The Soldier: Bratva Blood Prequel: (A dark mafia romance)

by SR Jones

  He might be blood, but he’s blood I hate. Blood I loathe. My fucking piece of shit father, who beat my mother, then left her, two children, and his own ailing mother to fend for themselves in the desperate days after the fall of the Soviet Union. That piece of shit thinks he deserves part of my success? No fucking way.

  He let my mother die, his own mother too, and then my sister. I grind my teeth and shove those thoughts away. If I let them in, I’ll lose it and pummel the ruddy face of the businessman almost in tears in my office.

  “Why don’t you think about it,” I tell the man in front of me, bored now with this shit.

  “No, thanks. Nothing to think about. It’s a shitty offer.”

  “Oh?” I stand and walk around my desk, perching on the edge of it. My offices are on the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in Moscow. My desk is walnut, but not some boring, staid desk. It’s a large walnut stand with drawers and a desktop that shoots out of the base, slicing into the room like a shark’s fin. I like that it reflects who I am these days. A damn shark. I’m the victor now, the one who the spoils go to, and every time I win anew, I tell my dead sister that this is for her. If only she’d lived: I could have made her rich beyond her wildest dreams. I could have gotten her the best healthcare money could buy. Shoulda, woulda, coulda… It’s too damn late.

  I narrow my eyes and imagine my fist caving in the face in front of me. Instead of letting my inner animal out, I swallow and force out a polite statement. “Well, it’s the only offer you’ve had in three years, and you are personally in debt to the tune of two million US dollars. This will pay off your personal debts and leave you enough to live a nice life in retirement.”

  He’s turned a deep shade of puce now, and he splutters when he speaks. “How the fuck do you know about my personal finances?”

  “I always do my research,” I tell him.

  “It’s not only about me. My father built that company. I took it over, and the people who work for it, for me, they’ve become like family. Your offer doesn’t guarantee their jobs.”

  Of course, it doesn’t. The company is worth nothing to me as it is, but it’s worth a lot stripped down and sold off. I also want the name for my own nefarious reasons. I ponder what he’s said. I can’t guarantee his staff a job in his company because it will no longer exist as an entity once I get my hands on it. But I can guarantee them work. He only employs about thirty people; it’s not an impossibility.

  I steeple my fingers together as I regard him. “Okay, how about this? Fifty grand more on the offer, and I guarantee all your people will get work; even if not quite in your company? I will put it in writing, cast iron, and the lawyers can go through it.”

  His head leans to one side as he considers my offer. “In writing, lawyers involved?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. In that case, yes. I don’t like it, but we have a deal.”

  I sigh. “Why don’t you like it? You have what you wanted.” I don’t know why I’m asking, but something about his attitude pisses me off.

  “Because I don’t like you.”

  I laugh at that. “Few people do, but sadly for you, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  I lean back and press a buzzer on the phone on my desk. “Annika, Mr. Bobrov will be leaving now. Kindly show him out.”

  My assistant walks through the heavy glass doors, her Louboutin’s making indents on the thick carpet, and makes a sweeping gesture with her arm.

  Bobrov shoots me one final, disgusted look and leaves.

  Fuck him. Who does he think he is? If it weren’t for me, he’d continue drowning in debt. So what if I offered way less than his company is worth? He’s the one who fucked up. He’s the one who managed things so badly it came to this. I’ve been more than magnanimous by offering his people guaranteed continued employment. He ought to have more fucking respect.

  By the time I see Annika sit behind her desk, I’ve worked myself up into a bad mood, and that won’t do. I decide to fuck it out of myself. Leaning on the buzzer again, I wait until she answers.

  “Annika, come in here, and close the blinds when you do.”

  “Yes, sir,” she says breathlessly.

  Annika won’t last long. I made the mistake of fucking her, and now I see her puppy dog eyes when she thinks I’m not watching, following me around the room as I make calls or hold meetings. It won’t do.

  Especially not when I have a wife to answer to these days.

  I can’t have any woman thinking they mean more to me than a casual fuck. Maybe I ought to teach little Annika a lesson? Show her she means fuck all to me.

  Annika does as I’ve said and comes into my office, and I decide to do just that. I bend her over my desk, pull her skirt up and her panties to one side, and I fuck her hard and fast. I don’t make sure she comes, which I normally do.

  Instead, I take out my frustration on her. God, but I’m livid, with Bobrov, with myself, and with Annika for her stupid adoring gaze.

  I’m not a good man, and it’s about time she found that out.

  When I’m done, I pull out of her, put her panties back into place, pull her skirt down, and slap her ass. Hard.

  She rights herself, face flushed, eyes hurt as she shoots me a confused look, but I ignore it. “Bring me a coffee, will you?” I ask her.

  Then, because I’m a bigger bastard than she can begin to guess, I take out my handkerchief from my top pocket and deliberately wipe my fingers clean from where I touched her. With a smirk, I pick up the phone and make a call, dismissing her without another word said.

  She leaves without looking my way again, but I can see the defeat and humiliation in the wobbly steps and her overly straight spine. She’s holding herself together the way people do when they don’t want to break. Tough. It will teach her to think she’s more to me than a casual fuck. No one matters to me these days except for my wife and son.

  The end of the day comes, and I make my way home to the ridiculously luxurious apartment I now live in. It’s a far cry from my days growing up in the poverty-stricken rural belt, or my time fighting in terrible conditions alongside men like Andrius. My home now is an apartment in Nura Towers, an exclusive development. I have a penthouse suite, and it’s so fucking opulent it makes me laugh. The place has a private pool with views out over the financial district and the city beyond. I fucking love it.

  My wife loves it even more, and even our ungrateful teenage son loves it. Happy wife, happy life they say, right? Well, she should be happy. I plucked her out of poverty and gave her a home fit for a damn queen.

  My childhood friend, and now my wife, Yulia, no longer lives in poverty, thanks to me. She’s the only woman, other than my mother and sister, I’ve loved.

  When I open the door, I’m not prepared for what greets me.

  Yulia is sobbing and staring at the iPad in front of her on the table.

  “Yulia?”

  “You fucking pig, how could you?” she screams and then picks up the antique cigar ashtray from the table and throws it at my head.

  I dodge it and turn to stare at the mess it has made of the wall behind me. The plaster work is sunk in now, and that pisses me off because this place is a veritable show home.

  “What the hell, Yulia?”

  I frown at her, totally perplexed. This is not normal. Our relationship is not one of passion, or of fights, but of friendship. In some ways, she’s the love of my life, but she’s the platonic love of my life. Our marriage is a business partnership and a deep friendship; nothing more, nothing less.

  “You have made me look utterly stupid. You’ve made a fool of me and of our son.”

  She’s referring to Michael, who is actually my stepson. The boy she gave birth to out of wedlock after a British businessman promised her the world and left her with nothing but the baby in her belly.

  “Calm the fuck down and tell me what’s happened.” I step closer to her but keep an eye on her in case she decides to throw something else.

&nb
sp; “This.” She holds up the iPad and on the biggest Moscow gossip and news site is a photograph of me and Annika. I’m kissing her, hard, and she’s bent backward over my desk. My hand is halfway up her thigh. I look like a creep.

  “What the fuck?” I don’t understand how this photo got taken. Unless… Annika herself did it. Set the camera up outside the office and took the picture. It was a quick kiss, a few weeks ago, and hence me not having her close the blinds. It didn’t go any further.

  This is what the bitch does for petty revenge? I showed her she’s nothing important to me, and she does this? Fuck her. She’s about to find out you don’t cross a man like me, not unless you want to be six feet under.

  “I’m going to be the laughingstock of this city,” Yulia says, and rubs at her eyes.

  I don’t get why she’s so distraught. What is it with women and their emotions? Our marriage is a sham. She’s my friend and nothing more. I’ve never liked her in that way, and she’s always claimed the feeling is mutual.

  “I’m sorry this got out, but you know I’m no saint. We’re not exclusive. We’re not… We don’t fuck. So what’s the issue?”

  She has a lover, a female lover. Yulia figured out not long after her time with the businessman that she didn’t like men all that much. Preferred women.

  Alone, pregnant, and scared of what it might mean to be a lesbian in a country which wasn’t always the most receptive to gay rights, she turned to me.

  I needed a wife to help smooth my way in the business community, much of which was staid and old fashioned, and she needed a husband. Our marriage is a business deal, a pact between friends.

  “Yulia, I’m sorry this has gone public, but I don’t get why you’re so upset. You always said you didn’t like me in that way… I thought you preferred women.”

  She laughs, and it’s bitter as hell. “Oh, God, I don’t want your dick, you stupid man.” Then she sighs. “Do you know what they say about me? How did she land him? How did that plain, uninteresting woman land the great Konstantin Silvanov? They say Michael is yours, biologically, even though we’ve always been truthful that he isn’t. They say the only reason you’re with me is because of guilt. Now they will say even worse things. Your assistant, Konstantin?”

  “Yulia, you know I love you like a sister, but come on. I’ve given you everything you have.”

  She turns to me, her eyes flashing. “I upheld my end of the bargain too, Konstantin. Don’t you dare forget that. I went to all those boring functions and dinners and acted as if you were a good man, an honorable man, a family man, so you could get in amongst the old guard and slowly buy up their assets. I helped. I’m not a charity case.”

  I should shut up because I’m in a shitty mood. It’s been building all day, and the last thing I need is a row with Yulia, but I don’t. Instead, I keep on with the argument. “Yeah, you did your bit, and you helped, but I built all of this.” I gesture around the room. “Me. With blood, sweat, and tears. You’re just a passenger.”

  “Fuck you,” she screams at me.

  This is not her. She doesn’t react this way, not ever. “Yulia, what the hell?”

  She sighs, sags and sits back, her head hanging. “Michael has done something … terrible.”

  “What?”

  “He’s got a girl pregnant, and not just any girl; she’s the daughter of a very senior government dignitary.”

  Ah shit. This is bad. Me being outed screwing my assistant isn’t great any day, but if it gets out that Michael has gotten some young woman pregnant, our family is going to look totally screwed up. As well as looking like shit, it could affect my business going forward; particularly as I’m moving more of my work over to the U.K. and building an empire there to rival the one I have here. I don’t want anything to get in the way of my future plans.

  “Listen, I’ll get rid of the woman, permanently.”

  Yulia stares at me as if I’ve grown another head. “No, you will not.”

  “Honey, she can’t do this to us without reprisals, not in our world.”

  “Kill her, and you won’t see Michael again.”

  “I won’t kill her, but I’ll have her so scared she’ll never show her fucking face again. I’ll send Denis.”

  “No, no you won’t. I don’t want her harmed, okay? Anything happens to her, and you won’t see Michael again.”

  “Wow, okay, you’ve not used that particular threat before.”

  “It’s not a threat. Things are … fucked.” Yulia shakes her head. “This isn’t working. This has to stop.”

  “What?” I know Yulia; she doesn’t play games. We aren’t in love, so she’s not some rejected, angry wife. There’s no reason for her to say this unless she means it.

  “I’ve been thinking things need to change for a while. Now, with the mess Michael has got himself in, it’s imperative. I want to move to England and take Michael, enroll him in university there, but I met someone, and she’s based here. She’s different to the other women, K, this is serious.”

  Oh, nice. She has a go at me, but she’s also met someone. A moment of panic hits me. I don’t want to lose her and Michael. I might not be in love with her, but I love her, like family. I love Michael too.

  “What are you saying?” I keep my tone neutral, even though I’m feeling anything but. “You want to take Michael and leave, go to England, and the only thing stopping you is some woman you’ve only just met; not me, not what we’ve had together for years?”

  She gets up and walks through the lounge into the massive kitchen. Pouring some wine from the fridge, she offers me a glass, but I shake my head and instead grab the vodka. This calls for something stronger. Michael might not be mine by blood, but I care for him, and I don’t want to lose touch with him.

  Sipping at her wine, Yulia regards me. “You are wanting to spread your empire, right? You have a lot of upcoming work in London, yes?”

  “Yes,” I say cautiously.

  “You’ve been saying for a long time, Britain is where it’s at for firms such as yours, and you’ve already bought out two companies. I know you’ve got a trip over there planned for next month.”

  I sip at the chilled vodka and cross my ankles as I lean back against the counter. “Go on.”

  “The girl doesn’t want to keep the baby; she wants to give it up for adoption. Her parents have agreed to this. They don’t want her to have an abortion as they’re deeply religious, but they don’t wish for their daughter to find her life over at seventeen either. She’s going away for a long break to a spa, and she’ll come back in around eight months, without the baby.”

  “How … old-fashioned,” I comment.

  “Maybe, but it’s what she desires, her parents too, and I’m relieved because I don’t want Michael to have to be a father so young. He’s only just turned eighteen. The life he’s leading here, though, it’s not a good one. He’s fallen in with a bad crowd, and he’s been drinking, doing drugs, and obviously, having sex. I want him to go to university in the UK, and I want him to have a base there … with you.”

  She sips again and holds her hand up when I begin to speak. “You’re going there next month, and you’ll be renting somewhere for an extortionate fee.” She’s referring to the fact that I have a couple of months business to take care of in London. I’m increasingly busy over there. The British laws are so lax in some ways that fortunes can be made. “Can’t you buy?” she continues. “Buy a house near London, but in the suburbs, somewhere Michael won’t get into as much trouble, and base yourself there. Surrey is lovely. It’s an easy commute to London, and the university there is supposed to be excellent. I don’t want him in a big city like London, where he’ll go back to his ways.”

  I don’t want to tell Yulia that Michael will go back to his ways wherever he is most likely.

  “You can buy a house there, and instead of just going over for a month or two, go over for a longer period and get him settled. I’m sure you can put someone in charge over here for a whil
e.”

  So… I’m not about to lose Michael; in fact, Yulia is asking me to take over the care of him. It’s a relief, but it’s also a big decision. She’s right, I was planning on moving more of my operations into the UK. The legal ones at least. I can smell a bargain like a shark smells blood, and I can spot talent a mile away. I have an unerring ability to buy up ailing companies and either sell off their parts for a profit or turn them around.

  My nickname amongst those who know me in our little illegal community is King K, but in wider Russia it is The Company Medic. Seriously. Some fucking journo commented that I was like a doctor for failing organizations in that I gave them the kiss of life, so The Company Medic became a thing. I hate it, but it sanitizes what I do and makes me less terrifying to the staff when they hear I’ve bought out the firm they work for.

  It means people are willing to talk to me, and I always, always talk to the men and women on the shop floor, or factory floor, or office floor, depending on what the company I’m buying does.

  I have two firms I’m interested in possibly buying in the UK, but extending my stay for months means that the other side of things here, the much less legal side, might be in danger from hostile advances.

  Vasily, I think. He’s more than capable of keeping a lid on that side of things if I take extra time in the UK. He fought in the Spetsnaz like myself and Andrius, although not at the same time as he’s six years younger than me. He is ruthless, hardened, and not scared of anything or anyone so far as I can tell.

  I already use him as my muscle when I need to persuade someone to my point of view, and he’s killed for me. I’ve been considering bringing him further into the organization. I suppose Vasily is to me what Andrius is to his boss, a Pakhan called Allyov. He’s my attack dog, the way Andrius is for Allyov, but now, he’s about to become something more. My second.

  He has his own thug, Denis, who also works for me, but most often takes orders from Vasily now. And then there’s the new boy, Bohdan. He’s smart as fuck, and deadly too, and he looks like a fallen angel. I’ve seen women give him any information he wants with nothing more than a flicker of his eyes or a smile. It’s ironic that his name means god.