by LP Lovell
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Bad
Stevie J. Cole
LP Lovell
Contents
Bad
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
DIRTY
About the Author
Acknowledgments
WRONG
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Wrong
Copyright © 2017 by Stevie J. Cole and LP Lovell
All rights reserved
This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.
Any opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author.
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Bad
Copyright ©2017 by Stevie J. Cole and LP Lovell
Published in the United States of America.
E-books are non-transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of Stevie J. Cole.
Cover Model: Rick Van Den Bosch
Photographer: Eric Max Ellis
Cover Design: Max Elis
Prologue
Ronan
"Simple Man"- Deftones
The fireplace crackles before a log collapses, sending tiny embers flitting up the chimney. My father stares at me from across the room. The heat from the fire caressing my skin, and I fight a smile as I stare back at the anger swimming in his eyes.
"You did what?" he says through clenched teeth.
"I made a deal with the Americans." I shove my hands in my pocket, carefully wrapping my fingers around the knife I made sure to tuck deep inside.
He swats his hand over his face, his cheeks reddening. His nostrils flare. "You made a business deal behind my back? And with the Americans?" There's such a small amount of restraint in his voice, and I find a sick amusement in it.
"It makes complete sense," I say. "They have no gunrunning laws. It gives us a foothold into Mexico." I smile. "The cartels would pay well."
He shakes his head, his jaw ticking. My father is so very set in the old ways of the Bratva. Honor. Dignity, and while I can respect that, my father is a hypocrite. I learned early in life that honor and dignity do nothing but limit your power.
"I do not make deals with Americans. The Bratva does not make deals with the Americans!"
"I will run the Bratva when you die, and—"
"You're only eighteen!" He pushes up from his chair and steps toward me. He wants to hit me, I know it, but these days I'm much bigger than he is. He knows he can no longer beat me into submission. His jaw tenses when he comes face to face with me, seething. "You are too power hungry, Ronan."
"No, you are too weak." My fingers curl around the hilt of the knife, and I wait for my heart to race or skip, but it never does. Given the amount of times I've thought about this, the time it took to plan, I had hoped this would feel more momentous, but I feel nothing. And with that thought, I pull my hand from my pocket and slice the blade across his neck, around his jaw from ear to ear.
His eyes widen as he clutches at his throat, gasping and gurgling for a breath he'll never catch.
"A smart man sees what he wants and takes it," I say with a smug smile, watching the blood stream over his knuckles like a beautiful, ruby waterfall. Part of me wants to bathe in it, for this is my baptism. The moment of my true birth, the day I'll look back on as the moment I first took power into my hands. My father staggers back into the wall before slumping to the floor.
"It's only business," I say. "I do hope you understand, you would have only stood in my way." With that, I turn around, tossing the knife into the fireplace. Igor and Boris step out from the shadow of the kitchen, and I nod toward my father's body. "Get rid of it."
"Yes, boss," they say in unison.
I walk out of the room the new leader of the Russian Bratva, but I promise, that's not where I'll stop. Some may think what I just did was callous, and I'd agree. It was. So very cruel, but true power is never held by good men.
Chapter 1
Ronan
12 years later
"I Don't Care" - Apocylptica, Adam Gontier
The celloist in the corner of the ballroom plays a drab tune. Women in lavish gowns flit around the room while the men in tuxedos watch their every move. To be honest, I hate the formalities of political campaigns. It's all a show, after all, a power play. Ironically, none of the people in this room truly hold power. For a man in control must be the most perfect of villains, and heartless power is the only absolute authority there is.
Prime Minister Vasily steps to the side of the room, and I spot Anastasia clinging to Nikoli Derevichi's arm. Wisps of blonde hair frame her elegant face. Her dress fits just so. My, she is the epitome of a refined woman...at least on paper. She glances at me, a light blush painting her pale cheeks before Nikoli leans down to whisper something in her ear. He steps to the side with a group of men. I turn away, sipping the bland Chardonnay because I know Ana will be making her way over here at any moment. She is so very predictable. How mundane.
Within seconds, a delicate hand brushes my shoulder. "Ronan?" Anastasia whispers. Her fingers trail along my arm as she steps into my line of vision. "Where have you been?"
"You shouldn't
touch me in public, Ana." I lift the glass of wine to my lips, nodding across the room toward Nikoli, her husband and the President of Russia. I force my brow to wrinkle as though I'm concerned with him. Lies. He should be concerned with me.
"I need you, Ronan.” Her eyes drag over my body. “I crave you."
I inhale, pretending I'm torn. "Ah, Anastasia... Careful.” Nikoli's gaze cuts over toward us. A slight smirk plays at my lips as our eyes lock from across the room—two men battling for the affection of one woman. So suspenseful.
"Ronan..." Anastasia whines.
Desperation is such an unattractive quality to possess. It’s not that I want Anastasia, but that I need her. Every step I take is planned, calculated, and Anastasia is simply a piece to the puzzle I've spent the last seven years constructing. So, I smile and bite down on my lip as though I'm restraining myself from taking her into the hallway and fucking her. "Not here," I whisper before I step away, heading toward the patio.
The frigid air and a flurry of snow greet me when I open the door. I pause in the doorway to pull the cigar from my breast pocket and light it. Smoke swirls in front of my face as I stare at the lights of Moscow dotting the horizon. I wonder what it will feel like when all of this is mine? Smiling at the thought, I turn to watch through the window as all the little puppets dance on strings they don't know they're tied to.
My jaw clenches when I spot Ivan Menova speaking with Nikoli. My pulse throbs. When Ivan notices me watching him, an uneasy smile shapes his lips. He shakes Nikoli's hand, combing his fingers through his hair as he heads to the doorway. As soon as Ivan steps foot onto the snow, he shivers. "It's cold tonight," he says.
I take a slow drag of my cigar, the bright red glow of the cherry casting shadows over his face. I don't say a word. I can see the worry setting in on his furrowed brow. Fear is like blood in the water, it beckons me. It sends a jolt of adrenaline through me, sparking a want for violence.
"Another shipment goes out to Pakistan this Friday," he says.
Laughing, I blow smoke directly in his face and he coughs. This man has the audacity to approach me? I know he's had men intercepting shipments of my ammunition to the Middle East. And I'm not certain whether he's brave or just stupid, which is why I've not had him killed. Yet. Stupidity warrants a humane form of death, but bravery—tsk, tsk.
"Mr. Cole," he says. "The shipment."
"Tell me, Ivan. Do you take me for a stupid man?"
"No, of course not." There's a slight tremor to his voice. Poor soul.
I hand my cigar to Ivan, and his forehead wrinkles with confusion before his cheeks wash white. He stammers over unintelligible words. Stupidity does get people into such trouble sometimes...I take a single step toward him and place my lips so close by his ear that I can feel the heat from his skin, smell the cheap aftershave he's doused himself in. "I know what you've done, Ivan. Enjoy that cigar, it will be your last."
He drops the cigar and when he turns to run, Igor is already blocking his way. Clasping my hands together, I step to the side. There's only a small pop of air from the silencer when the trigger is pulled, and Ivan falls face first into the pile of snow at the doorway. I smile because the splattering of blood does look quite festive.
I straighten my suit, and step over the body, walking back into the warmth of the party. After all, it would look suspicious if I left so suddenly, wouldn't it? I may hate the niceties of these political campaigns, but I do so enjoy the business dealings sometimes involved. Several people stop me to talk and I oblige, eventually excusing myself. I grab a glass of wine and lean against the far wall, waiting.
The quartet plays on and then a man yells. I glance up just as he runs in from the patio, and my body tingles with anticipation. “A man’s been shot!” he shouts. Women shriek, men scurry around with cell phones to their ears. There's quite the commotion forming over Ivan lying in a puddle of blood, and I simply stand here, utterly amused by them all. Death is a natural part of life. I don't understand why everyone gets so upset. My observation is interrupted by the vibration of my phone in my trouser pocket. I fish it out and place it to my ear. "Yes?"
"Jésus did not accept the offer," Boris says.
My jaw twitches and my pulse tick, tick, ticks up, thrumming in my throat. "I'm sorry. What did you say, Boris?"
"He won't sell the land."
I stare across the room at Anastasia as she clings to her pathetic husband's arm. "Get me a flight to Mexico. Now," I say before I hang up, shove the phone in my pocket, and walk out of the party with my fists clenched at my sides.
I have business to tend to.
________
The next morning, I sit in front of Jésus Garcia's desk with Igor and Boris beside me. I check my watch before staring through the window at the barren landscape. The desert hills of Juarez seem to stretch on for an eternity, hot and scorched.
I've decided I hate Mexico. I hate the cartels, the lack of finesse and respect they possess. They're nothing more than savages with ammunition, but unfortunately for me, the Sinaloa cartel own land I am very much in need of. Maybe when I'm done with it, I'll blow their entire city of Juarez clean off the map. Maybe...
The door to the office creaks open and Jésus walks in dressed in a cheap suit. Several men toting guns follow him into the room. The cartels and their guns... Jésus' ink black hair is slicked back, and there's a permanent crease in his forehead. His eyes set on me as he steps behind his desk and takes a seat. "I don't make deals with Russians." He smiles, and I fully expect for a gold tooth to glint in the light, but it doesn't. How very disappointing.
"Four million dollars," I say, adjusting my cufflinks. "I will give you four million dollars for the land surrounding Lago Estrellado."
"No." He plucks a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray on his desk and lights it.
I stare at him, one side of my lips ticking up in an annoyed smile. "I don't think you understand the generosity I'm providing you with this offer."
"I shit on your generosity." Jésus grins wide. "As I said, I don't make deals with Russians."
My pulse drums in my neck, blood rushes to my face. "I'll assume you don't understand who you are dealing with, and I will give you one more opportunity to make a wise decision, my friend."
"I know who you are, and I don't give a shit!"
Closing my eyes, I draw in a breath. I don’t accept no. Ever. I open my eyes and push up from my seat, giving Jésus a passing glance as I head toward the door of his office. I tried to be nice, I did.
Now, what to do about him? Murder is so boring, and if Jésus is killed without strategic planning, another leader will just step into his place. I'm one for the theatrics, the festivities, so I'll simply play a little game of chess. Pit cartel against cartel, sit back and watch the carnage like an emperor at a gladiator show. And then, when Rome lies in ruins, I'll swoop in and take my land. For free.
Once we're in the car, I glance at Igor. "Find out everything you can about the Juarez cartel and Gabriel Estrada, would you, Igor? Nothing like having Jésus taken down by his own enemy."
Chapter 2
Camilla
“Whore” – In This Moment
6 months later
Jésus stands in the middle of the foyer surrounded by heavily armed men, and I stand in the hallway, watching. He crooks a finger to motion me over. I force a smile as I make my way into the room, and stop in front of him. "My love," he says, "I must go kill your brother and all his little friends." He strokes my cheek, and I fight the wave of revulsion threatening to rise.
"Ah, Jésus, I do hope he kills you," I say.
His face reddens, and his jaw tenses before he heads toward the door followed by half an army. Once the door closes, I turn and walk through the house, thinking about how weak Jésus is.
Wars are fought all the time. Men die for causes that are not their own: power, money, even love. But no wars are bloodier than those of the cartels. The money and power is absolute and unrivaled. Men will fight
and die for such things, and Jésus is no different. The ironic thing is: I am supposed to be his collateral, the sister he kidnapped to keep Gabriel, his enemy, in line. He doesn't realize the real enemy is the one sleeping in his bed, listening to every tidbit of information. Spotting every weakness. The fact that he's gone to fight my brother instead of killing me shows just how far he's fallen into my trap.
Yes, Jésus is weak, and it will get him killed.
As I wander the near empty house, I imagine how pretty the villa would look engulfed in flames; Jésus' men screaming in agony as their skin melts from their bodies. The thought brings a smile to my face, but, alas, I must bide my time. If my brother fails to kill Jésus, I'll have to do it, and it's so much easier to slit a man's throat while he's fucking you than when he has a gun pointed at your head.
I pass the pool table in the game room, trailing my fingers over the felt on my way to the bar in the corner. I pour a glass of brandy and take a sip. The alcohol burns on its way down, and I close my eyes, picturing all the ways Gabriel might kill Jésus. It will be bloody and gruesome, of course. A death fit for a boss— a message.
There's a loud bang and the ground rocks, startling me. Bits of plaster crumble away from the ceiling as the chandelier above my head swings precariously. What the fuck? I hurry to the window. Men in black military gear rush into the courtyard. This is not Jésus, and it's not Gabe. I have to assume whoever this is, is an enemy. And as far as anyone is concerned, I'm Jésus' whore which means I'm as good as dead if they find me. The rapid pop, pop, pop of gunfire rings out, and I immediately drop to a crouch and press my back to the wall. Shit.
I crawl to the pool table and feel around beneath it. Surely these fucktards have a gun strapped under here somewhere? Nothing. Damn it! Footsteps pound down the hallway, and I grab a pool cue, snapping it over my knee. I clutch the splintered pieces of wood in each hand as I rush to the door, pressing my back to the wall. The handle lowers and the door opens before a dust covered boot steps over the threshold.