Andrei: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bakhtin Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  Jamie is right about me. I am a beast, and they need to fucking remember that. I will not hesitate to kill those who wrong me, especially these soft Irish bastards.

  Eventually, though, sleep takes over.

  It’s the same old shit. I dream about the fire that killed Mother and Father.

  But then, toward the end, the dream shifts and I’m pressed up against Jamie again. Her breast felt so good in my hand, pert and firm, her nipple tantalizingly hard.

  I want to make her nervous.

  I want to make her excited.

  I wake with the father of all hard-ons, but I don’t allow myself to do anything about it. But the urge to squeeze hard on my throbbing shaft and close my eyes—thinking of Jamie in those red heels, her dress all bunched up around her ass, her ass cheeks flattening with each powerful thrust—it overpowers me. I can’t help myself …

  I stroke myself once, the image of Jamie held fixed in my mind’s eye, pre-come sliding down my shaft. I’m so fucking close, and then—

  No.

  I jump up and do a hundred push-ups on my knuckles, enjoying the sobering feeling of the stone floor grazing my fists.

  I’m almost glad when one of the guards bangs on the door. “Cormac wants you, Russian,” the man growls. His name is Ronan and he took over from Garret last night. I haven’t seen him yet, but his voice is sharp and high-pitched. He sounds young. “You better not try anything.”

  I chuckle calmly. “How could I?” I say. “You sound like a certified killer, Ronan. A man to be reckoned with.”

  I heard his name last night, when they changed guards.

  “Don’t use my fucking name!” he barks. “Now stand back or we’ll give you the rubber again.”

  I back up against the wall as Ronan and another man enters. Ronan is young, like I guessed, a skin-fade haircut and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks. The other man is much older and looks mean. He has three teardrop tattoos under one eye.

  “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” I smile at Teardrop.

  “You can call me Hammer.”

  I don’t even try to hide my laughter. “I’m not calling you that, Irish fuck.”

  He flinches, taking what I suppose is meant to be a menacing step forward. “I’m the hammer, you’re the nail. Remember that, Russian.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Come on, Jerry,” Ronan says. “Let’s get him—”

  Hammer—or rather, Jerry—wheels on the younger man. “The one fucking thing I ask!” he growls. “Don’t use my goddamn name! Stupid little prick!”

  “I know,” Ronan says, flinching away. “Shit, I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No,” Jerry snarls. “You weren’t.”

  “Gentlemen,” I say, a thought occurring to me. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. But for it to even be a remote possibility, I need a long-sleeved shirt. “I don’t think you can take me to Cormac like this.”

  They glare, hands on their hips near their guns, ready to draw them at a moment’s notice. It’s possible that I’d be able to get across the room and grab them, but, looking past them, I see the elevator, which is protected by a password. Unless these assholes are stupid enough to keep the password on their person, I’m screwed.

  “Why not?” Ronan says eventually.

  I raise my arms, throbbing and sweat-soaked from the push-ups, bare in the tight-fitting T-shirt. “I know enough about Cormac to be aware he has a serious fetish for hygiene. You really think he wants a guy dripping sweat from head to toe to visit his office? I’m assuming I don’t have time for a shower, so something with sleeves will do to protect your boss’ … sensitivities.”

  “You’re trying something,” Jerry growls. “What game are you playing?”

  “You cold, Russian? Is that it?”

  Here’s how to play a man: let him think he’s guessed your secret intention, while keeping the real secret intention, well, secret. “No,” I say, purposefully unconvincingly.

  Jerry scoffs. “Russian bitch. He might have a point, though, eh?” He shrugs. “The boss can be a bit … prickly when it comes to things like that. All right, Russian, you pussy fuck, we’ll get you a hoodie.”

  I wait as they bring me the plain gray hoodie, which is skintight since they obviously don’t have my size. But the sleeves reach down to my wrists, and it’ll have to do. I let them shackle my hands—in front of me, the stupid fucks—and lead me to the elevator. I think I’m going to get a look at the estate, but they put a black bag over my head as the elevator rides up. I walk awkwardly, stumbling a few times, and then they shove me through a door and into a seat.

  They shove me only because I let them. These puny men couldn’t move me if their lives depended on it unless I let them.

  Finally, they remove the black bag, revealing Cormac, who’s wearing the world’s most self-satisfied grin on his face, chewing on his cigar triumphantly. We sit in an office which is, in many ways, a mirror of the one in The Clover: large desk, large throne-like chair for him, tiny uncomfortable seat for me.

  He leans forward, smoke shrouding his features. “So, Russian, seems the world works in mysterious ways, eh?”

  I eye the desk: laptop, stacked papers, letter opener, paper tray. Letter opener.

  Fucking letter opener.

  I have to play this right.

  I shrug calmly. “It will return to the way it should be soon, Cormac. I feel confident of that.”

  A flicker of annoyance crosses his eyes. Clearly, he wants me to grovel. He’ll be waiting until the grave for that. “Still trying to play the big man, are we? How’s this then, big man? Your second-in-command, Timofey—he was the one who sold you out that night. When he came back in to calm me down—ha!—he was arranging for us to take you. I thought it’d make quite the statement, selling Andrei Bakhtin, and it did, right? I just didn’t plan on Jamie buying you.”

  I bite down, trying to hide the surge of anger that moves through me. I knew Egor should’ve been my second. Fucking Timofey. Traitor.

  “Surprised, Russian?”

  I push the rage from my face, but it’s more difficult now. Betrayal is the one thing that infuriates me more than anything. The Bratva is built on brotherhood. Even these Irish men are loyal to their boss, and their boss is a fucking asshole.

  “So Timofey is running the Bratva, I assume? Your coup was successful?”

  He grimaces. “Don’t fucking taunt me, Russian.”

  I feign innocence. “If you got Timofey to turn, it was with a promise that he’d take my position. Congratulations.”

  “You know full well that that fuck Egor is making things difficult!”

  I smile, glad to hear it. “Egor has always been a stubborn man.”

  “Enough!” Cormac growls. “Even now, you disrespect me. You really must have a death wish.” He nods at the door. Ronan opens it. For a horrible moment, I think they’re going to bring Egor in, in chains. But then I see that a maid is bringing a giant plate of food: a steak, hand-cut fries, green beans, and corn on the cob.

  My belly growls so loudly that everybody hears it. Cormac grins like a schoolyard bully. He looks pathetically proud of himself. “This is good steak. Aged twenty-eight days. Perfect. What’ve you been eating, Andrei?”

  “Gruel,” Jerry grunts from behind me, when I don’t answer. “Gruel and water.”

  “The food of kings,” Cormac says as he chews on the steak. “You’re going to tell me what you talked about with your man, Egor, on the phone at the auction house. I saw that you made a call, and the number has been verified as his. So?”

  “I asked him to pick me up the new Playboy. There’s an article I just can’t wait to fucking read. I’m a big fan.”

  His desire to get control makes him look like a spoiled prince. It’s in every look of petulance he throws my way. “You know I could feed you this food like a dog, don’t you? I could have you kneeling at my feet and you’d lick the steak juice from m
y hands like a fucking animal.”

  “That will never happen,” I say flatly.

  “Either you underestimate the lengths I’ll go to, or you overestimate just how tough you are.”

  “You could torture me for a thousand days, Cormac, and I’d never let you humiliate me like that.”

  It’s the truth. Cormac knows it is, too. Fear enters his eyes, as though he’s realizing just how different we are.

  “Big talk,” he laughs uncomfortably. “Tell me what you said.”

  I sigh, as if telling him is my only option. “I told him to wage war on you, Cormac. I told him to make your life difficult.”

  What I obviously don’t tell him is that I ordered Egor to arrange my rescue, not that I see how he will, since I’m obviously being kept at either Cormac’s personal estate or one of his most secure safe houses.

  “Well, you succeeded,” Cormac sighs, laying his fork down. He obviously only brought the food in to bother me. And it does, truth be told. Seeing all that beautiful meat sitting there untouched pisses me off. I think about the feasts Mother used to cook me. “But it won’t last for long, not with Timofey on our side. And then I’ll kill you, Andrei.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Oh, not at first. I’ll let Jamie get along with her little project, whatever nonsense she has dreamed up this time. You know she once photographed ballerinas in filthy dock water or some shit? Anyway, once she’s done, I’ll kill you. I don’t care to use you for ransom.”

  “What does Rafferty have to say about that?” I interject.

  I know I’ve hit a sore point. Everybody knows that Cormac’s second-in-command is far more tactical and reasonable than him. “Rafferty isn’t in charge. I am.”

  “So you’re going to kill me,” I say, shrugging. “Why not do it now? I don’t see the need to wait.”

  “Don’t pretend you’re not scared of death.”

  “Scared?” I laugh loudly, rising to my feet. Cormac flinches. I feel the guards tensing up behind me. But then Cormac, smiling, wanting to pretend he’s always in control, waves a hand at them and they back off.

  “I have taken more lives than I can count, Cormac. Why should I be scared of going to the same place I sent them, eh?” I lean forward. Letter opener. I keep my eyes locked on his. “If you want to kill me, fucking get it over with.”

  Cormac smirks. “Oh I will, don’t worry,” he says.

  “Unless Rafferty makes you see sense,” I goad. “Unless you decide to keep me around just in case Egor proves too troublesome—and you’re forced to ransom me.”

  “Or maybe I just want to make a show of your execution,” he snarls. “Have all my men and their wives and their fucking kiddies watch big bad Andrei Bakhtin die. Get him out of my sight, lads. I’m done with him.”

  As they lead me back to the cell, I wonder if I should use the letter opener now. It’s jabbing painfully into my wrist and, twice, it almost falls out of the sleeve of the hoodie. But they’ve got the black bag over my head and a gun pressed to the small of my back. No matter how fast I am, no man is quicker than a bullet. No, I can’t use it now, but it will come in handy. I was right to palm it when I had him distracted.

  I’ll wait until the guards come to collect me again and then take one of them hostage. I’ll take his gun and torture the motherfucker until he gives me the code to the elevator, and then, once I’m armed and I have the code, I’ll kill every bastard in this house if that’s what it takes. I can do it, too. I’ve fought against the odds before. The hallway leading to my cell works as a perfect choke point. Like lambs to the goddamn slaughter, that’s how I’ll treat them.

  They unchain me and take the bag off my head, shoving me back with the butt of their rifles.

  “We’ll bring your feast over at dinnertime,” Jerry smirks. “What is it today? Ah, that’s it. Gruel with a side of fucking gruel.”

  I incline my head. “You’re too kind, Jerry. Thank you.”

  As soon as they leave, I walk across the room and press myself against the wall by the side of the door. I take out the letter opener and test its sharpness along my thumb. It doesn’t bite as much as I’d like, but with a bit of pressure, I draw a thin line of bright red blood.

  It will have to do.

  I test the distance between my spot and the door, taking a couple of practice swings. My body is sore from the shitty food and terrible sleep, but sore or not, I’ll still be able to bust out of here … or, at the very least, take a wagonload of Irishmen to hell with me.

  Waiting is a big part of this life. People who think it’s all gunfights and car chases and intimidation couldn’t be more wrong. Most of this life, just like police work, is about waiting: waiting for a business deal to begin, waiting for a contact to arrive, waiting for the right time to take another man’s life.

  I wait for hours, patiently. I’m primed to kill, ready to take what’s mine: my life, my freedom. Of course, a cautious man would wait for Egor to do his work, to cause so much of a nuisance of himself that Cormac is forced to ransom me for peace. But I am not going to willingly subject myself to these bastards for one moment longer than I have to.

  It’s kill or be killed.

  I try not to think about Timofey as I wait, but it’s difficult. I feel rage moving through me. That’s not good. To do this right, I need to be calm. But Timofey and I have worked so many jobs together. I never thought he’d betray me. Even if he had his problems—like the drugs—he was always a loyal man as far as I knew. Even if I wanted to make Egor my second, Timofey never gave me serious cause to doubt him.

  I remember the time, five years ago, when we walked into an Italian bar to collect a package. It was just the two of us, because back then we were getting along well with the Italians. But then they decided they wanted to take us hostage. There were at least twelve of them in that room, a dozen hardened killers. As I slid across the bar, smashing a glass over a pudgy man’s head and driving a knife into his throat, Timofey spun on the spot, pulling out his pistols.

  And we went to war.

  I picked up the Italian like he was a doll, using him as a human shield, feeling the thud of bullets in his lifeless body, the reverberation moving up my arm. Then I grabbed my pistol and took out three men in about two seconds, three quick shots, all of them hitting right between the eyes. Timofey was as quick as a viper, sprinting at an Italian and driving his pistol into his mouth. When he pulled the trigger, there was one hell of a mess.

  It has always been like that with me and my men. We might look civilized. We might look calm and in-control, but if any fool brings the beast out of us, it’s the last mistake he’ll make.

  And now he’s betrayed me. The man I once called brother.

  The only solace I have is that Egor is out there, and I know that he’d never betray me. Not only does Egor owe me a debt for how I helped rescue his sister from the traffickers, he’s always been willing to lay down his life for mine. When we were in our early twenties, we were hit by the Albanians during a gun deal. The first thing Egor did was throw himself in front of me, taking a shot in his Kevlar vest that crushed a rib.

  I pulled out my shotgun and pushed past him, shooting one man so heavily in the chest he went flying into the dockside water, turning it from algae-green to blood-red. When I ran out of shells from the pump-action shotgun, I grabbed the barrel—not caring that it was hot, burning my hands—and used it like a baseball bat, crushing a man’s skull.

  We are the Bratva.

  We are violent fucking killers.

  Don’t get on the wrong side of us.

  I need to calm down. Adrenaline is already coursing through me, pumping me up.

  Hours pass, but I don’t move. I’m like a spider on the web, completely still until it’s time to act. My patience knows no end. If it means making these Irish fucks pay, I’ll wait a hundred years.

  Then, finally, the door cracks open.

  The guard walks into the cell.

  And I leap forward.

  7
>
  Jamie

  I see it all happening as though in slow motion.

  Andrei leaps forward and tackles Garret to the ground, brings the knife to his throat—how did he get a knife?—and pins him with his arm. I almost let out a scream, but some instinct stops me.

  Shouldering my camera gear, I back against the wall, holding my breath. My heart thumps so loudly I can barely hear Andrei’s words.

  “I think it’s time you gave me that code,” he snarls. The gray hoodie he’s wearing is so tight I can see each well-defined outline of his muscles, the one on the back of his arm like a thick snake wrapping around from shoulder to elbow.

  “This is not a good idea,” Garret wheezes.

  I creep forward toward Garret’s gun, which he dropped when he fell. I move quietly. Andrei’s focus is completely locked on Garret.

  “Let me tell you what’s not a good idea, my friend,” Andrei snarls. “Locking up the boss of the Bakhtin Bratva and expecting to get away with it. Now, the code, or am I going to have to start chopping you into little pieces? You can stop right there, too, Jamie.”

  I freeze in place when he says my name. How did he even know I was here? He doesn’t turn, even when my hand is close to the gun. Calmly, keeping one hand on Garret, he reaches out and picks up the gun with his knife hand. His hands are so big, he’s able to hold both at the same time. They look like toys.

  “The code, or I’m going to have to do some very bad things.”

  He looks so beast-like right now; like my project come to life. I have to resist the urge to take out my camera.

  “You really expect me to believe you’re going to torture me, Andrei?” I breathe, my voice sounding hollow. “Even you aren’t that much of a monster.”

  “Are you sure you want to wager your life on that?”

  I walk around to the front of him, one hand inside my camera bag. “Do you really think I’d come here without a weapon? Let him go.”

  He eyes the bag. “You are not a good liar, printsessa.”