Owned By The Bratva King: A Bratva Captive Romance

by Cole, Jagger

  I swallow slowly, savoring the peaty smokiness. Then I raise the glass to the helicopter approaching like a dark bird of prey—like I’m giving a toast. Not to victory; not yet. But a toast to the opening volley of a war.

  I grimace, but my resolve is like iron. I may have just fired the first shot. But I did not bring us to the brink of this war. Just the same, if it’s a war my enemies want, they’re about to reap the goddamn whirlwind.

  My eyes follow the chopper as it approaches over the sea in the dying embers of sunset. The first shots have been fired, and the first spoils of war taken. In this case, a pawn to play like a queen on the chessboard in front of me.

  Like I said, I didn’t bring us to the brink like this. Semyon Belsky, the fat, greedy, recklessly unhinged leader of the Belsky Bratva did. For years, the Belsky and the Volkov families have held… well, not a truce. Not even an uneasy one. It would be better to compare it to North and South Korea, with the demilitarized zone between them. I ignore Semyon and his interests as best I can. He ignores me and mine just the same.

  What has helped keep the “peace” is that we both do business with an extraordinarily wealthy, politically-connected oligarch named Petya Gagarina. As with most truces in this world, it is money that has held this war at bay for so long.

  At least, it did. But a greedy pig is a greedy pig by nature. In the last year, Semyon has mistaken my tactics trending towards diplomacy over violence as weakness. When an underboss of mine overseeing my interests in the United States began skimming and taking on business on the side, forcing me to correct things, Semyon saw opportunity back in Russia.

  Semyon has seen my semi-recent truce with the Kashenko Bratva as a weakness to exploit. Tonight, I will crush those ideas.

  My enemy is about to learn that as diplomatic as I have been recently, violence still beats in my very heart. He is about to learn what it truly means to hurt and bleed, slowly. Semyon is not just a pig. He’s a hog. And as the saying goes: pigs get fat; hogs get slaughtered.

  Three weeks ago, I was one meeting away from cementing an extremely lucrative business arrangement. A man named Boris Tsavakova who owns Russia’s largest cement business, was looking to expand. To do so, he needed both protection and the political sway that a man such as myself holds. Unlike America, in Russia, the mafia does not hide in the shadows from the government. In Russian, the mafia is the government.

  Boris’s contract with me would have bumped my profits by twenty-percent. Not to mention giving me an almost monopoly on bratva connections to the construction industry. But two hours before our final meeting, Boris bailed on me.

  Instead of the Volkov Bratva, as agreed, he went with the Belskys.

  Now, I could lean into my fury. I could lean on this other man; destroy his home, or kill his whole family if I so chose. I could burn his life to the ground and stomp upon the ashes.

  But that won’t bring me the business I want. That is not how I have achieved what I’ve built. Strength and power, but under control. Brutality, but checked.

  Besides, this isn’t Boris’s doing. This is Semyon.

  I have had people in his organization for years. And just yesterday, an opportunity presented itself. As I said: strength and power, but under control. Brutality, but checked. I could marshal the Volkov forces into an all-out war on the Belsky family. But war is not good for business. Scorched earth hurts me as much as my enemy.

  So instead, I will take something he wants.

  The intelligence I gleaned yesterday was simple enough: there’s a woman that he wants. A young, famous model who has captured Semyon’s fancy. Semyon being the fat, disgusting pig that he is, has no intention of wooing or charming this girl. His plans were to take her.

  Were.

  I smile as the chopper begins to descend to the helipad above the top deck of my yacht. I down the last of my scotch and leave the glass on the table on my private deck. I turn and climb the stairs to meet my men, and my new prize, not Semyon’s.

  I have no idea who this unfortunate model is. But I also do not worry myself with caring. All that matters is that she was Semyon’s treasure to take. And now, she is mine. Mine to flaunt in front of him. Mine to dangle like a prize, in order to make him dance like the piggy little puppet he is.

  My source within his organization has assured me this is much more than Semyon simply wanting to get laid. He truly desires this poor girl. There’s been talk of marriage. I roll my eyes at how insulting it is that a man as pathetic as Semyon turns out to be my greatest rival.

  But with this captured prize, I will grind him to dust. I will use her to pressure him into giving me everything I want—not just the contract with Boris that he stole. I will dismantle his empire, piece by piece, until either I have it all, or he finally, sensibly, chooses business over some hot young piece of ass.

  At the top deck, I pause in the shadow by the staircase. The helicopter drops to the deck. The door slides all the way open, and the engine turns off. I grin when I see my men jump out, with two of them leading a girl with a bag over her head.

  But as she steps onto the helipad, my eyes suddenly harden. My breath intakes sharply, and I growl thickly as my gaze sweeps over her.

  She’s stunning. It isn’t just that her body is stunning—flawless, sun-kissed skin, curves in all the right places, and barely hidden behind a skimpy little black bikini. While I might not indulge these days, I’ve seen beautiful women in barely-there bikinis or far less by the hundreds on this yacht and ones just like it.

  And yet, there’s something about this one. It’s as if there’s a magic power to her that sucks my gaze in like a moth to a flame. I growl quietly as they pull her from the helicopter. My eyes land on the way the men’s hands are griping her arms, and I snarl. It’s like a possessive, jealous response. As if these men are touching what is mine.

  I frown and shake that thought away. No, this is simply business. This is the weak spot of an enemy, and I will not relent in pressing it as hard as I can until he bleeds and begs for mercy.

  I force myself to ignore their hands on her arms. This is not personal. This is simply—

  One of my men reaches up and yanks the bag from over the girl’s head. Suddenly, my world freezes. My breath catches with a hiss. My eyes widen and then narrow dangerously as my teeth bare from the shadows.

  Fuck.

  I know her. When the bag is pulled from her head and my eyes drink in those bright green eyes and strawberry-blonde hair, I instantly know who she is. Her name is River Finn, and she’s one of the most famous young models in the world. Christ, she may very well be on the cover of one of the magazines onboard this very fucking yacht.

  But that isn’t how I know her. I groan as my eyes burn into her. We’ve met. We’ve had dinner together, back in Chicago. But most importantly—most unfortunately—she also happens to be best friends with my daughter, Belle.

  This is a problem. This would be a problem for any father in this situation. But mine is… complicated. I’m only recently back into my daughter’s life. She knows what I am—and hell, her husband is a captain in the Kashenko Bratva. But I’m well aware that kidnapping her best friend as part of a bratva power game is well over a line.

  I close my eyes, hissing quietly as my hands close to fists at my sides. God fucking damnit. My mind whirls, seeking and searching for a solution to this problem. But as the Black Sea wind whips over me, my jaw grinds.

  There is no other option. There’s no other solution to my current political situation with Semyon besides an all-out war.

  Shit.

  If there was another option, I would take it. But I know how much Semyon wants this girl. And now, I know why. It’s not just that River is stunningly beautiful. It’s that the world just found out that one of its most beautiful young models has never been with a man.

  In a recent interview with some American magazine, River just admitted that the rumors are true. Somehow, this gorgeous young woman who absolutely drips with sex appeal,
is in fact a virgin.

  That is why Semyon wants her. A man like him has paid for it his entire life. But even the most expensive working women money can buy are working women. Semyon beds them knowing hundreds of men just like him have bedded them as well.

  That’s why he wants River, especially since my source tells me there’s been talk of a marriage. Semyon want’s a beautiful, young, untouched trophy wife. And now, she’s in my possession.

  My eyes close again. I know what this will do to my fledgling relationship with my daughter. And again, if there was any other way, I would take it over this. But realizing who and what she is has unfortunately made this even more complicated. And it has made her leverage with Semyon even greater.

  I know men like him. And I know now he will cut off his left hand for her if I tell him to.

  And yet, I know this is only half the truth. I can sit here in the shadows telling myself this all for business or revenge. But when my eyes land on her once more, I feel the beast snarl against the cage inside of me.

  I am motivated by payback to Semyon. But also… I groan. But also by what this girl does to me. It was there in Chicago, at that dinner. I ignored it as best I could. I drowned it in scotch and in focusing entirely on my daughter Belle.

  But there’s no ignoring what River does to me. There’s no pretending that even being near her at that dinner made me weak; it made me want, and desire. And her here now makes me hunger for what I have not hungered for in a long, long time.

  I want her as payback. I want her for myself. Greedily. Hungrily.

  Slowly, I step from the shadows, and I move towards my new prize. I bark an order, and my men instantly snap to attention and leave. And then, it is just her and I; just me and my forbidden temptation. My little bite of the forbidden fruit.

  I could debate this in my head until the end of time. But I am a man of action and decisive thought. So there will be no debate. I look at her, trembling and shivering in the sea breeze. Her tits rise and fall against the flimsy bikini top. Her nipples strain against the material. Her fiery strawberry-blonde hair whips in the wind. And her heart-stopping green eyes burn—fiercely, even through the fear on her pretty face.

  I groan as my desire swells and surges.

  So be it. She’s mine.

  “Oh my God,” she gasps. Relief washes over her face. “Oh my God, Mr. Volkov—”

  “You will not call me that here.”

  I am not a soft or gentle man. I never have been, and even she will not suddenly flick that compassion switch inside of me that most people have. Compassion is not what has allowed me to lead my three-generations strong bratva family into the twenty-first century, and to wealth and power it never imagined before me.

  Ruthlessness did that. Cold, calculated brutality and unflinching power did that.

  My words take her aback, I can tell. We barely spoke the time we had dinner together. But still. I can tell that she clung to the hope of familiarity when she saw it was me. Now, I will squash that hope.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Here,” I growl. My eyes sweep over her as my jaw grinds. “You will not call me. Mr. Volkov.”

  There will be no familiarity here. There cannot be. I watch her smile nervously, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m playing a joke.

  She’ll learn.

  “What’s going on?” she whispers quietly. I can see the fear begin to creep back into her eyes. I’m neither a monster nor a psychopath. It isn’t as if I feel nothing when I see this poor girl begin to grow frightened. But I know I cannot feel anything when I see it. Not in my business.

  “We… we know each other!”

  “A regrettable circumstance.”

  “Mr. Vol—” she swallows. “Please, men attacked us on our photoshoot—”

  “And my men shot them. Yes, I know.”

  Her lip quivers. She hugs herself. “Please,” she mumbles quietly. “Please, why am I—”

  “You are here,” I growl sharply. “Because you are mine. Because you belong to me now.”

  From the look of shock on her face, I can tell I’ve just rattled her entire world. There it is. She’s getting it now. She’s understanding that my reputation for brutal coldness is not a fabricated story.

  She opens her mouth as if to say something. But I stop her with a shake of my head.

  “You are mine now,” I hiss.

  “What?” River blurts. “I don’t understand—”

  “It is not complicated.” I don’t relish being cruel or cold to her. But I also don’t relish many of the things I do on a daily basis. Yet, I do what is necessary. I do what I must to keep my empire an indomitable force of strength and willpower.

  “You belong to me now. And you will stay here, as mine.”

  Her face pales. She’s really getting it now.

  “Let me go,” she whispers. “Please, Mr.—”

  “You will have your freedom when you have helped me,” I grunt quietly.

  She stares at me in shock. “What?”

  “When you have help—”

  “Why the fuck would I—”

  “Because without it,” I snap, purposefully letting my power surge—a display of my fury to show her how deep into the bear’s jaws she really is. From the look on her face, I see that she now sees clearly.

  “Without it, you have no freedom.”

  She shivers, balking at me. “We—we know each other. We’ve met…”

  “A regrettable circumstance given what must be done.”

  She says nothing more. We just stand there three feet apart, staring at each other; her face frozen in fear and disbelief. Mine in resolve.

  “Let me go,” she chokes

  I say nothing.

  “Please! Mr. Volk—”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Okay! Fine!” She suddenly yells angrily. “Yuri, please—”

  “Here you may call me ‘sir.’”

  She blushes. And God help me, I see it, and I feel it. My cock surges as I imagine her purring the word, doing my bidding. My eyes slide over her barely-there bikini as it tries it’s best to hide her sweet curves and hidden treasures from my hungry gaze. My balls swell with a savage need for her—to take her. To have her. To make her all mine.

  “What?” She chokes, still blushing.

  “I said here you may call me ‘sir.’”

  “You’re joking.”

  I’m not. And I think she already knows that. If not, she will soon. She says nothing to me. Without another word to her, I turn and bark a command. Maksim, one of my top avtoritet, or captain, is there in seconds.

  “Da, Yuri,” he grunts.

  I’m not sure I would trust anyone but Maksim to be alone with her. But the younger man is one of my top, most trusted men.

  “Otvedi yeye v yeye komnaty,” I growl. Take her to her rooms.

  He frowns.

  “The guest quarters directly below my own,” I clarify with a grunt, in Russian.

  Maksim nods formally. When he turns to her, River starts to turn pale.

  “Okay! Okay! Please!” She blurts, sounding terrified. “Please! Please, ‘sir!’”

  I let my eyes settle on her, and I smile thinly. “Good. That is good.”

  Christ, I can almost feel the hope surging inside of her from here. “Good like I can go?”

  “Good like you’re learning.”

  She starts to scream—like a banshee. She screams in rage, and in terror—calling for help in every direction. Maksim glances at me, but I just stare at her, waiting. When she’s done, she’s panting and red-faced as she whirls on me.

  “You may yell all you want, little bird,” I say thinly. “But I am the only one who will hear your screams.”

  I groan inside at the idea of being the only man to hear another kind of screams from her pretty lips. I move closer to her, and she trembles and shivers.

  “You have entered my kingdom, little bird,” I hiss. “Here, I am king.
Here, all is mine, all under my control. Including you.”

  Her face pales.

  “I would begin to make myself used to that idea if I were you.”

  Without another word—because I don’t trust myself with even one more—I turn and I walk away.

  This may prove ruinous. This may break me or make me lose control of the beast I’ve spent a lifetime restraining inside of myself. But so be it. I’ve made my decision. And now, there is only one way to go: forward.

  Come what may, she’s mine.

  3

  River

  I’m still staring in awe at the room when the door suddenly slams shut behind me. I whirl and furiously run to it, yelling as my fists pound on the gold filigreed, inlay wood. But the big man who’s just escorted me here from the helipad says nothing in return. In fact, I can hear his heavy footsteps thudding away, leaving me locked in the room.

  Slowly, my fists stop pounding. I turn and sink against the door as my eyes wander my new prison. As prisons go, this is… well, it’s a palace. I might be locked in here against my will. But these quarters would fit a fucking queen.

  The man who brought me here from Yuri grunted that this was my “room” when he opened the double doors for me. But it’s rooms, plural. Four palatially enormous, breezy, elegant, exquisitely designed rooms. And for the hundredth time, my jaw drops at just how enormous this yacht is.

  No expense has been spared. None. And yet it’s not gaudy or showy. I’ve been on shoots or to parties at luxurious mansions and huge boats owned by people who think “expensive” means “good taste.” Whoever designed this palace of a yacht understood exactly what they were doing, though.

  I walk slowly through the opulent living room area, into an equally lavish second living area, this one with a huge entertainment center across the wall and a very well stocked bar in the corner. Well, at least I won’t get thirsty, I think wryly to myself.

  There’s also a kitchen and dining area, and a private balcony overlooking the now-dark ocean, complete with a hot tub and lap pool. Through a set of double doors, my jaw drops as I drink in the bedroom. Almost the whole thing is glass walls. But it’s designed in relation to the rest of the yacht in a way where no other part of the boat can really see into it.