The Dance: Bratva Vows

by SR Jones

  This isn’t for me to hear, I know, and I am about to leave when his words stop me cold.

  “She’s here with me because it’s the only way to keep her safe. She is nothing to me. To be honest, she’s a burden, so if one of you wants her, feel free.”

  The men laugh.

  My heart sinks, but I tell myself I’m wrong, it’s not what it sounds like.

  “What does she look like?”

  “Hot. Great tits. Nice ass. Very fuckable. Best I’ve had in the sack. But she’s … clingy. Needy. I think she might be way more trouble than she’s worth. Plus … there’s the Allyov situation, and Andrius.”

  At the mention of Andrius’ name one of the men crosses himself. “What the fuck do they have to do with her?”

  “They are protecting her. Allyov gave her half a million, and Andrius has a special interest in her … safety.”

  “Shit. Well, thanks but no thanks, brother. You can keep her yourself.”

  Ilya chuckles. “Maybe I will, for now. I’ve always liked to live dangerously.” He takes a sip of his drink and turns to the ugliest of the three men. “So … shall we get down to business now?”

  They carry on talking as I tiptoe away from the door, my heart breaking.

  Because I’d gone and fallen for him, hadn’t I?

  In truth, I’d fallen for the idea that we could make something together, but how much of a fool am I? He never introduced me to anyone. No friends, or family, or … anybody, except for his staff. He kept me hidden here, and he brought me here against my will when it comes right down to it. The weird thing, the thing that hurts me the most is the fact when he described me, he never mentioned my hair, or my face, or anything that makes me … me. He simply talked about me like I was a piece of meat.

  Why lie to me, though? Why say he wanted to try? I’d have screwed his brains out anyway. Even if he wanted nothing more to do with me after my recovery was over. I’m so damn stupid. He’s a fucking mobster, of course he’d lie with ease to the naïve stripper. It’s probably a game to him. Lie to me. Twist me around his little finger in some sort of sick game. Or maybe … he started out thinking this could be something and over the last few days as I got used to it and comfortable with it, he grew uncomfortable. Got itchy feet. The thought is worse in a way than him lying outright, because instead of him being a total dick, he gave it a try but doesn’t like me.

  Once in my room, I pack as swiftly as I can. I don’t even have access to the money Allyov gave me yet, but I will be damned if I ask Ilya for anything. I’ve still got my looks, my youth, and my God-given talent, and they’ve worked for me before. They’ll have to work for me again.

  I push all the expensive things I can pack into one of Ilya’s overnight bags that I find in the closet in his room. The bags he bought me, the gorgeous clothes, I throw it all in. Then I go back to his room where his wallet is on the dresser.

  I open it and see a mix of pounds, dollars, and rubles. I take the lot. All of it. There’s at least a few hundred pounds here alone, never mind the rest of the currency. Screw him.

  Serves the fucker right, I think as a pang of guilt hits.

  I rush back to my room and pull on a fur coat he bought me, and which I refused to wear, but beggars can’t be choosers. I have no other coat right now, and it’s hardly warm out there. I tiptoe out the room and down the stairs.

  When I get to the front door, I pause, unsure if it is alarmed or not, and gingerly open it. I brace myself for the scream of an alarm, but it never comes. Ilya must have disabled it when those thugs came calling. With a sigh of relief, I open the door and step out into the cool air.

  It’s not quite fur coat weather, but it’s not warm either, and I figure I can sell the coat. I head in the direction of the drive, but stick to the sides in case anyone comes or goes.

  It takes me forever to eventually reach the edge of the property and the road. I must have been walking for well over thirty minutes, and I’m tired. I still don’t feel one hundred percent after my ordeal.

  Once on the road, I pick a direction and begin walking again. It’s not long before a car passes, then another. I decide I need to take a risk. It could be hours before I get anywhere otherwise. I stick my thumb out. Sure enough, a car stops.

  I peer in the window to see it is driven by an old man, who looks pretty harmless. Of course, looks can be deceiving, but in this instance, I decide to take the risk.

  He says something in Russian through the window he’s wound down, but I shrug and smile. “Sorry. I don’t speak Russian. English?” I ask.

  He smiles, showing four missing teeth. “English.” He shouts. “Ah, English. Yes, yes. Hello. You going to St Petersburg?”

  “Yes, please.” I pull out the few rubles I had stuffed straight into my coat pocket. “I can pay,” I say.

  “No, no money. Is okay, I go there anyway. Come, you get in.”

  He swings the passenger door open, and I clamber into the car.

  The journey is torture. All I want to do is cry, but instead I have to make halting conversation with my jocular savior.

  I’m grateful to arrive in St Petersburg, and I give him some money despite his protestations. Then I find myself a hotel for the night. It’s off the main square, and Ilya was right. This city is heartbreakingly beautiful. The buildings are astonishing. It must be an incredibly romantic place to wander with your lover. I stuff such thoughts down and try to be practical.

  Tomorrow, I’ll look for a job. There must be plenty of strip clubs here. I can start working and take my time considering where to head to longer term. Definitely somewhere south, I think. Maybe America, Hawaii perhaps.

  The room I rent for the night is small and musty, but it looks out on the most astonishing view of the river and the historic buildings of St Petersburg. Despite my broken heart and my tired body, I’m determined to explore some. I change into the navy wrap dress, and am about to put the boots on so I can go out and take a look around when a wave of extreme exhaustion washes over me. It’s so strong, I sway on my feet. Okay, maybe I’ll explore tomorrow.

  For now though, all I can bear to do is curl up on the bed and close my eyes to the pain of everything.

  “Open the fucking door.”

  I jerk awake, heart pounding and mouth dry.

  Raised voices outside my room have be scrabbling to sit. Shit, has Allyov come for me?

  “I’m trying, sir; if you’d stop shouting.” The woman answers in an accent that sounds French, not Russian.

  A key turns in the lock.

  Oh, shit.

  I jump from the bed and run to the bathroom, hiding behind the door in there. Knowing it is futile even as I do it.

  How did they find me? Is it Allyov come to shut me up because I left Ilya? Or is this those men Ilya offered me to?

  The door opens with a crash, and heavy footsteps fill the room.

  The bathroom light blinks on, and for a moment I’m blinded by its brightness. I flutter my eyes open and closed rapidly a few times, and when I focus, I see Ilya standing before me, his face like thunder.

  “Grab her bags, she’s here,” he snarls to someone in the other room.

  How did he find me?

  My mind is racing, but I don’t get a chance to ask because Ilya picks me up and carries me out of the room. Oh, God, is he going to give me to those men?

  I start to scream and kick my legs, and he curses and swears at me.

  “Shut the fuck up, Amanda. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  He marches me down the stairs, through the empty lobby, and into the street, where everyone ignores a big man carrying a crying, shaking woman.

  Ilya practically throws me into the back of the car he has idling outside the hotel and climbs in after me.

  “Let me go,” I demand, lunging for the door, but he grabs my wrists, holding me immobile against him.

  The driver’s door opens, and a big man unfurls from where he was lounging against the wall of the hotel and gets i
n, as the other man gets in the passenger side. The third man, who was in the hotel room, smirks at me through the window, and tips an imaginary hat at Ilya before walking off.

  Then we’re moving, and my chance at escape is gone.

  “I won’t go to them,” I scream at Ilya.

  He pulls my hands behind my back, both my wrists grasped in one of his big hands. His other hand tangles in my hair and pulls my head up, but gentle not hard. “Won’t go with who? Amanda, calm the fuck down. What are you talking about?”

  I start to cry, and he lets go of my hands to wipe away a tear, and I strike. I hit him so hard across the face it hurts my palm. My ring catches his cheek, and blood blooms in a stripe on his skin.

  He freezes, then pushes a button which raises a smoked glass partition between us and the two men upfront. Ilya grabs my wrists again and pulls me over his big, heavy thighs.

  What is he doing? I struggle and kick, but he is too strong. Once I’m over his knee, his sweeps his hand up my legs, pulling the material of the wrap dress I idiotically wore for my escape with him.

  Is he … is he going to try to have sex with me?

  I’m conflicted about the idea. I officially hate him now, but my traitorous body still wants him.

  My silk-panty clad behind is exposed to the cool air in the car, and I bite back a moan because this is some weird, inappropriate foreplay, and I’m not sure … ouch.

  Ilya smacks my behind, sharply and rhythmically.

  “Don’t fucking hit me,” he growls. “But more importantly.” Smack. “Do not run off without telling anyone where you are going.” Smack. “Do you realize how dangerous that is?” Smack.

  I’m panting through the sharp stings. He’s not hitting me that hard. Not really. Not like he could if he wanted to with his size and strength. It stings, and it burns, but it’s not going to do me any lasting harm. Still, it’s humiliating and painful enough to have me struggling to get away.

  “You were going to let those men use me,” I snarl at him as I try to turn over. He stops smacking me for a moment, to pin me with his heavy palm in the center of my back as if I am a butterfly, and his knee is the board.

  “What?”

  “Cut the innocent act; I heard you.”

  His hand lifts, only to come down on my backside again, harder now. “So, you heard something, got completely the wrong end of the stick, and ran.” Smack. “Don’t fucking run, Amanda. Talk to me.”

  “Stop smacking me,” I yell.

  He stops, and I smack him, my arm coming down on his thigh, making me cry out as I hit him at an odd angle and hurt my wrist.

  “God, you’re a brat.” He holds me still, easily, and I wait, my breath caught in my throat for what he’ll do now. “I was feeding those Polish street thugs a load of bullshit. They’re scared of me, but if they think you mean something to me it gives them leverage. In case they ever get any big ideas, I told them Andrius and Allyov were protecting you … which isn’t true. I told them I didn’t care about you … which also isn’t true.”

  I pause for a moment because he did say that about Allyov, didn’t he? And it isn’t true. Allyov has given me money, but I am hardly under his protection; in fact, if I go back to the UK, I’d be in trouble with him.

  “You didn’t stay, you didn’t give me a chance; you ran like the spoiled brat you are.” Smack. “If you’d stayed and talked to me, I would have explained to you my thinking. If they think you mean nothing to me, they’re less likely to target you. They think Andrius is protecting you, they’re even less likely to go near you.” He chuckles, dark and deep. “They think he’s the devil himself.”

  I remember the man crossing himself.

  “You didn’t talk to me, though, so you know none of this.” Smack.

  “Ow, fucking hell, Ilya stop.” I start to cry again.

  He does. And this time he lets me up. I scramble across the seat and pull my dress down. I’m panting as I stare at him.

  Holy shit, there’s a livid red mark across his upper cheek around the cut. Fuck, I did that. I hit him so hard I think it will maybe scar where my silver ring caught on the edge of his cheekbone.

  My ass is stinging, and I’m livid. I’m upset … and I’m also undeniably turned on.

  “My backside hurts,” I say.

  “It was nothing. I went easy on you, and you won’t even have a red mark by the time we get back to the house.” He touches his cheek with the back of his knuckle. “Unlike me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “I don’t care that you hit me,” he snarls. “I care that you ran away. You could have been killed.”

  “Are you gong to spank me every time I do something you disapprove of?” I ask.

  “No. Only if you run away again.”

  The air between us is charged, and I’m still breathing heavily, as is he.

  I can’t believe the next words out of my mouth.

  “What if … what if I want you to?”

  “Want me to what?”

  “Spank me again.”

  “Fuck, Amanda.”

  He pulls me onto him, yanking me over him, and his fingers are in my hair as he starts kissing me. We’re kissing one another so hard our teeth clack. I moan as his hands slip inside my panties to grab the flesh he so recently spanked.

  “You just have to ask.” He kisses my neck, my collarbone, as he speaks. “But you run away again, and I will turn your ass red, and you won’t enjoy it.”

  “No more running away,” I say.

  “Swear it,” he demands.

  “I swear it.”

  “You scared me.” I hear the desperation in his voice.

  Shit, when did this become so deep?

  He undoes his zip, and I groan as his fingers find their way between my folds. “Are you ready for me?” he asks.

  “Always,” I say. Because I am. Ilya gives damn good foreplay, but I don’t need it with him; certainly not right now.

  “Good.”

  He frees his cock and yanks my panties to one side before impaling me on him.

  “Oh, God,” I cry out. Shit, I hope the glass partition is soundproof.

  Ilya kisses me with ferocious hunger as he slams into me over and over again.

  It takes me only a few minutes before I am on the edge, and then I’m falling, falling, falling. I cry and moan, and shake as I come and come undone.

  He comes too, filling me with his heat and his words as he whispers in my ear that he loves me.

  When we both float down to reality, I realize my cheeks are wet. Soaked with tears.

  Ilya helps me back to my side of the car seat and pulls the skirt of my dress down, covering my legs. My thighs are a sticky mess, my cheeks are damp from my tears, and my heart is ripped to shreds.

  “You really only said those things to those men to keep me safe?” My voice is small, but he sounded so cold when I heard him, I’m finding it hard to believe, even after he came for me.

  “Yes, I did. Those men are not good, but I sometimes have to use them for … certain jobs. They also had no idea how much I loved my wife. I married her, of course, but here in Russia that doesn’t always mean so much. It’s … how do you say … macho, yes?” I nod. He smiles at getting it right. “Yes, macho. Russian culture is very masculine. I pretend people don’t mean all that much to me, and it means those people aren’t targets. Of course, my wife was safe to a degree anyway because we have an unspoken rule here amongst our kind—no wives, no kids. That rule does not extend to mistresses, girlfriends, and the like.”

  I swallow. Does he see me as his mistress?

  “I suppose…” He turns to me, and there is a gleam in his eyes. “Another way to keep you safe would be for us to get married. You become my wife, and you’re de-facto off limits.”

  My heart thumps out of time as I consider his words. Trying to make light of it, I joke. “So, if you marry me does that mean you won’t talk trash about me to men who work with you?”

  He s
ighs. “Sadly not. I will still act as if you’re not all that important. A man in this game should never, ever, give away what is in his heart. You and I will know, and no one else. Perhaps Allyov because he’s perceptive, and he already knows you mean a lot to me, but he’s not a danger to us. Not in the way the thugs who do my dirty work are.”

  “You said Allyov would kill me,” I snort.

  “Yes, if you go back to the UK to live. You stay here with me, and he is of no danger to us at all. He’s high up, a boss, like me. Bosses don’t go around taking out other bosses loved ones. The danger always comes from the streets, from those with little to lose themselves.”

  I nod, understanding what he’s saying.

  “Those men today, they have no wives, they have no loved ones, and they have no power. It might be worth it to them to risk it all and do something crazy if they think it will bring those things. Allyov already has those things and more; we equally have something to lose.”

  “Why don’t you stop dealing with those thugs? Go legit? You say you are almost there, why not go the final step?” I ask him. I hate the idea of him dealing with men like those I saw today. Dangerous, feral men.

  “There is no completely legit in my world,” he says sadly. “Trust me, the organized crime runs deep into our society, into all societies. Most ordinary people simply don’t know. This way, I keep control and keep on top. I had another, ulterior motive for saying those things to those men today.”

  “Oh?”

  “They don’t only do unpleasant tasks for me, but for others like me. I thought if word got around you were a nobody, I thought they would leave you alone too. I didn’t think us getting married would be on the cards for a while. I thought you’d freak out at the idea.”

  Oh, he’s right. It’s too soon. I am falling for him, head over heels, but marriage? Not yet.