His Captive Bratva Princess: A Bratva Captive Romance

by Cole, Jagger

  “I think I know you just about as much as I want,” I hiss.

  He chuckles as he walks towards me and sits in a chair across the coffee table from me. He gestures to the couch I’m standing in front of. “Sit, please.”

  “Get out, please,” I mutter.

  He chuckles. “How is filming?”

  “The fuck do you care?”

  His smile thins. “I care, Miss Bardot, because that is my money that gets spent on those film sets. So when there is a slow day, or slow week…” he shrugs and spreads his hands.

  “Well gee, my heart bleeds,” I say thinly. “Welcome to show business, dick head. Sometimes things go well, sometimes things happen. Movies aren’t an exact—”

  “My worry, Belle,” he smiles. “We are friends, yes? I can call you Belle?”

  “We are not friends, and no, you can’t.”

  He chuckles and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket.

  “Please don’t smoke in—”

  He lights one and blows the smoke towards me. My mouth thins.

  “My worry, Belle, is that these slow days are on purpose. I am new to the movies, but I know people. It is why I can see why maybe you are stalling, yes?”

  I glare at him.

  “Maybe you think this man from Chicago, this Nikolai, will come save you?”

  I say nothing. Vadik smiles. “I know people, Belle. And I know you.”

  “The hell you do.”

  “I also know Nikolai.” His smile curls dangerously. “Better than you—” he chuckles. “Well, perhaps not as intimately as you…”

  My face burns as I glare at him.

  “But I know the pieces of him you do not.”

  “Is there a fucking point to this conversation?”

  He smiles. “Just this.”

  He pulls a folder from his jacket and slaps it on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “That is for you. Go ahead, open it.”

  I eye him warily.

  “Please. I think maybe you have the wrong idea about this Nikolai. And maybe that wrong idea makes you think he will come for you and save you.” His eyes narrow. “He will not. Open it.”

  I swallow. I don’t want to, but I slowly reach for the folder.

  “Did you know this Nikolai is a criminal?”

  I smirk at him. “That’s your ammunition? Seriously? Yes, I know he’s with the Russian—”

  “So you know he is a killer?”

  My heart clenches. Vadik smiles.

  “Yes,” I hiss. “I know about his father—”

  Vadik laughs loudly as he blows smoke at the ceiling of my living room. “That? No. Not that. That is a… how do you say it here.” He chuckles. “A drop in the bucket, you say.” He nods at the file in my hand. “Please.”

  I swallow. The voice in my head tells me to keep it closed. But then, I open it anyway.

  I almost drop it as I scream. There are pictures—dozens of them, and all of grisly murder scenes. Bodies, blood, bullet-holes… every gory detail.

  “What the fuck is—”

  “That is what your boyfriend does best, Belle,” he says thinly. “That is the real Nikolai.”

  I stare at the pictures, feeling sick.

  “No,” I say quietly. “No, it’s not.”

  He shrugs. “Read for yourself.”

  There are what look like police reports behind the grisly photos. As I skim them, I start to feel sick.

  There are dozens of these too. And almost every one is a detective’s opinion that a Nikolai Antonov is the prime suspect in each report’s murder. There are police line-up shots with him standing amongst the suspects. Four arrest reports, all of which were thrown out for missing evidence, missing witnesses, and a fucking missing judge in one case.

  The folder drops from my fingers onto the table. Vadik sighs.

  “You keep that, I have copies. Re-read it whenever you need to remember that this man is not who I assume he told you he was. He is not your hero, Belle. He is not coming to save you.” He chuckles and stabs his cigarette out in the potted succulent on my coffee table.

  “He’s too busy being one of the best killers the Kashenko Bratva has.”

  Vadik stands. “Oh, if you want a good read, look at the last page.” He smiles thinly. “It’s on the seven men Nikolai murdered in cold blood the very afternoon you jumped on his motorcycle.”

  My head swims. My stomach churns, and my heart sinks into my gut. My legs feel weak, and I slowly sink onto the couch.

  “No more delays on the filming, Belle. No more bullshit, da? He isn’t coming for you. And if you drag this anymore or waste any more of my money, I will have Daniel release those pictures. Understand?”

  I nod.

  He chuckles as he stands.

  “I am glad we could have this talk. Just two movie friends, talking shop!”

  He’s still laughing as he walks out the door and closes it behind him. I stare at the folder of horror on the table. The folder of the real Nikolai—Nikolai the killer.

  I thought I had an escape with him—the man I gave my virginity too. But it seems that was all just another pretty lie.

  A day later, I’m exhausted. I’ve just done a grueling nine straight hours of filming for one of these stupid fucking movies, and I’m on fumes. I open the fridge in my kitchen and groan. All I want is junk. I want sugar. I want carbs. I want alcohol. But all I have is rows and rows of pre-portioned, chef-made, diet-friendly green juices.

  I groan and close the fridge. I sink against the kitchen counter. But just then, the front door to the Malibu house swings open. Daniel strolls in with two girls who look young and high as shit hanging off his arms.

  “Hey, there she is! There’s the star!” Daniel slurs. He’s clearly fucked up too, though not nearly as fucked up as the girls he’s with. The both of them drag their eyes up. One looks slightly less loopy than the other. She seems to sober when she focuses on who I am.

  “Oh my God!” she shrieks. “Oh my God, I love you!”

  “Uh, great,” I mutter.

  “No, I mean I love you in everything! I’m a huge fan, Belle! You’re like half the reason I came to LA!”

  I smile thinly. “Oh, well, I’m flattered?” My brow knits. “What’s the other reason?”

  Daniel grins and dangles a little baggie of cocaine. The girl turns to stare at it like it’s the last bite of food on earth.

  Oh, that’s the other reason.

  “Hey,” Daniel leers at the girls. “Why don’t you girls go upstairs and start the party. I gotta talk to my costar here.”

  “Wait, wait, aren’t you…” the even more fucked up of the two girls peers at me. Then she drags her eyes to Daniel. “Aren’t you guys together?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Yes,” Daniel says at the same time. He shrugs, turning to glare at me. “We’re working through our stuff. Like a healthy couple.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Predictably, the crap with Penelope back in Chicago went public almost instantly. Every blogger and tabloid on earth knew about my “boyfriend” screwing his skanky costar. And when I came back from my “slutcation” as Daniel keeps calling it, I had to do exactly the public monkey dance I knew I would.

  I gave a fucking press conference about how I was there to support Daniel during his “recovery.” I gave interviews about “standing by my man.” I had to fake cry on fucking Oprah for fuck’s sake. I fake cried to Oprah. It doesn’t get much lower than that.

  And of course, I was vilified for all of it, like I knew I would be. I got called spineless and weak. Pathetic. “Another brainless bimbo chained to a powerful man.” An op ed written by a prominent feminist in the New York Times said I’d set women’s rights back ten years by staying with Daniel.

  I mean, fuck.

  Why would I do and say those things? Why on earth would I be in this house, anywhere near Daniel and doing his godawful movies?

  Because I have no sa
y in it. Not with his finger on the kill switch to my career and my dignity.

  The two girls head upstairs. Daniel turns to eye me. “You look tired.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Daniel.”

  He smiles thinly. “Be nice,” he grunts in a warning tone.

  I flip him off. He laughs.

  “I’m just saying. We’re filming later tonight, and I can’t have my leading lady looking tired.”

  “Well maybe the leading man shouldn’t have cocaine stuck to his nostrils and pussy on his breath,” I snap.

  He chuckles. “Hey, that’s showbiz, baby.”

  I look away.

  “Don’t forget, you work for me now, bitch.”

  I turn to look out over the ocean.

  For one second, I had freedom. And happiness. I had Nikolai. Now, I have nothing. Not even that memory to hang onto, now that I know it was a lie too. Now that I know what he really is, and how little I’m sure I mean to him.

  “Look,” I glare at Daniel. “I’m doing your three stupid fucking movies, okay? But if you make them terrible, they’re not going to do—”

  “Three?” He smiles. “Oh, fuck, I guess Jim didn’t get a chance to talk to you yet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Daniel smirks. “It’s not three anymore, Belle.”

  My face pales. “We had an agreement! Three movies, and then you give me those fucking pictures—”

  “Yeah, no that’s not gonna work out for me and the other investors. It’s three for now, but…” he shrugs. “I’d get used to being in front of the cameras.”

  My teeth bare. “Fuck you!”

  But he just grins. “Hey, say the word and you can have a turn on Big Dan too, baby.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’d rather screw—”

  “Careful,” he growls. He walks towards me. I stiffen as he stops right in front of me and leers into my face. “I mean, if these movies do tank, there’s always plan B. And plan B involves you screwing whoever I say, while the cameras roll.”

  My mouth purses.

  “Like mother like daughter—”

  My hand slaps across his face. Daniel snarls and raises his fist as if to hit me. But then he stops himself as I flinch. He chuckles.

  “Just so we’re clear, the only reason I’m not is because I need to film that pretty face tonight to keep on schedule.”

  I glare at him.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” he grins. “I have some guests upstairs waiting on me.” He turns and shuffles to the staircase. But then he turns and glares at me. “I know Vadik showed you the shit on that psycho you screwed, you fucking slut.” He smirks. “Think about that. And think about how little a maniac like that gives a shit about a girl he fucked in a cheap motel.”

  He stalks up the stairs. I hang on until he’s out of sight before I fall to the floor and bury my tears in my hands.

  12

  Nikolai

  Chicago, Three Months Later:

  The man on the ground reaches for his gun. But it’s a hopeless, last-ditch move. I shake my head as I walk over and step on his wrist, crushing the last of his hopes of getting out of this alive.

  But I don’t have any sympathy. No one should have any sympathy for this piece of shit. I mean the man and his crew—all of which are dead as of the last four minutes—were trying to secretly sell drugs in Kashenko territory. And they were specifically targeting children. They can all rot in hell for all I care.

  The man turns, gurgling though the blood in his mouth. He glances in horror at the bodies of his buddies littering the warehouse office. Then he glares up at me.

  “Fuck—”

  My finger squeezes the trigger, and he goes limp.

  I sigh and safety the gun before I slip it back into the holster inside my jacket. I turn and survey the scene. There were fifteen of them. Before—before all the shit that went down six months ago with Belle—I’d have been smug about this. I’d have patted myself on the back, maybe even tossed out a one-liner as I shot that last guy.

  But now, it’s just work. Now, I’m just going through the motions.

  Even when Lev had me pinned to the motel room wall roaring in my face, I knew I’d still go after her. But then I learned the hard truth about all of it. I learned about the powers that were playing and pulling strings behind the scenes. I learned the truth about Belle. After that, I knew there was no going after her. There was no rescuing a girl who didn’t want or need to be rescued.

  She’s in bed with the Volkov Bratva. I’ve heard all the details now. She’s knocking out three films at once, two that co-star that fuckhead Daniel Crew. And there’s Volkov money behind all of them.

  That’s why they were after her. That’s why taking her kicked over the hornet’s nest. She’s their golden goose. They’re the financing for her movies. And the endless Hollywood bullshit machine cranks on.

  She lied to me. And over the last six months, I’ve had plenty of time to wonder what else she lied about. The “fake and only for the cameras” boyfriend, for instance. Or maybe he’s really the not-so-fake boyfriend. Maybe she was just bored and looking to step out. Her needing to be rescued? Now I wonder if she was just looking for an adventure.

  Even sleeping with her… this absurd idea that a girl as famous, rich, and beautiful as her was a fucking virgin? Not that I give a shit if she was or not. But it’s the being lied to part that burns.

  There I was with fucking rescuer syndrome, and I was just being played the whole time. And by someone who’s a professional at playing men.

  I glance around the warehouse one more time. By the back door, one body stirs. A hand raises as if to push the door open. I sigh and pull my gun out. One bullet later, the job is officially done, and it’s time to clock out.

  One more day of going through the motions.

  The bar is loud enough that Nina doesn’t hear me coming. When she realizes I’m standing there, she swears and quickly shoves the magazine she was reading out of sight.

  “Hey! Niko!” She smiles at me. “You made it!”

  Nina is Viktor’s sister. But aside from being the boss’s sister and unofficially third in command of the Kashenko Bratva, she’s also a good friend. So is her husband, Kostya, a fellow avtoritet—a captain—in the Kashenko family along with me.

  They’ve both been trying their damndest to get me out over the last few months. Even Kostya, the hard-as-nails fucking beast of a guy, has been trying to get me to “open up” since everything went down. I’ve managed to dodge every invitation on the basis of being “busy.” But tonight, I finally caved.

  “Kostya’s getting drinks at the bar...” Nina turns, her eyes following my gaze to the gossip magazine she shoved behind her in the booth.

  “It’s really nothing, Niko. Forget it.”

  But I can’t. I know what—specifically who—I saw on the cover. I’ve tried. I’ve done pretty well, too, at not looking her up. But her face on that cover…

  “Fuck, Niko, I’m sorry,” Nina winces. “Look, just forget it, okay? Let me text Kostya your drink order, this place is… oh c’mon, Niko!”

  I pull my phone out. I’m on Google in a second, my jaw tight as I type in her name. I’ve really tried the last few months. I break from time to time, though. And this is going to be one of those times.

  I grimace at the pictures of Belle and Daniel that come up first—the two of them looking glamorous and happy.

  “Niko, don’t do this to yourself. Just fucking drop it, okay?”

  I move away from the images and click on the news involving her. The first hit that pops up takes my breath away, and my jaw grinds. I look up from the phone at Nina, but I can tell she knows what I just saw. It’s probably the same bullshit that was on the cover of her gossip magazine.

  “You’re joking,” I growl.

  She purses her lips and shakes her head.

  “A Bratva movie?”

  She’s doing a fucking Russian mob movie. My hand clenches the phone t
ight. That cements it. I was fucking research. I shake my head, feeling my temper soar. But the pain in my chest when I think of her is back, too. That’s what pisses me off the most when I think of Belle these days.

  I hate that I don’t hate her.

  I look back at the phone. I scroll back to the picture of her and Daniel, holding hands and smiling for the paparazzi.

  “She’s a professional actress, man.” Kostya’s deep voice grunts from behind me. He pushes past me and slips into the booth next to his wife with three beers and three shots of vodka. He looks up at me. “It’s her job to smile and look fun and happy.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, shoving the phone into my pocket. “I’m sure that’s it.”

  He gestures to the bench across from him and Nina. “Sit. I saw you walk in and got you a round. Let’s drink.”

  “Oh, let me get my bag.” Nina stands and reaches across the booth table. But when she does, the magazine that was jammed next to her falls and slides under the table.

  “Wait, Niko—!”

  But I’m faster than either of them. I snatch it up. But then my eyes harden as I glare at the cover in fury. It’s not about the fucking Bratva movie.

  “She’s…”

  “Niko—”

  “She’s here?” I hiss quietly.

  I stare at the headline on the magazine. Belle is here. She’s in Chicago, this weekend, for an awards show.

  “Niko,” Nina says gently. She reaches over and takes the magazine out of my hand. “You’ve gotta let it go.”

  “I’ve been seeing someone,” Kostya grunts. “A specialist. To help process the anger and shit I shoved down all those years I was in prison.”

  Nina’s hand moves over the top of the table to entwine with his. Kostya looks up at me. “I think you should see him, man.”

  “I don’t need therapy.” I slump into the seat and pick up the shot of vodka. “I do need this, though.”

  Nina and Kostya glance at each other.

  “Guys, I’m fucking fine, okay? Let’s just drink and talk about some other shit.”

  “Well, to getting you out for a drink, finally.” Nina smiles wryly, lifting her shot.