The Heir: (A Dark Mafia Romance) Bratva Blood

by SR Jones

  We enter the dark church, and the ceremony begins almost immediately. It washes over me like a strange dream. The priest talking in words I can’t understand, something being passed over my head, over Vasily’s then mine. The incense, some music. It’s a trippy blur, and I feel as if any moment I might lose my mind.

  Once the ceremony is over, we leave the church and step into a gray day. The sun of earlier is gone, and the sky is dark with clouds. A portent of things to come?

  Vasily’s phone rings, and he takes it out of his pocket. “Yeah?” He listens, and a slow grin stretches across his face. “Damen, you beautiful bastard,” he says in English. “I owe you one. Big time. Yes, I will, yes. Thank you.”

  He turns to me. “We have a break. I know who your handlers are, or rather I should say Damen does, and soon I will. He’s sending us details of their homes, their real names, and where to find them. The fucking works. We don’t need to talk to Luka, Damen did, and he’s found these bastards.”

  He turns to Alexei. “Fancy a trip to England?”

  “Da,” Alexei says, then adds something in Russian.

  Vasily laughs. “He says, if you only use it on these men and not us, he’ll let you gut them with his knife.”

  I grin at Alexei, feeling a sudden hope that I might get my daughter back. “You’re such a gentleman,” I mock simper.

  “Anything for a lady,” he says with a bow.

  “Come on. Let’s get back to the house.” Vasily grabs my hand and pulls me toward the car. “I want to fuck my new wife.”

  I pause before I climb in the back and look at him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I still hate you.”

  “I hate you too,” he says with a soft brush of his lips over mine. “And soon, I’ll show you just how much.”

  My stomach flips at the thought, and I think I’m as sick as he is.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vasily.

  I keep glancing at Zoey in the rearview mirror. I can’t believe she’s my wife. I’ve lost my mind. I swear to God that lip gloss of hers is possessed with demon magic or something. She’s put a spell on me, and it’s heady as hell.

  I don’t know what the rules are of this game we’re playing. Hell, I don’t even know what the game is, but it’s twisted, sick, and thrilling. She tells me she hates me, and sometimes she looks at me like she wants to fillet me like a fish, but other times she looks at me in a way no other woman has. Like I’m her hero. It makes me feel powerful. I want more of those looks.

  Parking the car, I open the door for Zoey, and she steps out, a small smile playing over her glossed lips. I’ve not kissed her enough to remove it. I need to buy more of the stuff. A whole crate of it.

  “You piece of shit.” Angry, heavy Russian has me spinning around.

  Andrius is upon me before I have time to react. He pushes me against the wall of the house, and I’m about to shove him off, hard, when something cold nestles against my temple.

  I go utterly still.

  Holy shit, Andrius has a gun to my head.

  Now, I know some things about this man, and one of them is that he doesn’t put a gun to your head to play. He means business.

  The door opens, and Ilya steps out, but Andrius doesn’t move, and his eyes don’t leave mine.

  Violet runs up the drive, shouting at Andrius, but still his eyes don’t leave mine.

  “You talked to my wife?” he seethes. “Put the fear of God into her? Plotted with her. My fucking wife! Who do you think you are?”

  “He’s the head of Moscow is who he is. My business partner, so this is awkward.” Ilya crosses his legs and leans against the car as if he’s all relaxed and chilled out.

  Andrius doesn’t look away from me.

  “Am I going to have to draw my gun on you, Andrius?” Alexei asks.

  “The moment you move an inch, I put a bullet in him. Then you. You’re not fast enough,” Andrius states the facts calmly and concisely.

  It’s probably true because no one can control a gun like Andrius.

  “It’s okay,” I say to Alexei. “We’re just talking.”

  “Your wife came to me,” I say, switching to English, glancing at a pale-faced Violet standing behind us. “She also said our talk was in confidence.”

  “My wife doesn’t keep secrets from me; it’s dangerous,” Andrius seethes, also in English. “We have a pact, always the truth, and you made her break it.”

  “He didn’t, Andrius. I came and told you the truth, and this is how you reacted.” Violet twists her hands together, her face drawn.

  “No.” He still doesn’t move his gaze from me. “You told me what he asked you to do, and I didn’t believe it so I pushed you, and then you admitted you’d talked to him, and he’d said there were people way above Zoey, so now you’re scared and stressed.”

  “Yes, well,” she says snappily. “There are people above Zoey, aren’t there? So how’s that always telling the truth thing going for us?”

  He sighs. “I should shoot you just for causing me marriage issues,” he says low, in Russian once more.

  “Maybe I won’t shoot you.” He steps back, the gun still trained on me, before pivoting and aiming it right between Zoey’s eyes.

  Oh, shit. My heart speeds up.

  “Maybe I’ll shoot her. We don’t need anymore information from her. She’s no use to us. We know enough to find who sent her, and if we don’t, she can’t tell us more than she already has. It’s time she paid for what she did.”

  “Damen knows who her handlers are,” I blurt out.

  Andrius pauses, and his face goes from pissed off to thunderous.

  “So do Reece and Luka.”

  “What the fuck is this?” he roars. “You’re talking to the whole world behind my back? You’re on my property. What the fuck do you think you’re doing showing me such lack of respect.”

  He presses his lips together in a thin line and lifts the gun a centimeter.

  “You shoot her, and you’ve got a war on your hands,” I say. “She’s off limits.”

  “No, she’s not,” he snorts.

  “Yeah, she is. She’s my wife.”

  “Oh, fuck.” Ilya stands straighter, legs apart, as if he’s bracing to do something.

  Andrius doesn’t even breath. He simply stops like a robot that’s been switched off, and then he turns slowly to face me and sucks in air. “What did you say?”

  “She’s my wife. She’s off limits. You shoot her, you start a war. With me. With Alexei. Damen and the Greeks don’t want her dead either. Andrius,” I say, trying to appeal to his more rational side. “We can work together to face the real threat.”

  “You know you’ve fucked any relationship you ever had with K, right?” he asks me, incredulous.

  “Maybe, or maybe he’ll be the rational person you don’t seem capable of being right now.”

  “Don’t kill her, Andrius, I beg of you.” Violet goes to him and touches his arm.

  It’s a sign of how pissed off he is that he shakes her off like an annoyance, sending her staggering back a couple of steps. He’s cold and deadly, but I’ve only ever seen him look at Violet with tenderness.

  “Why the fuck would you marry her?” His face is a picture.

  His brows knit together as he looks at me as if he never knew me, which really, he didn’t.

  “I have my reasons. All you need to know is that she’s mine now. You come after her, you start a war with me. You know the rules. Wives, kids—off limits.”

  He stares at me, his teeth grinding. He turns, walks a few feet away and pivots back.

  “Motherfucker,” he shouts.

  An arc of silver flashes in the sun as he swings his arm.

  Blinding pain slams into me, and colors explode behind my eyes. My ears ring, and everything in front of me starts to shimmer like static on an out-of-tune television set.

  I’m still vaguely aware of my surroundings when I hit the ground and
smack the other side of my head onto hard gravel.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zoey

  Andrius walks off, taking hold of Violet gently by the arm as he pulls her with him.

  She follows, but as soon as they’re a few feet away, she starts shouting at him.

  For a moment, Ilya, Alexei, myself, none of us move, and then I’m going to Vasily who is groaning, blood streaming from his temple.

  “He’s insane.” I stare after Andrius briefly before turning my attention back to Vasily.

  “Nah, he’s pissed. Big difference.” Ilya bends down next to me. “I’d say Vasily here is the insane one. Marrying you. What the fuck? No wonder Andrius lost it. You must have one fucking magical pussy, lady.”

  I ignore his coarse words. “Will you help me with him?” I gesture to Vasily.

  “Alexei, help me carry this crazy fucker inside,” Ilya demands.

  Alexei and Ilya pick Vasily up between them and carry him into the house. They take him upstairs and place him on the bed in the room next to mine. The house is barely habitable. It’s a run-down mess and not somewhere ideal to recuperate.

  “He needs somewhere better than this,” I say.

  “Where do you suggest?” Ilya asks.

  “Andrius’ place? That’s not going to happen right now. A hotel maybe?” Alexei supplies.

  “A hotel sounds like a plan, to be honest,” I reply. “How do we know Andrius won’t come back in an hour and put bullets in us all?”

  “He won’t,” Ilya says. “He can’t, not really. Vasily here has checkmated Andrius and myself, so far as you go.” He shoots me a disgusted glance.

  “K’s going to go apeshit,” he adds, then he turns to Alexei and says something in Russian. Whatever it is must piss Alexei off because he starts shouting and gesticulating.

  I ignore them and head to the bathroom where I find some cotton wool and an old bar of soap, which will have to be good enough. I dampen two of the cotton wool pads and apply some of the soap, and then I take them into the bedroom where I start to clean the blood from Vasily’s temple.

  He groans, and his eyes flicker. “Do you think he needs a doctor?” I ask Ilya.

  “No, he’s tough. He’s still recovering from being shot, which will be more of an issue for him than this, I believe.”

  I’ve seen the scars but didn’t know they were quite so recent. My God, the world these men inhabit. Me too, now. To think I used to be on what I believed was the right side. I fought for my country. Defended it against foreign enemies, and now I’m embroiled deep within the Bratva eco-system. Life can really throw you a curveball sometimes.

  Vasily moans and licks his lips, lifting his hand to his head.

  “Wakey, wakey,” Ilya says. “You got pistol whipped.”

  “Fucking Andrius,” Vasily slurs. “Feels like forty men are hammering the inside of my skull. Can you get me some painkillers, Ilya? Don’t think Andrius will give me any if I ask.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get you some. Nifty move you’ve made, my friend.”

  “Yes, well, if you’d all stopped being hell-bent on killing Zoey, I wouldn’t have had to, would I?”

  “You can’t stay here; it’s not sanitary,” I tell Vasily.

  “We aren’t staying here.” He shakes his head but winces at the action. “We’re going to Britain, and we’re paying your handlers a surprise visit; right, Alexei?”

  He grins and nods.

  I’m torn. I need to find out where Esme is, but I don’t want Vasily traveling like this and maybe jeopardizing the whole plan if he ends up in hospital.

  “You need back up?” Ilya asks.

  “Yes, fucker, we do.” Vasily sighs. “Us three need to go and pay these bastards a visit.”

  “Four,” I add.

  “No, not you.” Ilya frowns. “This is not a woman’s work. Leave it to us. We will get the information needed, and the Greeks are working on it too.”

  “I want to be there. I deserve it,” I argue.

  Vasily smiles at me, and it’s a proud grin. “See?” he says to Alexei in English so I can understand. “I told you she was a wife fit for a warrior.”

  Alexei shakes his head and answers in Russian. Damn, I wish I understood the language. God knows what he’s saying about me.

  Ilya clicks his tongue against his teeth. “You’re going crazy, Vasily. If I had known this side of you, I would have reconsidered working with you.”

  “No, you would not. I am crazy, and that’s why working with me is good. People are scared of me. I was always the one who did K’s dirty work for him and put the fear of God into them. Now…” He pushes up from the bed, wincing. “One of you organize flights or charter a jet. I need to take some painkillers and get myself feeling human enough to fly. I’ll book a hotel in London.”

  He turns to me. “Where do you recommend?”

  “Oh, the Ritz. Savoy.” I’m joking, but he smiles.

  “Okay, something grand for you, my wife. After all, it is our honeymoon, no?”

  The other two men head out of the room, muttering amongst themselves in Russian.

  “They hate me,” I say.

  “No, they do not. They don’t know you. They’re dismayed at me. Say I’m losing my mind, but Ilya ought to know I never had one to lose.” He cracks up at his joke.

  “So, my blushing bride, is it a nice wedding present I give you? The chance to hurt these men who have done you so much harm?”

  I climb onto the bed, hitching the linen dress high on my thighs as I straddle Vasily, who is in a half-seated position against the headboard. “It’s the best wedding present a woman could get.” I smile at him. “Really. I find it a lot more romantic than, say, jewelry.”

  I glance at the simple gold band on my finger. “Speaking of which, where did you get the rings?”

  “Damen pulled some strings with different people to sort a lot of the wedding stuff out. It’s not fake, you know?” He frowns at me.

  “I know. When this is all over, and it’s safe, you’ll need to divorce me.”

  “Well, I haven’t decided if I want to do that yet.” He smiles.

  Oh, Lord, he really is crazy. “Vasily, you said so yourself, you hate me. Why would you want to stay married to a woman you hate?”

  “I don’t know … because you’re interesting?” He shrugs. “I can’t stand dullness. You know? It’s the worst thing in life, being bored.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Trust me, Vasily, being bored is not the worst thing in life. Your daughter being taken from you is.”

  He nods. “Da. I’m sorry, you are right. I spoke … how do you say it. Filspantly.”

  I laugh at that. “It’s flippantly. And apology accepted. Now, because your romantic gesture in allowing me my revenge has me all wet, do you want to hate-fuck your bride?”

  He grins at me, those white teeth of his shining devilishly from his harshly handsome face. “Of course.”

  “Is your head hurting?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “But I don’t care.”

  “I do. Let me do the work.”

  “I can’t say no to that offer.” He lies back, and I get off the bed, taking my shoes off carefully, letting him see some ankle and calf, then kicking them to one side. I unzip my dress, able to reach around and do it myself, and let it fall to the floor in a gentle rustle of thick fabric. Wearing only the bra and thong, I turn to him.

  “Underwear off, or thong pulled to one side?”

  “Just pull it to one side, and get up here and fuck me.”

  His words go right to my core. I must be certifiable. I’m about to willingly fuck the man who for all intents and purposes has … what? Not kidnapped me as such but forced me to marry him. Surely that’s a pay grade above kidnapping? Yet, he’s also helping me find my daughter, and he’s letting me be there when they pay visits to the fuckers who ruined my life—the three men of the Order who I loathe with an icy-cold disgust.

  Whatever I feel for Vasily is diff
erent, and we may say to each other that it’s hate, but really I don’t know what it is. The feeling isn’t cold. Instead, it’s hot like the sun. Volcanic. It bubbles away inside me, a glorious juxtaposition to the endless depression I feel about every other aspect of my life.

  I climb onto Vasily and run my hand up the front of the dark trousers he’s wearing, rubbing his thick, hard cock through the material. He sucks in a breath, and his gaze is so intense that I look away. I can’t deal with that level of emotional intensity. That’s not what we’re about. We’re about fucking, scratching, games and dark things; not whatever it was Vasily’s gaze said to me a moment ago.

  “Take me out, Zoey,” he says, all deep and throaty.

  I do. I unzip him and take him out. I don’t need foreplay. This whole fucked up situation is foreplay so far as my messed-up body is concerned. Maybe the adrenaline and stress I’m under is what’s making me so hot for this? Aren’t lots of babies born during wartime? I’m sure I read that somewhere.

  Lifting myself up, I pull my thong to one side, and with my other hand I guide him between my legs, sinking down slowly as we both groan.

  “Great balance,” he observes.

  “I work out a lot,” I reply. Then I lift up and twist as I sit down on him.

  “Fuck. Do that again.”

  I do. And again. And again. I set up a rhythm that’s not slow but not rushed either. Placing my hands on his chest for better control, I take what I need, eyes fluttering closed as I feel myself climbing embarrassingly quickly to an orgasm.

  “Look at me,” he demands.

  I ignore him. He’s my husband now. This is suddenly feeling strangely emotional, and I can’t look at him.

  Shit, I can feel tears pricking my eyes, and I don’t understand.

  “Look at me,” he growls. “Look at the man who is going to make everyone who ever hurt you pay and who will let you decide their fate. Look at the man who will get your daughter back. Look at the man who wants you more than his next breath. Fucking look at me, Zoey.”

  My eyes snap open, and I see the same emotions as I’m feeling swirling in the blue depths of his gaze.