out with an older man. Too old. Once I did some digging, I discovered that he was authority—and not authority on our payroll—an FBI Agent that went by the name of Bryce Wilson.

  It was then that I had to make a decision.

  It was then that I took her.

  We’d been dancing around each other for months, fighting and kissing. Then, when I took her, when I had her alone and all to myself, I fucked her, and I knew she was meant to be mine. Maybe it was wrong of me, maybe that’s why she ended up despising me the way she did. I could never get her to just surrender to me. For whatever reason, I didn’t care.

  Coaxing her legs open was becoming a favorite past time of mine. The way she responded to me once I was inside of her, it made me feel like a conqueror. But every single time I had her was a fight. Not once, not once would she come to me.

  Taking her out of California wasn’t just to protect her against the plans her father undoubtedly had for her, it was to protect the Bratva as well.

  Knowing it would anger her, I took her anyway in hopes that bringing her to Denver would change everything. She’d be away from her father; she’d be under my protection and my care. She’d see just the man I am, and not the Russian Bratva member she despised.

  My move to Denver was a promotion. No longer was I just a Brigadier, I’m now a Pakhan, in charge of my own men, and fucking powerful. I have two Brigadier’s beneath me, Mika and Timofei, with crews that are growing like fucking crazy.

  That thought alone should have made Quinn wet for me, yet she still fucking glared at me every chance she got. It didn’t matter. Even meeting Ashley and hearing her story didn’t fucking matter. Quinn still hated me, fought me, and ran from me. I’d catch her, bring her back, kiss her until she melted under me, and then I’d fuck her.

  Christmas was the last straw.

  I took her to New York, to a party, then to meet Yakov and Ashley’s newborn baby. She tried to run from me, in the fucking city, a city where she knew fucking nobody. I found her at some bar in Manhattan, wearing expensive clothes I bought her, looking far too inviting for the men in the bar.

  If she would show me one ounce of sweetness, I’d be her fucking puppet.

  After the festivities, we returned to Denver, and nothing had changed. Quinn was even nastier than normal to me. It had been months, she’s still angry with me, angry with the fact that I’d taken her away from her home, taken her choices away from her.

  She’s also angry because she perceives me as being this horrible man, kidnapping her to use her, and I have a feeling she knows that is what her father had done her whole life, used her, and maybe she thinks I am just like him. I never verbalized that I wasn’t, this was something she must discover on her own.

  I just let her be, hoping for a change that I now know would never happen.

  I’d protected her from her father, from talking to the FBI—a move that would get her killed by the Bratva—and now I am done.

  I’m not into holding women against their will. She left me this morning, and I won’t be following after her this time. I could find her in seconds. A simple app on my phone could locate hers, or a call to Oliver, a computer expert, could find her.

  I’m too fucking tired.

  I can’t continue to be the only person who gives a shit in this. I can’t be the one to chase her, only to have her constantly spit fire at me. The rewards for my efforts are zero. The only time she doesn’t tell me how much she hates me is when I’ve kissed that fight out of her and she’s riding my dick.

  That’s not enough for me.

  I stand on wobbly legs and stumble my way into her bedroom. Yeah, I even gave her her own fucking space. Her clothes are the only things gone. The laptop, jewelry, books, and trinkets I bought her during our time together still sit exactly where she left them. I walk over to her bed and sit down on the white comforter.

  Reaching over to her nightstand, I pick up the delicate rose gold bracelet that I�
�d just given to her for Christmas. It’s light weight, with a little heart in the center, and it looks gorgeous on her pale skin. I knew she’d love it. I’d seen her looking at costume jewelry that looked similar, so I bought her the real thing. She left it here, just like she left me, like it was so fucking easy to just walk the fuck away.

  I ball the bracelet in my hand and throw it as hard as I can across the room, pissed that it wasn’t bigger and heavier, so that it would make some kind of lasting impact on the wall, to show my anger. I leave her bedroom, slamming the door behind me. Slamming the door not only to her bedroom, but to her.

  Quinn meant more to me than I did to her. I need to know when to let shit go, and I’m letting her go. Maybe I’ll just call Yakov or Pasha and see what girls are available for contracted marriage.

  I’m so fucking tired.

  HE SMILES DOWN AT me, his jaw strong, his smile wide, and his teeth bright and shiny white. He’s handsome, in the most classical sense. He’s a poised gentleman through and through.

  I’ve known of him for months, seen him at events that Ziven drug me to. But now, he’s mine. His strong, soft hand wraps around the side of my neck and gives me a firm squeeze.

  “Ready?” he asks, arching a manicured brow.

  “I’m ready, Oswald,” I whisper.

  I watch as his grin goes from wide, to almost devilish. He yanks me closer to his chest, and I inhale his spicy scent as his head dips down. His mouth presses harshly against mine in a bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the kisses Ziven has given me. My body doesn’t melt, and my belly doesn’t quiver.

  This is what I wanted, I remind myself.

  A man who was not connected to the Bratva in anyway whatsoever.

  A good, clean man. A respectable man.

  The District Attorney for the city of Denver. You don’t get more respectable than that, and he wants me—me. I should feel like the luckiest girl in the world, so why do I feel so guilty? Why does my gut tell me that this isn’t right? Why do I feel—scared?

  “Welcome home, Quinn,” he announces as he steps away from the front door of his home, what can only be described as a Modern Mansion.

  It’s ostentatious, with extremely high, soaring ceilings, and clean lines showcasing the modern flare throughout. The flooring is blonde hardwood with black accents. The staircase is aligned with what looks like caging, or chain link, instead of normal handrails. I feel a sense of foreboding just looking up the staircase that surrounds the upper level of bedrooms.

  “You can unpack. I made room for you in the closet,” he murmurs. I nod as I start to walk upstairs.

  Oswald follows me, his hand wrapped around my waist and his chest practically pressed to my back with each step I take. Once we’re upstairs, I set my suitcase down on the floor in the master bedroom and unzip it.

  “I’d love to see what clothes you have,” he suggests as he steps away from me and sits down on the bed, his back against the headboard.

  “They’re just clothes,” I whisper.

  “Let me rephrase. You’ll try on everything for approval, Quinn. You are on my arm, and you represent me now. I can’t have you looking like some Russian’s whore,” he grunts, cocking an eyebrow.

  My eyes widen at his words, and I take a big gulp of air. I do what he’s demanded. He only allows me to keep a handful of my clothes; the rest he throws into a pile and informs me that he’ll take them to the dumpster in the morning.

  “Come,” he murmurs once I’ve finished putting the few outfits I’m allowed to keep away.

  I’m dressed in a loose, knee length shift dress, that was also a keeper. I make my way over to him, a little scared of him now. This isn’t the man that I’ve been texting and e-mailing for weeks. That man said sweet things and seemed so nice. This man, he’s judgmental, he talks down to me, he frightens me, and I’ve only been here a few hours.

  Standing at the side of the bed, I gasp when his hands wrap around my waist and he pulls me on top of him only to roll us over, so that he’s on top of me. His chocolate brown eyes gaze at me, and I relax under his stare.

  “You’re mine now, Quinn. All of you,” he mutters. I stiffen beneath him as his smile turns cruel.

  His hands grasp the collar of my dress and he rips it completely off of me, rising to his knees. Tears fill my eyes when he grabs my shoulder and flips me onto my stomach.

  I stifle my scream in the plush comforter when I feel him enter me from behind. It hurts. I feel like he’s ripping me in half as he pistons in and out of my body with force. I’m not the least bit wet, and he doesn’t care. Tears stream down my face, and then, finally, I hear him grunt with his release.

  “Clean up. Don’t stain my sheets,” he announces.

  I turn my head to the side and watch him walk away, fully clothed. I limp to the bathroom to clean up and cringe at the sight of blood. I walk over to the mirror and wash my hands. My makeup is smeared, black rims beneath my eyes, and my face is pale. My hair is mussed up, and I look terrified—because I am.

  “What have I done?” I whisper to myself.

  Ziven’s occupation was one that I didn’t like or agree with, but not once during sex did I feel like he’d violated me. His eyes were always kind when he looked at me, even when he was pissed off at me for acting like a screaming bitch to him.

  I was never scared of him, not ever. I can’t say the same for Oswald. I’m scared, completely and totally scared. All of the sweet talk was just that—talk. He’s nothing like I thought he was.

  “I’ve made a mistake, a colossal mistake,” I whisper as my eyes fill with tears.

  I wipe them away quickly and turn to the bedroom to find something to cover myself with.

  “Don’t bother,” Oswald grunts as I open the drawer where I’d stowed my nightgowns.

  “W-why?” I ask.

  “Because I’m going to fuck that pussy of mine all night long,” he grins.

  I shiver out of a mixture of disgust and fear, which makes him smile even wider.

  “You been fucked in the ass, Quinn?” he asks. I shake my head. “You’ll love it,” he laughs.

  My mind screams at me to run, but I’m frozen to my spot. I watch as Oswald calmly removes all of his clothes, and I scan his naked body with my eyes, landing on his hard dick. It’s not as big as I thought it was. In fact, he’s half the size of Ziven.

  Even with his dick being on the smaller side, he can obviously hurt me and make me bleed. Just the thought of it going inside of my ass makes me want to cry. I’m fairly positive he won’t use lube, and he definitely will not be gentle.

  Oswald walks up to me, wraps his hand in my hair, and yanks me behind him as he heads toward the bed. He throws me toward the mattress, letting go so that I crash into the side.

  “On your knees,” he orders.

  I instantly fall to my knees, out of nothing but pure fear, on the plush carpet floor. His hand wraps in my hair again, and he pulls me toward his cock. I close my eyes and open my mouth, knowing there’s no way out of this. Oswald is at least six-foot-tall, and one hundred and seventy-five pounds to my five foot-three and one hundred and fifteen pounds.

  I made my bed of shit by running from Ziven, and now I have to lie in it.

  I stretch my sore body and roll over, both thankful and grateful that Oswald isn’t lying next to me. I stifle a groan and slowly, shakily, walk to the bathroom.

  The person who greets me in the mirror doesn’t even look like the woman who walked through the front door only hours ago.

  I have bruises up and down my neck, my breasts, my stomach, and if I dare to look further down my body, I’ll see bruising on both the insides and outsides of my thighs, my pussy, and my ass.

  I close my eyes and let out an exhale, thankful that he didn’t actually fuck me in the ass last night like he eluded to. Though, I have no doubt that he will, eventually.

  “What happens now?” I ask myself.

  I don’t bother answering myself as I start the shower and try
to massage the pain in my body away. There are no more tears to cry. I did that last night. Oswald didn’t care if I cried. He didn’t care if I wanted more, or begged for him to stop. It seemed as though begging for him to stop only fueled him up more.

  Once I’m clean and cry, I wrap myself in a towel and go back to the bedroom. There’s a note on the nightstand, and I make my way over to it. In perfect, all capital, male handwriting, it says—

  QUINN-

  I’LL BE HOME BY FIVE. BE READY. NO CLOTHES.

  -O.J.

  A shiver runs up my spine just imagining having to live last night all over again. I walk over to the closet and grab a dress, one of the few pieces he left me, and I put it on, thankful it’s loose and comfortable. I don’t bother with undergarments; my poor body can’t handle anything else touching it at this point.

  I make my way downstairs and try to open the front door. It’s locked, but there’s no way to unlock it. There’s only a deadbolt and a handle, but it’s as though it’s locked from the outside. I look around and see a sliding glass backdoor. I walk over to that, tugging on it only to discover that it’s also locked, and there’s no way to unlock it.

  My eyes dart around the house, and I let out a shaky breath.

  I’m a prisoner.

  The devil opened up the door, I let him talk me inside with his silver tongue, and now I’m in hell. I limp over to the couch and I sink down, careful to gently ease myself onto the soft cushions. I wrap my arms around my middle, hugging myself for a semblance of comfort.

  This is so much worse than even living with my father. My drunk, addicted to gambling, indifferent, and neglectful father. I thought I was going to be this brave woman, finally able to make her own choices in life.

  This was my time.

  I made a choice and I was so excited to finally have that for myself.

  I have never been able to make my own decisions.

  My father always made them for me, I wasn’t allowed to go to public school, to date, or to be normal and then Ziven took me and even though living with him was a dream compared to my father, it wasn’t my choice and I couldn’t enjoy it because he’s dangerous, and he’s this badman, this Bratva man. Then, I had an opportunity, finally, an opportunity to change my life.