The Heir: (A Dark Mafia Romance) Bratva Blood

by SR Jones

  I picture Zoey, and a rage so blinding and pure it isn’t red but white hits me. Andrius won’t have to rip her limb from limb because I’m going to do it.

  Did she screw me to get information? Am I next on her list? Is Andrius? What’s her fucking game, and who does she work for?

  “I’m coming there.” It’s not a question. Andrius might not want my tainted self around his shiny new venture, but this is personal. K is my friend. Hell, he’s like my brother. “I’m meeting Ilya in five. I’m bringing him too.”

  Andrius doesn’t argue. “Okay. See you in a few hours. We’re at the clinic on Corfu, but they might medivac him to Athens.”

  “Will you keep me informed?”

  “Of course.”

  He hangs up, and I stare ahead, lost in the utter shock of what I’ve just learned. K better pull through. He’s too larger-than-life not to. Too big. Too confident. Too damn stubborn to die.

  On autopilot, I walk toward the restaurant where I’m meeting Ilya. He takes one look at me and clicks his fingers at a waiter. “Bring my friend here a large vodka,” he orders.

  I sit opposite him heavily. My limbs feel like lead. My stomach hurts, and my heart is pounding.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Ilya asks.

  I raise my eyes to his. “K’s been hit. It’s bad. Needs intensive surgery.”

  He stares at me for a long beat. “What? That makes no sense. K’s out. Cashed out, left, walked away. There’s no reason for anyone to want him dead. Who did it? On Corfu? How did they get to him?”

  I lay it out for him and he blows out a long breath.

  “We need to find out who this woman really is.”

  “We?”

  “You think I’m going to let some fucking bitch shoot one of my oldest friends and do nothing? Plus, we need to know who is behind this. They might be coming for us next. This isn’t random. We need to know who did it and why. Shit, we’ve got to find this Zoey character before Andrius does.”

  “Why?” I ask, sipping gratefully at my vodka.

  “Because if he finds her first, he’ll kill her. I’m more interested in making her talk.”

  I get a strange churning in my gut at the thought of Ilya making Zoey talk. It’s not a protectiveness. Oh no, she blew that right out of the water when she shot K. But it is a possessiveness. This is fucked up, but if anyone is going to make her talk, it’s going to be me. I want Ilya with me because who knows what sort of shit storm we’re heading into? When it comes to dealing with Zoey, though, it’s all going to be on me. I won’t have anyone else touch her.

  I reach into my pocket where, like the sick, obsessed fuck I am, the lip gloss resides. It’s not exactly normal carrying the makeup of a woman you’ve fucked once then ignored. Worse, if that fucking lip gloss fell out of my pocket during a meeting, with the sort of men I deal with, it could result in some bad shit for me. Or maybe, it would cement my reputation as a crazy bastard. Who knows?

  “Earth to Vasily.” Ilya taps me on the forehead. I narrow my eyes at him. “You sure you should be getting involved in this?”

  My face must be a picture because he holds his hands up. “I only mean because you’re still not fully recovered is all.”

  “I’ll bring my A-game; don’t you worry. Someone goes after K, and I won’t fuck around.”

  “Not saying for one moment that I think you would. I’m more concerned you’ll set your recovery back weeks or months if you mess up.”

  I huff out a frustrated breath. “I’m a big boy, Ilya. Let me worry about me, okay?”

  He smirks and nods.

  Ilya’s one bossy bastard. Thing is, he’s someone who has been at this game for longer than me, and he’s also someone who has been higher up in this game for far longer than me. Now, though, I’m his equal, on paper at least. Well, I would be if we conferred titles in our world via paper means, which we don’t.

  Now, we’re working together, and he isn’t going to get to ride roughshod over me or boss me around. He knows me, has for a long time, and yet he doesn’t. I’m not one to back down, or to give in. I’m cut from the same fucking steel cloth as K. I’ve been the one, after all, to enforce the most vicious of K’s rulings. Me. In person.

  Bohdan too, of course, but if K wanted to put the fear of God in people, he sent me. Or, in some cases, he simply threatened them with me. I was always the heir apparent, the one who would step up if the King himself was harmed or stepped down. I did, and I’m running Moscow as smoothly as I always have because, let’s be honest, K has been absent for a few years now as legit business distracted him more and more.

  Sometimes the heir becomes the king, and sometimes the heir becomes an avenging fucking angel taking down anyone who has threatened the royal house. That’s me moving forward.

  I have three reasons for needing to find out who sent Zoey to harm K.

  One is that they might be after me. I can’t see them being happy to take K out but let the operation he built remain standing. Secondly, they have harmed someone I care about deeply. There are very few people in this life I give a flying fuck for. They include K, Andrius, Bohdan and my elderly remaining family, who I don’t see for their own safety, but who I send money to. You hurt K? You get me coming after you.

  The third reason I want to find them sits uncomfortably with me, and that’s because I need to know who hired Zoey and why? What skills does she have? This whole thing is unnerving me, and not just because I’m frankly obsessed with the woman, but because something about it stinks.

  “Riddle me this, Ilya,” I say. “You’re going to send someone to kill a person like K, they’d be highly trained right?”

  Ilya sips at his drink and nods.

  “So why isn’t he dead?”

  He shrugs.

  “We need to talk to Cassie and go over every single moment of what happened.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’m hitting the little boys’ room, and then we can try to sort out flights, okay?”

  He nods and takes out his phone. I head off to the bathroom. I kick open the door on the single stall, and when I’m reassured it is empty, I take out my phone. Leaning against the wall, I select voicemail and hit play.

  “Hi, Vasily, erm, it’s Zoey here. I wondered if you’d like a replay of the other night. I think we both had fun. Anyway, I don’t normally do this, but if you want to meet, hit me up.” This was from straight after we hooked up.

  It’s sexy but chilled. And it feels fake. I’m so angry that I almost shatter my phone with how tightly I’m holding onto it. Did she seduce me as part of her plan? Was our second time going to be a way for her to dig for information? She’s fucking dead, but I’m going to be the one to end her life.

  The second message from her is similar, and then we have the most recent message. I press play on it and immediately go on alert. Her voice is different, markedly so. She sounds terrible.

  “Vasily, it’s Zoey. Call me back. Please. I’m … erm, I’m in trouble.” She starts to cry softly. “So much trouble. I know telling you is a massive risk for me, but I’m stuck. If I don’t get help in the next couple of hours, I’m going to end up doing something I’ll live my life regretting. I’m really in a bad place, and I can only think of one person to turn to, and that’s you. Please call me. No strings, no relationship shit, this is… I’m fucked, Vasily. I need you.”

  The call ends, and I stare at my phone, my jaw working. I don’t know anything anymore. It sounded real. Her emotions seemed genuine, but the woman’s clearly undercover working for someone. Maybe she’s a consummate actress? Then again, why call before she attacked K? Makes no sense, unless she was going to tell me the truth and beg me to help her find a way out, which means she shot him under duress of some sort.

  Fuck, I’ve screwed up so bad. I’ve let her down, but worse, I almost got my friend killed.

  Why didn’t she text me? If she’d sent a text stating she needed help, I’d have seen it and done something. I’m livi
d. Anger like I’ve never experienced before is eating me up inside, and I don’t know whether I’m angry with her or myself.

  I head back to Ilya.

  He smiles grimly, downs his drink, and stands. “I’ve got a friend who has a private jet. He lets me use it when he’s not doing so. I messaged him when you got here and told me the news. He’s just messaged back. Can you be ready in a couple of hours to fly out?”

  “Of course I fucking can.” I down my drink too, and we head out.

  Chapter Four

  Zoey

  My hands are shaking so badly. I can’t get the damn motor working on the boat in the bay.

  Instead, I explore the small space, giving up for now.

  There’s a tarpaulin in the back thrown over a bench and when I lift it, there’s a bag of supplies. Stuff I might need to stay alive for a few nights out in the open. They were thorough, whoever put this here. It contains a tent and an all-weather bivouac. Two flares. Waterproof matches. Those dry biscuits that give you enough calories for a meal. Some basic toiletry supplies such as soap and toothpaste. A small basic first-aid kit. Water purifying tablets and a flask which also purifies the water you put in it. A water bottle with an attached straw and a new burner phone. I don’t turn that on. If I do, they can most likely track me with it. The one they gave me to contact them with yesterday was turned off remotely as soon as our conversation ended. They can do anything they want, or so I’m starting to believe. Thank God, I bought my own phone at the airport and paid cash. I can call out if needs be. I only know a few numbers, though, and the only one I want to call is Vasily.

  Pocketing the burner but keeping it switched off, I send an imagined middle finger to Number Two. I’m not calling that fucker.

  I know what I will be told anyway. My daughter is now going to be sold to the highest bidder because I failed. I fucking failed.

  The moment I shot Konstantin plays again in my mind, and I lean over the side of the boat and throw up. God, the Order screwed up when they hired me, didn’t they? I laugh bitterly to myself, and it turns to a sob.

  Damn Vasily. That bastard, piece of shit. I left him a message. I told him it wasn’t about the sex but that I needed him. Really needed him and nothing. He never replied. This is down to him, I tell myself. What a coward.

  I ought to eat one of those dry crackers and drink something, but I know I’ll simply throw it all back up. Instead, I try again with the damn engine, pulling at the cord on it, and it growls to life. Thank God.

  Steering the boat out of the harbor, I wonder where the hell to go? I need to get back to the UK. My priority is to get back there, find Number Two and make him tell me where he’s keeping my daughter, and then kill him.

  I’ll kill myself after Esme is safe with my aunt. It’s the only way to keep her safe. Andrius will have the letter I wrote by then.

  Something primal and vicious stirs to life in me. I might not have been able to shoot and murder an innocent pregnant woman, but my God I can kill Number Two. I can even torture him if that’s what is needed to find my daughter. I know it the way I know the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. It is simply a fact of life. I will murder that fucker slowly and painfully for Esme, and then I'll kill anyone standing in my way in order to get her back, or I’ll die trying.

  To get back to the UK, I’m going to need a fake ID. How the hell do I get one out here? I laugh to myself because I bet Andrius could set me up with one, but he’ll shoot me on sight. Or worse. Probably worse. Esme, he won’t hurt, though. I have a strangely deep conviction about that.

  Corfu Town is where I need to be. I can spend a night hiding out in the woods, lay low and then head there. I doubt K’s men will look for me there. They won’t believe I’d stay on the island. After all, if I didn’t have to get back to the UK urgently, and didn’t have to find Esme, then I’d take this boat and motor on across to the mainland and hide out in some tiny community for as long as it took.

  I do need to get back to the UK, though, and although I could go via land, it will take far too long. I urgently need an ID and then a plane ticket. Both of these things will be tricky without money, but I have my body. I’ve never seen myself as a whore before, even though with Konstantin I came close. They wanted me to screw him to get information, and I almost did. I’ve never sold myself, though. Now I will. I will do anything and everything to get to my daughter.

  I’m shaking, shivering, and freezing cold. I know, though, logically I can’t be cold. It’s a warm day. So I must be in shock. I need to calm down, rest, and think clearly. In order to think, I must calm the fuck down.

  I reach into my bag and take out a beta blocker, popping another pill. Damn heart is still racing like crazy, and I want it to stop; it’s making me feel faint.

  Guiding the boat close to the coastline, I keep going for what seems like forever, past beaches and bays, until I see a rocky cove. Behind are some wooded hills, and it seems damn remote. This will suit as a place to moor up, rest and get my head on right. It’s far enough away from the scene of the crime that I doubt they’ll search this far, and if they do, they’ll have to go in to examine all the bays I’ve motored on by.

  Guiding the boat into the cove, I moor up and take what I will need for the night. The rest I cover. If someone does see the boat, so what? It’s nothing different to the small boats tons of local families use either for leisure, travel, or even to fish from.

  Hauling the heavy backpack stuffed with the survival essentials so kindly left to me, I scrabble up the steep, rocky hillside, and into the cover of dense trees.

  I don’t even bother with a tent. It’s warm enough not to need one, and I’m too shaky and weak to put it up. Instead, I take out the all-weather, one-person bivouac bag and shake it out. It’s basically a sleeping bag but with a zip that comes up over your head and a rigid area at the top so you can zip it completely and have breathing room. I’ll just sleep in the body bit and not fasten the head area. I want to be able to see and hear what’s around me.

  Are there deadly insects on Corfu? I’m pretty sure there aren’t. Probably are snakes, though. Although with the situation I’m in right now, venomous creatures are the least of my worries. Still, perhaps I will fasten that hood.

  I’m exhausted beyond anything I’ve felt before, and although I want to go straight to Corfu Town and hustle to get myself an ID, I know I need to rest. I’m in shock, I think. Shivery, nauseous, and cold.

  I’ve seen death and violence before. I was in the Army for God’s sake. My role, though, wasn’t forward combat. I was part of a unit that went in after the Royal Marines made an area safe and helped the rebuilding process. Then I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. My lover lost his life, and I was faced with charges, despite it being an accident. I already knew I was pregnant, and I risked my name being dragged through the mud; worse—my lover’s name being dragged through the mud, and all because of a mistake that any human could have made.

  When the Order came to me, offering me a way out, I took it. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  The shit they’ve had me do these years makes my stomach churn. So many times they had me worm my way into people’s lives and get close to them, but in reality I was spying on them. Often, thankfully, it was women, so I could use friendship. Konstantin was only the second time they asked me to sleep with someone, and whilst he isn’t my type, it wouldn’t have been a hardship.

  Then he offered me the damn job because he liked my art, which means so much to me. It’s the one thing that is truly me, and Konstantin saw it and recognized something in it. He’d told me once that he loved the element of threat in every piece. I think that threat is me getting onto paper the way the Order makes me feel and exorcising it so I don’t spend every night deep in panic attacks.

  I do have panic attacks, though. And nightmares.

  I think of Esme and purposefully push her out of my mind. If I let myself go there, I won’t get home to her because I’ll be too messed up to so
rt my head out.

  Oh God, what if they’re already moving her? What if right now she’s being taken somewhere against her will? My gorgeous, precious little girl.

  I sob and rock on my haunches as I try to calm myself. Losing it isn’t an option.

  “Woman up, Zoey,” I tell myself out loud. “You will get to her, and you won’t let those fuckers do that to her.”

  No matter what it takes, I’ll save my daughter or die trying.

  Chapter Five

  Vasily

  By the time we land in Corfu, I’m nothing but pure rage.

  Rage at myself. At Zoey. At K even for not being more fucking careful.

  We go straight to the hospital. Both of us packed light and only have essentials. I can buy anything I need here of the clothing and toiletry variety. Other things I might need, such as weapons, Andrius will handle.

  Hitting the sidewalk, I pause for a moment and turn my face to the sun. It’s already damn cold in Moscow, feeling wintery rather than autumnal, but here it’s sunny enough to make you think it’s August.

  We walk through the sliding doors into the cool, clinical foyer. Ilya has a Louis Vuitton hold-all slung over his shoulder. I’ve simply got a small nylon bag. I don’t advertise my wealth. I prefer to keep how much I’m worth on the down low. In general, I keep a low profile. Now that I’ve stepped into K’s shoes running things, that will change some, but in other ways it won’t. I believe there’s a power in being mysterious. In not putting out there who and what you are. Except, of course, for letting people know exactly what you will do to those who cross you or yours.

  Zoey crossed one of mine. She went after K, and I love him like a brother, but, and this is messed up, I also view Zoey as somehow mine too. Even though she categorically is not.

  Damn, this is a horrific mess. If only I’d listened to her message earlier and called her back, it could have all been avoided. I haven’t told Ilya yet. Not sure I will tell anyone. If they know I screwed her, Andrius and Ilya might think I’m not the one to go after her, and that won’t do at all.