Andrei: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bakhtin Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  “Anyway,” she goes on, “the project is going well. I was right, you know. Photographing you next to domestic stuff, the contrast of The Beast and the kitchen, it works great. I just need to keep bringing in more props and I think we’ll have something.”

  I move my thumb over her lips, loving the texture. “I’m still confused about the mop,” I confess. “I must be a philistine, Jamie, because I don’t see the beauty in a big bastard like me wearing a mask and holding a mop.”

  She grabs my hand. I close my fist, holding her fingers as she kisses my knuckles, one by one, speaking between the kisses, “Like I said, it’s about the contrast. But I think the mop might’ve been going a little over the top. It’s all about trial and error. Are you really telling me you don’t have one creative bone in your body, Andrei?”

  I shrug. “Martial arts, perhaps. There’s a certain creativity in finding a unique way to pick a man apart when he has erected a clever defense around himself.”

  “Which martial art?” she asks, looking at me wide-eyed, cute as hell. I can tell she’s horny. And, what’s more, she knows I can tell. But, when we meet eyes, we silently agree to wait for a little while. This is how it’s become with us: silent chemistry.

  “Kickboxing, wrestling, and Brazilian jiujitsu,” I tell her. “That was why I almost felt bad for Jerry when he rushed me in the garden. An untrained opponent, especially one who’s clearly overexcited, is so easy to deal with, it’s pathetic.”

  “Even if your arms tied behind your back? A bag over your head?”

  I nod. “I still had two good limbs. I still had my shoulders. I still had my ears.”

  “Why did you start martial arts?” she asks.

  “My—ah—I suppose you would call him my adopted father, Osip. He enrolled me the day of—” The day of the fire, I’d almost said. “The day he adopted me. I have been training since I was ten years old.”

  “I hope your body is registered as a deadly weapon,” she teases.

  “It is,” I tell her seriously. And then, grinning, I tickle her ribs, the place that makes her glare and scowl at me. “So you better be careful, Irishwoman.”

  She rolls over on the bed, perching on top of me, and then grabs my arms and makes to pin them. “I’m too strong for you!” she declares.

  “Oh yeah,” I laugh, letting her ‘pin’ them against the bed. “I’m helpless.”

  Always, at moments like these, it’s like I’m waking up. Returning to myself. One second, I’m enjoying the moment. The next, I realize what we’re doing. I’m one of the fiercest killers in the city. I’m a Bratva boss. And here I am, flirting like a naïve boy. Like a boy who didn’t watch his parents burn to death and learn then to be hard.

  As usual, Jamie senses the change in me. Her expression shifts. Silently, she slides off. I sense that she’s upset with me. For a moment, I think about telling her that I’m sorry. But even the urge to apologize makes me angry. And yet, I find myself moving my hand through her hair in the way she likes. I suppose that is its own kind of apology.

  She looks up at me with her gorgeous, conflicted eyes. “What the hell are we doing?” she asks. This is how we have been this entire week. Constantly moving between wanting each other and laughing at the absurdity of it.

  “I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer.

  She links her hand with mine. We stay like that for a long time, just holding hands. We don’t say anything else. Because, if we talk, we have to address just how fucked up and confusing this really is.

  And neither one of us knows where to even begin with that.

  The next day, I’m working out like a man possessed when the door opens. I expect it to be Jamie or Garret. Sometimes, Garret will bring me some Russian food and we’ll pass the time together, talking. Garret hated me to begin with, I know. But ever since the garden, when I defended Jamie, he has shown me more respect. I think we share a protective urge for Jamie. Even if his is markedly less conflicting than mine.

  But it’s neither Jamie nor Garret. It’s Cormac and Rafferty, with Jerry standing behind them. The guard looks pissed off, probably still stewing about the beating I gave him in the garden. But nothing has been said about that since. I’m guessing that nobody told Cormac. Probably that insect Declan was too ashamed. As he fucking should be.

  Cormac, as usual, is cigar-chewing like his life depends on it. “Andrei!” He smiles. I almost laugh when Ronan walks in, awkwardly carrying a plush stool. He sits, puffing smoke. “Lovely morning, isn’t it? Not that you would know, of course. You are looking pale, my friend. You should get more sun.”

  I just stare at him. He looks around, annoyed that nobody’s laughing. When Jerry finally gets the hint and laughs, he grins in victory. Even if a deaf man could tell the laugh is fake.

  “Well?” Cormac snarls. “Nothing to say, Russian? You’re normally so damn talkative and cocky. Or is being my prisoner finally getting to you, eh? Can’t take the shame of it, I’ll wager.” He looks knowingly at Rafferty. “These Russians, my friend, they’re not made of the same sturdy stuff as us. Fucking cowards.”

  Rafferty feigns a grin. But I can tell he has no taste for this gloating. Cormac is oblivious to the fact that Rafferty and Jerry are humoring him.

  Idiot.

  Cormac huffs. “Don’t you want to know why we’re here?” he snaps, clearly annoyed at my reticence.

  “To gloat, I assume?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing!” he beams. He puffs out so much smoke, his face is hidden for a moment. “What man could resist the urge to gloat, when he’s beating you so damn badly? That video we forced you to make, it worked like a charm. For over a week now, your little cowardly friend … What’s his name?”

  “Egor,” Rafferty offers.

  “Yes! That skinny fuck. He’s been as quiet as the grave.”

  I hide my smile. That means that my plan worked. Either that, or Egor’s dead. But, no. If that was the case, Cormac would be gloating about that instead. Egor got the message. The game is on.

  “Ah,” I answer noncommittally.

  “You have one hell of a poker face, Andrei, I’ll give you that.” Cormac grins. “But let me tell you something that’ll really put some chill in your fucking bones: I was talking to Jamie, and she told me her project is going very, very well. You know what that means? Soon, it’ll be time to put you down like the rabid mutt you are. It’s all worked out great, really, because I never even planned to buy you.”

  He rubs his hands together, cigar clutched in his grinning teeth. “Now? I’ll use you to force your rat men to back down. I’ll make my daughter happy by helping with her little project. And I’ll get to execute Andrei Bakhtin in front of my loyal Irishmen, proving just how strong the O’Gallagher Family is. Even you have to admit that’s one hell of a play.”

  I could tell him that, if he executes me, Egor won’t stop until Cormac’s in the ground. I could tell him he’s an arrogant fool. But what’s the point? He thinks he holds all the cards. Let him. That will just make him all the more surprised when I attack.

  “You are an impressive man, Cormac,” I say drily. “It’s no wonder you inspire such fear.”

  He narrows his eyes stupidly. He’s trying to figure out if I’m mocking him. His self-belief is so absurdly high that part of him thinks I could be actually complimenting him right now. He really is a fucking fool. I look forward to snapping his neck.

  Clearly not satisfied that he’s gotten the rise out of me he wants, he twists the knife. “Of course, it’s a shame that we’ve had to keep up our side of the war, isn’t it?”

  My blood turns cold. “What do you mean?”

  His eyes widen a fraction. Like a desperate hyena, he has sensed a chance at blood. He’s pathetic. “Well, Andrei, you understand that the city must see us as strong. Just because your man is a coward, it doesn’t mean we can be seen to be.”

  “No,” I say. “You just are.”

  “Careful,” Cormac whispers dark
ly. “Pet project or not, I could put a bullet in your head right here, and nobody would care.”

  “Me least of all,” I inform him. “How many times do I have to tell you bastards that I’m not scared of dying?” I look at Rafferty. “Are you okay with this, attacking Russians when we’re no longer attacking you?”

  The chubby man flinches. I can tell he’s not. “It’s Cormac who’s driving it.”

  “You’re talking to me,” Cormac interrupts. “This isn’t his decision.”

  No, because if it was, Rafferty would see sense. Egor is smart. Cold. Calculating. He knows that not retaliating even as Cormac keeps up his attacks will only make our lie more believable. But it must be difficult for him to stand by and watch. My respect for him surges.

  I’m counting the days until Russia Day, when Egor will make his rescue attempt. I force a smile to my face. “Is there anything else you would like to discuss?”

  Cormac shoots to his feet. Maybe he expects to make me back down. I just stay where I am, leaning against the wall. He stops a few inches from me. His cigar is almost falling from his mouth, his lips are trembling so much. Behind him, Jerry has his gun raised, just in case I try something. Even Rafferty has his hand near his hip.

  “I’m going to give you to Declan for the execution,” he snarls. “Eh? What’d you think about that? I’m sure you’ve heard just how ruthless Declan Walsh is. He’s going to make you scream and beg, Bakhtin. You don’t believe me. I can see that. None of you ever do, but, once Declan’s through, you’ll fucking see.”

  I look over Cormac’s head. Smiling good-naturedly at Rafferty, I say, “You must be so proud of the way your employer talks about your son.”

  Rafferty bites down. It’s the first sign of anger I’ve ever seen in him. But, unless I’m imagining it, the anger seems to be directed at Cormac. Reading people is not an exact art. Often, meaning is misplaced. But I’m almost certain that Rafferty resents Cormac for encouraging Declan’s more sadistic tendencies.

  Cormac steps back, laughing it off. “’Course he is. That’s called respect, Russian, nothing you Slav fucks would know anything about.”

  They leave. Cormac stops to give me one final look. I suppose it’s meant to be intimidating. But he just looks ridiculous.

  When they’re gone, I try to continue my workout. But I’m distracted by what he told me. Assuming he’s not lying, that means that Russian lives are being endangered and Egor is powerless to respond.

  Because of me.

  Also, how the fuck can I continue this so-called relationship with Jamie? We’re acting like fools. Being with her is just the same as building a snowman on Christmas morning and then standing there, dumbly, as my childhood home burns down. Pathetic.

  Her father is killing my people. Her father is going to torture and execute me. Or at least arrange it. And most likely watch, smoking one of his cigars, grinning like a gargoyle.

  It just brings home how misguided this is. How doomed for failure. The whole thing has been a mistake. I’ve let myself be pulled in by her. I’ve let our cold banter graduate to genuine closeness. I have to kill it. Just like I killed the boy inside of me all those years ago.

  One day soon, it will be time to escape. To take my vengeance on the O’Gallagher family.

  And the Irish princess will suffer the same fate as the rest of her clan.

  I shadowbox, slipping left to right, loosing sharp exhales with each jab. I just wish it was that easy to push her from my mind. I just wish I could kill any embers of feelings I have for her before they ignite. Lust is one thing, but emotional desire? That is death. I have to remember that.

  Fuck, I feel conflicted. I hate that feeling. To be effective in this life, a man has to be certain. And now? The only thing I’m certain of is how conflicted I am about Jamie O’Gallagher.

  But, as I box imaginary enemies, I make a resolution to be cold. To pull away from her.

  Much later, the door opens again. I’m sitting in what passes for my living room. Leaning against the wall, I’m lost in thought, brooding. About the Irish, about Egor, about making myself cold like I need to be. But when I see Jamie, I feel my resolution waver.

  She cocks her head at me, smirking. She wears a familiar expression. Like we’re friends, or more than friends. Which is the truth. This past week, we’ve grown dangerously close. Now, I just stay where I am, distant.

  “Having fun there?” she sasses, standing over me. In her signature yoga pants and hoodie, she looks devastatingly beautiful. Somehow, I keep my resolve firm. “Andrei? You know you’re acting really weird right now, don’t you?”

  “Did you bring your camera?” I grunt.

  She flinches at my tone. “Yes …”

  “Shall we get on with it, then?”

  “What?” she giggles. Maybe she thinks this is a joke. “No kiss hello?”

  “Kiss hello?” I repeat, looking sternly up at her. The shock in her face almost makes me climb to my feet. Part of me wants to pull her into my arms. But, instead, I say, “That would not be appropriate, would it, Jamie? I’m just your subject.”

  “What happened?” she asks. “Last night, I leave, and we’re—we’re good, you know, and now? What the hell happened?”

  I climb to my feet slowly. Pushing past her, I walk to the couch and drop down. Even that quick, brushing contact causes a stirring in me. Perhaps it’s the effort of holding myself back, but I want her now more than ever. To crush our lips together, to feel her heart pounding through her chest. To kiss her, bite her, lick her, and take her. Over and over.

  Stay strong.

  “Andrei …” She hovers near the edge of the couch. She glares and smiles at the same time, which is a just-Jamie expression. Her anger and our chemistry combining.

  “How about this?” she says after a pause. “You tell me what’s climbed up your ass and I’ll agree not to ride you too hard later. Deal?”

  She tries for a smile. Our inside joke: deal. It has been the culprit behind all kinds of crazy agreements this week.

  I’ll make us dinner if you let me choose dessert, deal? And the dessert was our bodies, naked, sweaty.

  For every five spanks I give you, I will make you come harder than you ever have before, deal? And I stayed true to my promise. Three orgasms and fifteen spanks later, her skin was red and her sex soaked.

  You tell me one fact about you I don’t know, and I’ll do the same, deal? We did, me learning about her time at college studying photography, and Jamie learning the contours of my ruthless rise as Bratva boss.

  “Okay, seriously?” she hisses. “Are you actually going to just sit there like a weirdo and not even tell me what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that this whole thing is a fucking joke.”

  “What is? Us?”

  “There is no us!” I bark. I leap to my feet, even though I didn’t plan to. Confused anger consumes me. “Whatever you think is happening here, Jamie, you’re wrong.”

  “Whatever I think has been happening?” she repeats. I sense her behind me. But I don’t turn. I can feel her heat, though. Her closeness. It would be the easiest thing in the world to turn around and close this gap between us. But I don’t. “I’m pretty sure we’ve both been …”

  Falling for each other?

  Fueling this connection?

  “Doing our part,” she finishes, sighing. “That came out wrong, but you know what I mean. It takes two to tango, Andrei.”

  “A mistake,” I say. “This whole thing has been a mistake.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  I can’t answer. I open my mouth, but the words won’t form.

  Instead, somehow, I find myself telling her about the night my parents died. It’s like the words just come pouring out of me. I don’t know what compels me. It’s some dark instinct, letting her know how fucked-up I truly I am. How important it is that I remain ice-cold. How crucial it is to keep her away from me.

  “… And I just stood there,” I sa
y. “Until I collapsed. I was so fucking unprepared for just how cruel life can be that I passed out. I only woke up when Osip, my adopted father, came by the house for Christmas morning and found me. I was weak. And it cost my parents’ lives.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. I don’t pull away. But I don’t turn to face her, either.

  “Jesus, Andrei,” she whispers. “That’s terrible. But you were a kid. What were you supposed to do?”

  “Call the fire department. Call Osip. Go into the house to see if I could help them.”

  “But you were a kid.”

  “It doesn’t matter!” I explode, walking away from her. Still, I don’t look at her. I’m worried that if I do, the urge to hold her, or to let her hold me, will be too strong. “Osip told me to kill the boy inside of me. And I listened. Until …”

  Until I met you.

  “Until what?” she urges.

  “Nothing,” I growl. “But that’s it, Jamie. You should go.” We both know she could tell me she can stay as long as she likes. We both know there is nothing I could do to stop her. But, instead, she picks up her camera bag and makes for the door.

  “You were a child, Andrei,” she says again. When I turn, I see that now, she’s the one facing away. There’s a crack in her voice. I wonder if she’s holding back tears. “It’s not the same, what you felt then and whatever you might be feeling now. It’s just not the same.”

  “It’s weakness,” I say firmly. “The same thing, in different forms.”

  “That’s like me blaming myself for what happened with Declan. There were plenty of chances to walk away. But I didn’t. Because I was a kid. I was naïve. So, what, Andrei, should I blame myself?”

  “Of course not.”

  “There you go, then.”

  “But they’re not the same thing,” I tell her. “You didn’t get anybody killed.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” she whispers. Sighing, she pushes the door open and leaves. A second later, I hear the beep of the door locking electronically, reminding me that I’m a prisoner.