by Jasmin Quinn
Shattered
Running with the Devil Book 7
Jasmin Quinn
Shattered Copyright © 2019 by Jasmin Quinn. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Jem Monday Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jasmin Quinn
Visit my website at https://jasminquinn.com/
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: February 2019
Jem Monday Publishing
ISBN-978-1-9990371-0-9
Books by Jasmin Quinn
Running with the Devil Series
The Darkest Hour (Running with the Devil: Book 1)
Secrets inside Her (Running with the Devil: Book 2)
Black Surrender (Running with the Devil: Book 3)
Without Mercy (Running with the Devil: Book 4)
Hard Lessons (Running with the Devil: Book 5)
Courting Trouble (Running with the Devil: Book 6)
Shattered (Running with the Devil: Book 7)
Anthologies
The Horror of Our Love – A Twisted Tales Anthology
CONTENTS
About Running with the Devil Book Series
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 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Epilogue
Excerpt 1: Basic Instinct
Excerpt 2: Past Sins
About Jasmin
Stay connected with Jasmin
About Running with the Devil Book Series
It’s so good to be bad!
Jasmin Quinn’s steamy romance series takes readers on a thrill ride as the rivalry between Rusya Savisin, Russian Mob Boss and the mysterious Mr. Jackman heats up. Romance blooms with intensity as innocents get drawn into the dark terrifying worlds that Jackman and Savisin rule. Each book in the series is standalone but are connected by common themes and characters.
Chapter 1
Esma Akkaya was well on her way to being shit-faced when her phone rang. She was in Mexico City, in a seedy little bar, slamming shots with two of her favourite Mexicans and two of their favourite gringos. It was how she wound down. The tequila was flowing, the music was blaring, and she was about to start a brawl with a mean fucking hombre who kept calling her a Mexican puta. It was time to show him exactly how hard whores punched. Her finger hovered over the decline button when she saw the caller ID. “Fuck!” She scooped the phone from the table. “Gotta take this,” she shouted over the din as she staggered to her feet and shuffled her way through the bodies into the humid air outside.
“This is Esma.” She tried never to say his name. She didn’t like how subservient it sounded to call him Mr. and she didn’t have the nerve to call him Jackman.
“Where are you?” Asshole couldn’t even be bothered to say hello.
“I’m fine, how are you?”
“Esma.” A stern warning to behave.
She sighed heavily as she leaned against the brick exterior with her jean-clad ass. It was the only piece of her that she was going to let touch the grimy building. “In Mexico. I’m a little drunk,” she said belligerently. “Because I’m on a sanctioned leave.”
“Not anymore. Sober up and get on a plane to Vancouver.”
The man who’d been harassing her staggered out the door, looked around and then his eyes landed on her. She glared at him as he sneered at her. Then he weaved his way towards her. As he got nearer, he snarled, “I’m gonna show you how a gringo fucks a Mexican puta.”
“I’m on the fucking phone,” she shouted in Spanish.
He laughed. “Hang up, bitch.”
“Esma.” Jackman sounded irritated.
Esma snarled, “Hold on a sec.” She placed the phone carefully on the ground, then strode up to the drunk and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. He reeked of booze, cigarettes, and stale sweat.
“I told you to bugger off three times, you asshole! But what’d you do? You get up in my face again! Fuck the hell off now or I’m going to wipe the road with your ass.” She was shouting and her spittle was flying. She’d lost her patience.
The gringo threw back his head and roared laughter, then grabbed her ass with one hand and her tit with the other, twisting her nipple cruelly. “Little fucking Mexican puta thinks she can push me around.”
Then he fell like a sack of bricks onto the pavement. Well, not exactly. First, Esma head-butted him in the nose. When he yowled like a little whipped pussy and staggered back clutching at his face, she slammed her fist into his balls, throwing all her weight into the punch. When he bent over to clutch his crotch, she rammed her knee into his chin. That knocked him backwards and he thudded to the pavement unconscious. “I am not fucking Mexican!” she spat as he fell.
She didn’t spare him a single backward glance as she bent down and picked up her phone. “Sorry, I had to scratch an itch.”
“Esma, get the fuck out of wherever you are and call me back. Thirty minutes.” Jackman hung up.
“What a fucking buzzkill.” Esma shoved her phone into the pocket of her leather vest, then beelined back into the bar. Fifteen minutes to slam a few more shots of tequila and 15 minutes to get home and make the
call. She’d have time.
♦ ♦ ♦
Esma deplaned in Vancouver eight hours later. Dark glasses and six Tylenol did nothing to ease the pounding in her head. In Mexico, after she returned to the bar, she lost track of time. Forty-five minutes and six tequila shots later, she remembered she was supposed to do something. It took her another shot before she remembered what. She staggered to the women’s bathroom and hunkered down in a stall. As she dialled Jackman, she fumbled with the button on her jeans. She had to pee. May as well kill two birds with one stone.
Jackman was pissed with her. He was always pissed with her, but she guessed he tolerated her because she was tough as nails but still pretty enough to have the big mean guys think she was all cotton candy and rainbows. He told her to sober up and get her ass to Vancouver. Find one of those big mean guys, Anto Kharzin and a woman, Mary something. They were together. She was to track them down, not engage. Once she had them, she was to call Dean Copeland, give him the coordinates. Dean was on his way from Russia and Jackman told her to try to find them before he arrived. That was motivation enough. She’d rather hand off the coordinates to Dean over a phone than deal with him face to face. Of all the pricks she knew, he was her least favourite.
She grabbed her backpack and made her way through customs, then stepped into the warm June air. Fucking Canada. The true north, strong and free. They loved their fucking snow. As Esma thought that, she thought of Turkey with a twinge. She missed her country, been gone three years now. But she couldn’t go back. She was wanted for murder there.
Chapter 2
Six months later
Esma was in Vancouver, sitting in a chair in a chilly hall inside the home of Rusya Savisin, head of the Vancouver bratva and her executioner. He didn’t know it yet, but it was only a matter of time before he discovered she was a fraud. She accepted this as her fate because she had no choice. Her alternatives were no less deadly.
She was alone, waiting, chewing on her thumbnail, a bad habit when she was nervous. Everything was wrong, but that meant nothing. Everything had been wrong since the day she was born. This was just another day in the life, except that it wasn’t because the man she was about to meet with was the devil. Or maybe his cousin, because Jackman was also the devil. There was no one she hated more in this world than Jackman and clearly no one she was more afraid of, otherwise she wouldn’t be sitting here in Rusya Savisin’s lair.
She looked down at herself as she strained to hear the soft voices beyond the dark, solid oak doors. It was early winter, a cold, windy day in Vancouver and she had dressed accordingly. A pretty, pink woollen long-sleeved blouse that hung loosely on her but hugged her breasts and hips, enough to make it clear, that despite her small frame, she was definitely a woman. A solid black silk scarf at her throat, a slim tweed pencil skirt that covered her strong thighs and brown leather boots that reached past her calves almost to her knees.
The boots had a short heel, were sleek and polished and, for some unfathomable reason, made Esma feel sexy. She wasn’t going for sexy. That would be insane, but sexy made her feel confident and she needed all the confidence she could get. She was about to be interviewed by Rusya Savisin, Russian mob boss. Hellish reputation, deadly as fuck and had a legendary temper. That was the rumour anyway. Those who were unfortunate enough to have it unleashed on them didn’t survive to tell the tale. Esma wasn’t sure if it was bullshit, decided now was not the time to find out.
Her stomach tightened as the murmur of voices grew nearer. She was glad she’d skipped her breakfast. It seemed like vomiting on Vancouver’s dark lord would not be the way to start an interview. Her orders were clear – get the translator job, immerse herself in Savisin’s operations, feed information back to Jackman. Engage however she had to.
She knew what that meant and it was an deliberate slap. The last time she was out in the field, her orders were also clear. Track down, but don’t engage. That had gone to hell and it didn’t matter that she’d saved the day, not once but twice. Her heroics were irrelevant to Jackman. It was possible that what really pissed the asshole off was that when she violated his direct order, it was because she was hammered at the time. Okay, probable.
But that was only part of it. Jackman knew she didn’t fucking respect him – it came through loud and clear in her words, their interactions. He didn’t like her insolence, didn’t tolerate it. Thus, this show of his power, an example to his other operatives, a deadly lesson for her. Put her in a situation that would crush her, that she would not be able to find a way out of.
The door opened and warm air brushed her as the tall, thin woman whose name was Janice appeared. “Come on in, Esma.” She was not particularly smiley or friendly. Very matter of fact. Curt. Esma didn’t take it personally. Not yet, anyway. The woman stood to the side and let Esma enter first.
As she stepped into the office, Esma’s stomach was churning in a way that she’d never experienced. She knew why. On any other day, she would have taken a drink, maybe two or three to settle herself. She didn’t know how to face her problems sober. And the problem she currently had was standing in the centre of the room, arms crossed across his chest, dark inscrutable eyes boring into her.
Rusya Savisin.
She felt like Gumby’s horse, all rubbery and boneless. This was the first time she’d ever seen Rusya Savisin in person and it was both terrifying and ovary-squeezing stimulating. He was handsome in a way most men were not and Esma’s heart fluttered, her stomach did another cartwheel and anything below her waistline either got wetter or weaker. Part of his allure was his darkness. It emanated from him like an aura. His hair was black, his eyes were black and as they raked her, she felt judged in a way that stripped her of everything she believed about herself. She was already small, but she felt even slighter in his presence, like a bug to be squashed if she misspoke. If Lucifer had a face, it would belong to Rusya Savisin.
She had to find herself, find Esma Akkaya, the woman she knew she was. The woman buried in her soul, that she tucked away when she was sober, summoning with alcohol. She had to resurrect her fast because she was out of time. She didn’t know how to be sober, didn’t know who she was without a drink. And this man, this demon, tall, hard, dark and sexy, was about to ask. And when he did, she had to convince him she was worthy.
Every insecurity she had, all the fucking ones that she used alcohol to banish, rose up like little grinning devils and threw their pitchforks at her. She was not the spy Jackman wanted her to be, not someone who held her emotions inside her, not someone who could hide her truths. And looking at Rusya Savisin, she knew right away that he would be able to see right through her. Even if she tried to be coy, which she had never been any good at, he’d know.
Janice led her up to Savisin who had not yet spoken, not yet moved. His eyes were assessing though. But, like everything about him, the way he held himself, the way he schooled his features, there was no telling what he was thinking.
“Rusya, this is Esma Akkaya.”
“Esma.” Rusya Savisin nodded and offered his hand to her. His accent rolled over her name and she felt herself flushing. She wondered if he knew the affect he had on women. He had to. A man like him would know exactly what emotions he evoked. A man like him would use them to his advantage.
“Mr. Savisin.” She took his hand, watched as her small hand was swallowed up in his, devoured. The shake was warm, dry and for Esma, unaccountably sensual, causing a little fire to spark between her thighs. Fuck. She should have had sex before she came. Except that really wasn’t an option since there was no one to have sex with. She ran her tongue over her dry lips, willed herself to keep her eyes on his face, willed herself not to check out his… uhmmm… assets, then smiled her best Esma smile, well, her best sober Esma smile and gave his hand a squeeze. She saw the small upturning of his lips when she did that. Not sure if she made him smile or grimace. Didn’t matter at that point. It was too late to take back the squeeze.
“Come.” Janice motione
d with her head as she strolled into the sitting area. The office was large, masculine, dark if the curtains were shut, dark now even though they were open because it was a cloudy winter Vancouver day. A wood-burning fire was crackling in the fireplace, which made the room warm and cozy. A large desk by the window, leather couches and chairs around solid, custom carved wood end tables, low lighting. A wet bar, tasteful paintings. Rusya Savisin, in his dark suit, dark shirt and tie, fit perfectly in this room. Rusya, tall, large, hard, breath-taking.
Esma followed Janice and sat in the armchair indicated. Too big for someone of her build and she found herself wishing she’d worn heels. She wasn’t expecting to be seated in something so large, with soft cushions that she sank into. She felt like a child, felt like she should curl up into the chair or sit cross-legged. She did none of that though, for obvious reasons. Instead, to give her some stature, she sat forward, her knees together, her spine stiff, her leather portfolio on the top of her thighs. Her resume, most of it not faked even though her name was. Esma Akkaya, a name she embraced now, her birth name as dead as her husband. Her only reference was a man she didn’t know by the name of Burak Emin, an associate of Jackman’s, someone who would vouch for her credentials.
Rusya seated himself across from her on the couch. He moved fluidly, sat elegantly, picked up the file off the coffee table with his long, sexy fingers and flipped it open. Esma took a deep breath. Her initial interview was over the phone with Janice. Preliminary stuff, enough to convince Janice to recommend to Rusya that he meet with Esma. But this interview was going to do her in.
It was bad enough that she was walking into this wolf’s den essentially unarmed and sober. Those vulnerabilities she maybe could have dealt with, but her physical reaction to him was going to seriously fuck her up. She could see her death in the shadows of his eyes and now that she’d met him, it all seemed so unfair. But then he was way out of her league anyway. She was attractive, sometimes saucy, and when she wanted to be, sexy. But that was all little girl games that she occasionally played with men. Usually when she was emboldened by a few drinks. She knew without being told that none of that would work on this man.