by Nicole Fox
She turns, smiling when she spots me. But she doesn’t respond when I raise my glass. Instead, she wanders over to a quiet corner, studying the photos. I follow, sensing that she’s playing some kind of game.
“Oh hello,” she says, glancing at me. “I don’t think we’ve met?”
I grin. It’s just like the first time we met. Back when I pretended not to know she was the photographer. Our banter was easy. The chemistry was instant.
“No, I think I’d remember,” I agree. “I’m Andrei Bakhtin, and you are?”
She giggles. “I’m sorry—and no offense—but you look like a big scary thug. I don’t think I want to give you my name.”
“Oh, I’m more than a thug,” I admit. I move closer to her. Lean in. I whisper, in a voice just for her, “I dress in fine clothes and I know how to behave in public. But once the door closes, I’ll take what I want from you … and give you everything you need in return.”
She gnaws at her lower lip. “Are you seriously doing this here?” she says breathily.
“I am.” I touch her bare forearm. Her skin is hot. She’s on fire. “And so are you, Jamie. Are you going to walk upstairs with me,” I ask, “or am I going to drag you?”
Her cheeks redden and her eyes get wide. I can read her so well now. It’s the spark in the look she gives me that tells me. She wants this badly.
“It has to be quick,” she whispers.
“I can’t promise that, printsessa.”
“Oh fuck,” she murmurs. “Call me that again, Beast.”
“Printsessa.” I take her hand and lead her to the side door. “Follow me.”
She moans quietly as I lead her up the stairs to the office. As soon as the door closes behind us, we’re all over each other. There’s no delay. I grab her and lift her off her feet. Placing her down on the desk, she lets out a tantalizing breath and wraps her legs around me.
“Oh Jesus,” she gasps between our passionate kisses. “I need you, Andrei. You don’t know how bad.”
She paws at my manhood, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping my pants. It springs free, already rock-hard for her. In truth, I was hard the second I laid eyes on her.
Even after all these years together, she has that effect on me. She was worried having Benny was going to lessen my desire for her. But that’s impossible. It just makes me want her more.
I tug her pants down, tossing them into the corner of her room. Her panties come off just as quickly and then I bring my cock to her pussy. I slide in quickly, eagerly.
She angles her hips towards me, beckoning me. I plunge myself inside of her. The close, wet heat of her sex almost makes me come right away. Driving up inside of Jamie feels like coming home, always.
I bury myself to the hilt, pausing for a moment. Her teeth tease at my bottom lip. She lets out strangled moaning noises. She whimpers, “Fuck me hard. Fuck me until we both come. I want us to finish together.”
“Always,” I say. “We will always be together.”
I lift her off the desk so that nobody else can hear us. Then, bracing her back, I drill myself into her. We melt into a tangled, gasping fight of lust.
She tears her hands down my back, gouging my suit jacket. I feel the sweat making her shirt damp. I palm her tight ass. I make her flesh red with my lust.
Suddenly, she brings her hands to my face. She grabs on firmly. Urgently. She locks eyes with me.
Time slows down when we make love just like it does in a gunfight. And the fireworks are just as loud. Only, here, there’s pleasure instead of pain.
We stop completely. Her lips are parted slightly. She’s smiling through her pleasure. Tears prick her eyes.
“What is it?”
The last time I remember her crying like this was when I woke up in the hospital and she was at my bedside. She has that same lost look in her eyes for a moment. “I’m pregnant again, Andrei.”
A massive smile breaks out across my face immediately. “Then these better be happy tears,” I warn, kissing them away.
“They are—now,” she whispers, voice catching in our shared pleasure. “I was so nervous about telling you.”
I kiss her harder, make love to her harder. “I’m the happiest man in the world. This just makes me happier.”
“You don’t care that it’s an accident?”
“Hush,” I tell her, pulling her closer. I drive deep, right to the base, filling her completely. “And come for me, Jamie. I want to hear your pleasure.” I slide out, and then back in with incredible force. “Now.”
“Ah!” she moans, biting down. “Oh fuck—how do you that … how do you make me … Ah! Andrei! Fuck!”
I feel her pussy clamping me like a fist as she comes. My own release comes within seconds. I bury my face in her hair to stop myself from shouting and bringing the walls down all around us. My cock pulses.
Everything is hot and close.
Then we both collapse into each other. Jamie slides to the floor, pressing herself against me. I hold her close to me. We spend a long time like that, as our breathing slows. “Jesus, Jamie,” I say, breaking the silence. “You really picked the best time to break the news, didn’t you?”
She jabs me playfully. “I didn’t plan on telling you now,” she says. “It just seemed like a good idea, suddenly.”
I slide my hand down her body. Put it on her belly. Feel the warmth there, the new life.
“Benny is going to be so happy.” I smile. I feel delirious, the happiest man alive. “A little brother or sister.”
“I know,” she grins. She stands on her tiptoes, pecking me on the cheek. “But we really should get back downstairs now—”
Somebody knocks on the door.
“Shit,” she whispers. “Too late!”
“Jamie, it’s me!” Molly calls. “I have a suspicious feeling that this is going to be a reverse of the time you walked in on me and Egor. So you know what I’m doing?” She knocks again. “That’s right! Knocking, like a kind, courteous friend does! People want to talk to the photographer!”
Jamie laughs as she calls out, “We’ll be down in a sec. And that wasn’t my fault, FYI! It was a surprise ladies’ night.”
We meet eyes. We smile. Then she places her hand on my face.
“You’re really pleased?” she asks.
I wrap my arms around her and lift her off her feet, kissing her intensely, passionately. “I’m more than pleased,” I whisper in her ear. “I’m the luckiest goddamn man alive.”
“And I’m the luckiest woman,” she moans. “So we make quite the pair, huh?”
“Just no more revelations during sex, deal?” I tease, a callback to our old inside joke.
She hops down from my arms, slapping me on the chest. “Deal.”
Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Book One)
Sneak Preview
My baby’s father wants me dead.
I didn’t ask to carry a mobster’s baby.
But he never gave me a choice.
The man who gave me my son stole my innocence in return.
And now, his Bratva brother is coming to finish what he started.
Viktor Kornilov is a cold-blooded beast.
His name alone makes my blood run cold.
But his cruel touch makes my heart beat faster and faster.
We’re trapped in a high-stakes game of lies and violence.
One wrong move, and he’ll take my son away.
So when he gives me his sinful offer
—become his fake wife or become his latest victim—
The only answer I can give is yes.
Viktor
The neon signs from the store window wash my dashboard in red light. When I look over at the entrance, I see the husk of a beer can lying discarded on the steps. Most of the other stores on Bundt Street have closed for the night. But the liquor store is still open. The owner has been glancing out at me once every thirty seconds. My windows are too tinted for him to see inside, but I can see him. He looks nervou
s.
My phone is pressed to my ear, waiting for Fedor to continue.
“I only have another couple minutes,” Fedor says, his voice growing quiet as he turns away from the phone. He’s probably looking to see where the guards are. Maybe the guy in line behind him is bugging him to get off the phone so he can get a chance. Phone time in prison is a precious commodity. “I tried to get someone else’s phone time this week, but no dice. Even the guys who don’t give a shit about their kids are trying to call them up for the holidays. Christmas turns everyone into a fucking saint, apparently.”
“I have to go anyway,” I say, looking up as the only customer who’d been lingering in the store exits. He’s a big man with a dusty pair of overalls on, probably a construction worker. He tosses his six-pack into the passenger seat of his lifted truck and rumbles out of the nearly empty parking lot. The only cars left are mine and the owner’s.
“What’s on your schedule tonight?” Fedor asks. Then, he sighs before I can answer. “God, I miss going out with you. Beating people down. Taking what’s ours. We fucking ruled the streets.”
More accurately, I ruled the streets. Fedor mostly got himself arrested. Time and time again.
My rap sheet is almost spotless, except for a small bar fight I got into when I was seventeen. The police nabbed me for public intoxication, battery, and possession of alcohol as a minor. I spent a few weeks in juvie. That was more than enough lock-up time for me. Since then, I’ve steered clear of obvious shows of criminal activity. But Fedor didn’t learn from his older brother’s mistakes.
“How do you know I’m working?” I ask.
He snorts. “You’re always working.”
Fair enough. “I just have to deal with someone who wronged me.”
“There are plenty of people like that. Who is it?”
“No one you know,” I say.
I hear a guard in the back shout that his time is almost up, and Fedor growls. “I’m missing everything in here. When are you going to get me the fuck out?”
Our conversations always go like this. Fedor wants me to tell him what I’m doing, but when I do, he starts to miss the lifestyle he had and then gets angry that he’s locked up and wants me to break him out. When I try to spare his feelings and don’t tell him what’s going on in the Bratva, he gets angry because he’s missing it and still wants me to break him out. No matter what, the conversation ends with him wanting me to save him.
Like I always have.
“Kent is trying to get the charges lowered from second-degree murder to involuntary manslaughter,” I explain for what feels like the hundredth time. “If he can, then you’ll be out a lot sooner, especially if you don’t cause any trouble. But we don’t know yet.”
“Pay someone off,” he says, loud and clear into the phone. “You control this entire city. Open up your wallet and help your baby brother.”
The suggestion that he’s in prison because I’m not generous enough makes me grip the phone even tighter, my knuckles going white. I take a deep breath. “We’re going to get you out the right way.”
I emphasize the last two words heavily, trying to remind Fedor that our conversation is being monitored. I’ve explained to him too many times to count that we can’t talk business on this line, but he doesn’t care.
“Fuck that!” Fedor yells. I’m sure he would have said more, but before he can, the line goes dead and the call is over.
I slide my cell phone into my pocket and lean back against the headrest.
Fedor has always been impulsive and reckless. He has the charm of our mother with the impulse control of our father, which is a deadly combination. Fedor can draw you in, make you love him, and then he detonates a bomb in your face. He threatens to ruin your entire life, but as soon as you get mad at him, he says something to remind you of all the good times, the better times. He looks at you like you’re his only hope, and you can’t help but help him.
At least, I can’t.
Ever since our mom died, I’ve looked out for my brother. Dad was too busy running the Bratva and killing people to come home to his kids, so I cooked and got Fedor dressed and gave him baths. Now, I’m twenty-eight and running the Bratva my father left behind, while still taking care of my twenty-five-year-old brother as though he’s five. Because in my eyes, he will always be five.
Five and crying next to our mother’s open casket.
The mortician put her in an uncharacteristic long-sleeved dress to hide the track marks on her arms. She looked thinner, but I hadn’t seen her in almost two months. Dad had put her in a rehab facility, trying to clean her up enough so that she could take care of us, but as soon as she got out, she bought from a sleazy street dealer who, unlike my father’s dealers, hadn’t been instructed not to sell to her. The drug was laced with a synthetic she didn’t know about, and she died in an alleyway.
I shake off the memory, pat my hip for the feel of my Glock, and pull my hood up. Fedor isn’t five anymore. He isn’t a helpless little kid. He’s a grown man, and I can’t clean up his messes forever. But I can for a little bit longer.
I get out of the car and keep my face tilted downward as I walk up to the liquor store entrance. I stay that way as the bell above my head rings to announce my presence.
“Hey there,” the owner says, greeting me in a gruff voice.
I tip my head without looking at him and head to the back wall of refrigerators, pretending to scan the shelves of cheap beer. I stay there for no more than a minute, just long enough to register how many cameras are in the store. By the looks of them and the rest of the shabby shop, it’s a self-monitored security system. It won’t be hard to erase the footage of my visit.
When I’m ready to do what I came to do, I shove my hands deep into my hoodie pockets and shuffle back towards the door with my head still down.
“Nothing for you today?” the owner asks.
I don’t respond, lowering my head even further, and just like I hoped, he comes out from behind the counter and meets me at the door. His hand lands on my shoulder, jerking me back.
“I’m talking to you,” he growls in the voice he has no doubt scared countless teenagers with. Liquor store owners have to be tough. They have to be ready to confront shoplifters and underage thieves.
But even all of that experience hasn’t prepared him for the likes of me.
“No,” I say, pulling the gun from my hip and pressing it into his side. “I’m talking to you.”
The owner is middle-aged with a gut made rotund by beer and pretzels, but he still feels the pressure in his side. Confusion flickers across his face, followed by realization and then horror. His eyes go wide, and his face pales. He lifts his hands.
“On your stomach,” I order.
He drops to the floor in a second. I keep my eyes on him as I walk backwards towards the door and flip the switch to turn off the neon “OPEN” sign, then slide the deadbolt into place.
“Crawl between the aisles,” I say, walking towards him, gesturing with my gun for him to get out of view of the door.
As he scoots backwards on his stomach, I flip the light switches next to the counter until only the light in the far back of the store is left flickering.
“The cash register is full,” he babbles. “Take it. Take it all.”
I turn my head to the side, studying him. “Generous, but no thank you.”
He glances up at me, brow furrowed. Something about my expression must unnerve him because he looks back down, his nose touching the dirty tile floor. “Then what do you want?”
“I know who you are.” I pause, letting the words sit between us. “George McDougall.”
He flinches when I say his name, realizing my vendetta is personal. This isn’t about money; it’s about revenge.
“Who are you?” he asks.
I drop to one knee in front of him, my gun arm resting across my leg, the barrel pointed at his head. “I think you already know.”
He shakes his head, still looking do
wn at the floor, but I can tell by the lowering of his shoulders that he knows exactly who I am. The nervous glancing out the front window before I even walked inside confirmed that he was nervous. He had every right to be.
“It’s been weeks,” he says in a near-whisper.
“Yeah, well, without my brother around to help out, I’ve been a little behind. Trust me, I would have come here sooner if I could have.”
“Damien was my friend,” George says. “I had to do what I could to make sure he got justice.”
“My brother delivered his justice.”
George glances up at me, and I feel the urge to look away. We both know that isn’t true. Still, I hold his gaze, narrowing my eyes until he looks away. George is a brave man, but he’s smart, too. He knows I hold his life in my hands right now.
He had to be brave to take the stand he did against the Kornilov Bratva. Anyone who has even considered it in the past received a visit from some of our enforcers. They all changed their minds pretty quickly. The only reason George slipped through the cracks was because the prosecution kept his identity anonymous until the very last minute. We didn’t know he’d take the stand until he was being sworn in. By then, it was too late to do anything about it.
I’m angry with George for putting my brother in jail, but completely separate from that, he made me look weak. It was under my leadership that a witness finally dared to come forward and testify. No one would ever have considered doing such a thing when my father was in charge. That’s part of the reason I’m holding a gun to his head.
The other reason is that the most important and difficult tasks should always be handled by the leader. My father would disagree—he disagreed with me on many different points—but I learned a lot from watching him lead. He delegated everything, sending his men around the city to do his business. They feared him, but they didn’t respect him. I want their fear and their respect alike.
If I’m not willing to get my hands dirty, then how can I ask anyone else to do it for me? So, in this matter that intimately involves my brother, I want to be the one to pull the trigger. I want to show my men that I’m not above them, but with them. For my Bratva. For my family.
