by Warren, Rie
THE RUSSIAN THUG
Abducted by the Bratva ~Krasnov Brothers Book 1~
Rie Warren
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Russian Thug
Copyright © 2020 by Rie Warren
Excerpt from Cry Mercy copyright © 2019 by Rie Warren
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations.
https://www.riewarren.com
Warren, Rie.
The Russian Thug / Rie Warren – 1st ed
1.Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Alpha Male—Fiction. 3. Crime Fiction—Fiction. 4. Abduction Seduction—Fiction. 5. Suspense—Fiction. 6. Thriller—Fiction. 7. Mystery, Thriller, & Suspense—Fiction. 8. Romantic Suspense—Fiction. 9. Dominant Male Romance Possessive—Fiction. 10. Enemies to Lovers Romance Kindle Unlimited—Fiction 11. Organized Crime—Fiction 12. Heist—Fiction 13. Action & Adventure—Fiction 14. Possessive Alpha Male Romance—Fiction 15. Dark Bratva Romance—Fiction 16. Mafia Romance—Fiction 17. Possessive Bratva Romance—Fiction. 18. Dark Romance Enemy—Fiction 19. Dark Romance New Releases—Fiction 20. Dark Romance Prime Reading—Fiction I. Title
ISBN: 9798622919480
Created with Vellum
Contents
1. Kirill
2. Jo
3. Kirill
4. Jo
5. Kirill
6. Jo
7. Kirill
8. Jo
9. Kirill
10. Jo
11. Kirill
12. Jo
13. Kirill
14. Jo
15. Kirill
16. Jo
17. Kirill
18. Kirill Part Two
19. Jo
20. Kirill
21. Jo
22. Jo Part Two
23. Kirill
24. Jo
25. Kirill
26. Kirill . . . Finale
Books By Rie Warren
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CHAPTER ONE ~ Angel
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About Rie
1
Kirill
“YEST. EAT.” SVETLANA BUSTLED around the kitchen, serving more portions of her famous kotlety.
The grandmother of the family always repeated her Russian in English as though we didn’t understand the mother tongue anymore.
Meanwhile, she clucked her tongue at Sasha who waved her away.
“Baba, I can’t eat another bite. I’m only twenty-two, I don’t want to end up looking like a blimp,” Sasha complained with a toss of her hair.
Sitting across the table, Maksim scowled and grumbled.
After daintily wiping her lips on a linen napkin, Sasha returned my younger brother’s glare. “Do you have something to say, or are you just going to caveman grunt like usual?”
“You mean you won’t fit into that party dress that’s no more than a skimpy piece of cloth as far as I can tell.” Maksim pressed a finger at the precocious Zolotov Bratva printsessa.
“You’re my bodyguard, Maksim, not my fashion consultant or my father.”
Meanwhile, Arkady—Maksim’s and my older brother—chewed on his inner cheek in order to keep a straight face.
The back and forth between Sasha and Maksim was a legendary daily occurrence.
He grunted and grumbled.
She sassed and snarked.
Svetlana occasionally ran interference.
And, every so often, Yury Zolotov—the pakhan—laid down the law.
Like now. And the Bratva law always favored the male’s side.
“I am your father, Sashenka. And are you going to let her speak to you that way, Maksim?”
Sasha’s lips puckered.
Maksim’s spread in a vicious grin. “One of these days, precious Sashenka, I’m going to turn you over my knee and blister your ass.”
Lighting a cigar, Yury guffawed while his daughter’s face turned bright red.
She looked just about to land herself in yet more hot water when my dog’s ears perked up. Then he let loose with a thundering snarl.
Hurtling to the door that opened to the main floor of The Cat and the Sickle, the dog’s hackles raised, a louder growl drawing his upper lip off his canines.
“Molchi! Shut up!” Svetlana swatted at him with a dishtowel.
I ambled to the doorway. “Heel, Boris.”
The mutt stood down, but not before a tall blonde woman did the walk of shame through armed Bratva soldiers to the front entrance of the nightclub.
By that time, my brothers had joined me to watch the woman skulk away.
Maksim slapped me on the shoulder before lowering his hand to Boris’s muzzle. “You did her too, da?”
I shrugged.
But it was no secret.
Not with Boris the bedmate detector and his agressive reaction. The dog lost his shit whenever I had a woman over.
I’d call the mutt a typical jealous bitch except he was a male.
And loyal to us, the Krasnov brothers. Had been since we’d found the ugly stray feeding out of the dumpsters out back.
We’d taken in the mottle-colored mutt because he’d been just like the three of us—wandering, homeless, stealing, surviving all those years ago.
Maksim hunkered down, letting Boris slobber all over him while Arkady skewered me with a hard stare.
“You left that tart upstairs and unattended in our apartment?”
“I left her unattended in the corridor where she had no access to our apartment.”
Paranoia stiffened Arkady’s shoulders. As the underboss, he had every right, but I wasn’t stupid. Not at all. The Zolotov Bratva enforcer, I had a good head on my shoulders, even when I was getting head. I searched every woman I took upstairs. I never screwed any broad connected to the family.
Now, did I do background checks on every woman I bedded? Nyet. However, I knew enough not to fuck around with any chick affiliated with any other Family too, because that was a good way to get yourself killed, or worse, indebted with no way out.
I didn’t want to get involved.
No reason to become entangled by a woman or compromised by one of the many mafias populating Boston’s dark side.
But a man had needs.
And the blonde last night had served me well.
“Kirill, drink.” Svetlana shoved between Arkady and me, handing me a cup of sweetened tea.
I peered at the rotund woman over the lip of the steaming cup. “Is it laced, Babushka?”
“Nyet.” But she winked.
Yury’s chair screeched back, and he rubbed out his cigar. “Enough of the small talk. Delivery time, Kirill.”
I downed the tea, appreciating the slight burn of vodka Svetlana had added, and checked my watch.
One thing I could always count on—the Irish were always on time.
In addition to being the enforcer, I ran the nightclub. I handled the business, and The Business.
Arkady was Yury’s second.
Maksim as the youngest had the worst position of all. Being the bodyguard to Alexandra AKA Sasha meant he was at the twenty-two-year old’s beck and call day and night.
She was bratty. Beautiful. Spoiled.
She gave him the slip every chance she got, and I hoped one day he’d go through w
ith his threat to stripe her ass red.
Hell, Maksim already had her papa’s blessing on that score.
And Papa Yury wasn’t one to be messed with.
He’d not only survived the Gulag, he’d run one of the most notorious gangs in the system with the tats to match.
Yury cleared his throat like a bullfrog’s call, which signaled I needed to get my ass in gear.
Handing my cup back to Baba, I kissed her on both plump cheeks. “Spasibo.”
The woman swatted at me just like she had Boris.
Today’s delivery involved alcohol, not the military-grade weapons trade our high-dollar club fronted.
Should’ve been easy, right?
If only.
If The Cat and the Sickle was lucrative, the guns operation was a multi-million dollar business.
Today though . . .
I rolled up my shirtsleeves and undid the top button of my shirt after losing the tie.
“Worried?” Maksim grunted out, his gruff voice almost unintelligible.
“Worried? Nyet. Just making myself comfortable.” With my KA-BAR and one of my Walther PPKs.
Not that I expected any trouble. The puny youth who made the alcohol deliveries to the club wouldn’t stand a chance against me. He was one of the O’Sullivans, and those bastards owed us after one specific shitshow.
The uneasy truce might come to a violent end today.
We’d caught the clan stepping on our turf a year ago. Assholes trying to steal our weapons shipment.
The bloody showdown had taken place down on the docks, ducking in and out of cargo containers with foghorns bleating off in the distance on that soupy Boston Harbor night.
I’d taken a bullet to the side.
But we’d killed more than a few of the Irish . . . sadly none of the actual clan members. Like all good Catholics, the O’Sullivans seemed to breed like bunnies. There were four brothers, the father, and a rumor about a long-lost daughter no one had ever seen.
Tails tucked between their legs, they’d called for the ceasefire. Not us. I’d have been happy to let their entrails leak out all over the tarmac.
The deal they made was a weekly supply of liquor at cut-rate—not cutthroat—prices. They’d stick to cocaine and moonshine and leave the tacticals and nightlife to us.
Too fucking bad I figured out the cunts were ripping us off.
Two cases in the past two deliveries were diluted down piss-water. Not the top-shelf alcohol we were promised.
Today was delivery day, and Deliverance Day.
It had been too long since I’d gotten my hands bloody, and I couldn’t wait to put the almighty hurt on our enemies. This truce was about to get blown the fuck up.
“You want backup?” Maksim asked.
“Don’t you have to babysit Sasha?” I squinted at him then her.
No surprise Sasha looked ready to implode, and Maksim didn’t look much happier.
“You sure you’ve got this?” Arkady lightly touched the hilt of his gun.
“Me against that little Irish shit-stain?” I scoffed. Nothing to make my knees knock.
“How do you know the kid’s coming alone?” Arkady cracked his knuckles and looked like he really wanted to crack some skulls.
“Because he always comes alone. Like we pose no threat. Time for some payback.”
I left the kitchen and paced across the main floor of the club. Closed until nighttime, only a handful of Zolotov soldiers stood guard around the place. Along with me, Maksim, and Arkady, they protected the money and the on-sight guns cache.
Everyone who worked at The Sickle wore a piece and knew how to use it. Everyone except for the women.
I nodded curtly to a couple of the soldiers before prowling out to the loading bay.
Met by the glaring June sun, I flipped my aviators on and watched as the O’Sullivan’s box truck got waved inside the barricaded perimeter.
The noise from busy Boston traffic drifted into the compound—horns honking, sirens wailing—but I remained focused on the truck as it pulled up parallel to the bay.
The raggedy redhaired O’Sullivan boy left the vehicle idling and hopped out.
Without uttering a single word and barely glancing in my direction, he rolled open the cargo door, retrieved his dolly, and began stacking crates.
I watched with arms folded across my chest as the skinny boy industriously wheeled out box after box. He was dressed the same as usual in a tattered black T-shirt, dusty jeans, scruffy work boots, and a battered Red Sox baseball cap hiding most of the mop of red hair.
Had to be the youngest O’Sullivan kid of the brood. The only son not present during the gunfight at the harbor.
Today he was going to find out just what happened when he tried to fuck the Bratva over.
Task completed, he meticulously wheeled the dolly back into the truck, closed and locked the door, and stomped back to the cab. He jumped up into the driver’s seat, shut the door, rolled down the window.
I approached just as he thrust a clipboard out with a pen attached on a dangling string.
“You just need to sign here.” His eyes remained shaded beneath the bill of the cap.
“I need a closer look this time.” Yanking the door back open, I reached in and grabbed him.
“Hey!” He tried to recoil, but I hauled him from the seat.
The clipboard clattered to the loading dock, and the scrappy little fucker aimed a kick at my shin.
Before his boot made contact, I slammed him against the side of the truck.
“Gobshite!” he shouted, glaring up at me with venom in his eyes.
The kid barely stood as tall as my chest, but he didn’t seem to give a shit. He continued to struggle until I took both his wrists in one of my fists and cuffed them behind his back.
I palmed my knife, bringing the shiny sharp blade up to his stubbornly jutting chin. “You fucking Micks think you can get away with shorting us on the liquor?”
His eyes narrowed.
His mouth pruned.
His pulse visibly thrummed in his scrawny little neck I could snap so damn easily.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Russkie,” he scathed.
I snorted, dragging the fierce tip of the KA-BAR down the cord of his throat to leave a red mark I’d be happy to replace with his spilled blood.
Still the hothead wriggled in my grasp.
“I know you’ve been delivering shit for booze.”
When he thrust his leg up to knee me in the balls, I blocked his blow with the hilt of my knife jammed down on his thigh.
That time the Irish son of a bitch winced, and I merely chuckled at his continued struggling.
I held him effortlessly.
“Are you even old enough to drive, boy?”
“Are you even intelligent enough to read the delivery form, dickhead?” He spat the words out at me.
“Da, I can read. And you mongrels have been screwing us for months.”
“Not my problem.”
“You’re an O’Sullivan, right? So it is your problem.”
Sheathing my blade, I pulled him away from the truck. Wheeling him around, I yanked him off his feet by the collar of his threadbare shirt.
“Put me down, you fecking pig!” His legs kicked, his fists wind-milled, his mouth never stopped.
I merely held him an arm’s length away. “Fecking?”
The second I set him back on his feet, he blasted toward me.
I blocked him again, my fist connecting with his sternum.
He flew backward and landed gasping on his ass. His cap soared off and, in a blinding instant, long lush red hair curled around his shoulders.
Her shoulders?
I rocked back on my feet. “What the hell is this? Who the fuck are you?”
A girl?
She moved to get up, but I planted a foot on her chest and shoved her back to the concrete.
“I’m Jo. Joanna O’Sullivan, you Russian filth.”
&
nbsp; Jo. Joanna. Not Joe.
Blyad.
I let her out from beneath my shoe, removing my sunglasses and eyeing her up and down as she rose to her feet.
No, not a girl. A woman.
Only three brothers and a daughter then?
A sharkish smile spread across my lips. “Well, Joanna, you just became a hell of a lot more valuable, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean?” Her fists balled, and she still didn’t look a single bit scared.
Grabbing her around the waist, I drew her into my body where she’d be too close to cause any more harm.
I looked down into her large hazel eyes and noticed gold specks in her irises for the first time.
I also noticed curves well-hidden beneath her baggy and unattractive clothes.
This little woman had been driving that great big delivery truck into our compound all these months on her own with no backup at all?
Respect.
But her body suddenly became distracting, even with the unsightly outfit and her thin frame.
“You owe us.” I locked her wrists in my hand again, pushing her a foot in front of me. “Payment for trying to pull one over on us. That’s what you are.”
“You can’t do this!”
She began hissing and spitting again. Skinny and slippery and Irish.
She was feral. A wild cat.
Untamed and untrained.
This could be fun.
Or I could just kill her here and send the body back to her clan to deliver the message sealed with the blood of a corpse.
While she continued to scuffle, I let out a piercing whistle.
One of the soldiers appeared. “Need me to take her?”
“What?” Joanna’s head whipped toward me.
“Not her. The truck. Pull it into the garage. Do a full inspection, inside and out. Guns, drugs, tracking devices . . . I want to know if you find anything.”