Imagine a group of street rats like us living like this. Finding moldy shreds of half eaten blini in a dumpster used to be the highlight of our day.
There are platters and bowls of food on the table. Knishes, Olivier salad, khachapuri bread boats filled with melted cheese.
I glance at the bartender. He knows what each of us likes to drink. He rushes over with a glass of vodka on the rocks, Stoli Elit, then just as quickly moves back to his station.
Feodyr’s been hitting the whiskey hard. His eyes are bloodshot, and I can smell it on his sweat. That’s happening more frequently these days. I’m not the only one unravelling.
Jasha glances up from his laptop as I sit down.
“Vilyat has just sold several original pieces of artwork and most of his wife’s jewelry,” he says. “He’s almost got enough to pay us back now. It’s getting harder to gather information on him, though. He’s being cautious. He knows we have eyes and ears everywhere. He’s stopped talking about his future plans with anybody, even his closest men.”
I nod.
“We’re almost there,” I say.
“I hope Edik or Latvi don’t get to him first,” Slavik grumbles, and bites into a pirozhki.
I shrug. “If they do, they’ll make it slow and ugly,” I say. “Latvi probably won’t live long enough to get to him anyway. We’ve got the girl in place.” I grin at the thought of what I have planned for Latvi. Edik and Latvi weren’t directly responsible for my brother’s death, but they knew about what Vilyat and Willow’s father Vasily were doing, and they did nothing about it. And their last name is Toporov.
I don’t personally need to kill Vilyat. I’ve been killing him for a year now. He’s a shell of what he once was. He barely sleeps, he has screaming nightmares, he has lost so much weight his clothes hang off him. He has deep circles under his eyes. He’s developed two ulcers.
He has no friends left, and lives in fear every waking minute of the day.
Like me and Pyotr once did.
Jasha takes a long, thoughtful pull on his ice-cold beer.
“Have you ever thought about what we’ll do when we’re finished with this?” he asks me.
“What do you mean?” Feodyr growls, and he empties his glass of whiskey with one gulp and signals to the bartender. “Bring me the bottle!” he yells.
We wait until the bartender has put the bottle down on the table and retreated.
“I mean, we are almost at the end. We have accomplished everything we set out to do,” Jasha says. “Where do we go from here?”
It’s true. I gathered my troops and built up this empire for one reason: revenge. We’ve lived our lives to carry out our mission. We’ve taken our enemies out one by one. The government officials who were bribed to look the other way. The gangs who hurt us when we were weak and vulnerable.
They never knew who we were, or why we were doing it. If the men on our hit list had known the connection, then the remaining targets would have known to go into hiding. To take extra precautions.
I have one rule for my assassinations. The targets have to die slow, agonizing, deaths.
Now, there are only a few names left on the list. A mayor and a few officials in the small town I grew up in. Vilyat and his two surviving brothers.
“It will never end, mudak!” Feodyr snapped. He just called Jasha an asshole. This should end well.
Jasha slams his beer down. “What did you just say?”
“Are you going soft?” Feodyr taunts him. “Do you want to settle down and make babies with some whore? Maybe you could take up gardening.”
Jasha leaps to his feet. “I’ll show you soft, you pussy little bitch.”
And they’re rolling around on the tile, raining blows on each other.
I sip my alcohol and let them fight for a bit, then gesture at Slavik and Maks, who pull them apart.
“Stop!” I shout at them. “We’ve discussed this. We’re nearing the end of our quest, but we’ve still got a business to run. We’ll still take out anyone who gets in our way.” We’ll dial back on some of our more hardcore activity, but we’ll still be in shipping, in distribution. We’ll still be fighting to maintain our position at the top of the heap. We won’t go soft.
But it will be different, I know that. For more years than I care to count, revenge has been our oxygen, our sunlight, our meat and drink. What will life be like without serving that higher purpose? We won’t know until the last enemy falls.
I think that’s behind Feodyr’s increasing surliness these days. What is it that they say about Alexander the Great? When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.
Feodyr doesn’t seem to hear me. He sways on his feet. His mouth and nose are bleeding and his eyes are crazed.
He needs a distraction as much as I do.
“Go shower, asshole,” I snap at him. “We’re going out tonight, and I need you to be on top of your game.”
An hour later, he’s cleaned up and changed, and we’re on my helicopter, heading to El Diamonte Casino in Las Vegas. I’ve brought Feodyr, Maks, Slavik and Karl. Men in my position don’t go anywhere without a show of muscle. It’s for the prestige as much as for the protection. If we want to be taken seriously, if we want to be able to do business, we are expected to behave in certain ways, wear certain clothes, drink the most expensive liquor, screw the most beautiful women. And we always travel with an entourage. Anyone who isn’t important enough to be a target isn’t important enough to do business with.
El Diamonte is bustling tonight as always, the usual crowd of chorus girls and supermodels, mobsters, movie stars and oligarchs.
I order drinks all round, and throw back vodka like it’s water.
I play roulette, and I can’t seem to lose. As a colorful mountain of chips piles up in front of me, I become irresistible. Gorgeous women crowd around me, rubbing their fake tits against my arms. I elbow them away and snarl.
I came here planning to fuck my way through three or four prostitutes. I can’t get hard for any of them. They’re fake, they’re greedy, they wouldn’t know loyalty if the dictionary definition was tattooed inside their eyelids. They’re the opposite of the woman I’m trying not to think about.
My men are taking turns letting women service them in an exclusive, members-only room. Right now, Feodyr is by my side. He’s sober, as per my orders, although his eyes are a little bloodshot.
One of the Italians, Carmelo, who owns a shipping business in a territory near mine, approaches me as I head to the bar.
“What?” I growl.
“Nice work you’re doing, with the Toporov family,” Carmelo says.
I lean against the bar, and the bartender hurries over with a vodka for me and a soda water for Feodyr.
“And?” I prod him. Get this over with and get away from me.
Carmelo clears his throat. “That girl you got? Willow? How much you want for her when you’re done with her?”
“The fuck you talking about?” It comes out in a snarl.
“I hear how you dress her up and walk her around. Let everyone use her.” His bulging eyes glow at the thought. I’m sure he’s hard right now.
So Karl and Mikhail haven’t just been advertising for me, they’ve been exaggerating. Probably claiming they’ve both had her. That suits my purposes perfectly.
Except the thought of people thinking about Willow like that fills me with irrational rage.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He leers at me. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that action.”
He reeks of sweat and expensive cologne poured on by the gallon. The thought of him tearing into little Willow makes me want to slice his face off. I restrain my temper, but just barely. I don’t want to go to war with the Italians right now, not when I’m busy destroying the Toporov family. One massacre at a time.
“That’s a perk for those who work for me. You don’t work for me.” I drain my vodka in one long pull and slam the emp
ty glass down on the bar. I turn and walk away. He keeps pace.
Feodyr scowls at him. He doesn’t take the hint.
“One million dollars. And I’d dispose of the evidence when me and my friends were done with her.” He leers. “I got a hog farm. She’d make some tasty sausage.”
I glance at him sideways, and it takes all my self-control not to end him right there. “If you want to live, don’t mention it again.”
He is too stupid to know how much danger he’s in. He just shrugs. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Yes, I do.
And if he ever comes near Willow, that knowledge will come in handy.
I turn to Feodyr. “We’re leaving,” I snap at him.
As we stand by the helicopter, with Maks hurrying toward us, Feodyr looks at me, a scowl creasing his forehead. “Sergei. Sir. You’re growing too attached to her. You’re letting her change you, and not in a good way. You should get rid of her while you still can.”
While you still can? What the fuck does that mean?
I whirl on him with a snarl, and he meets my gaze, unafraid. After living in literal hell for years, he does not fear anything, including death.
Images from our past flash before my eyes.
The men taking us into that room, one at a time… The dark despair, the sickening terror, knowing what was waiting for us… Feodyr’s screams competing with mine… Feodyr taking a bullet for me as we fled…his blood bubbling out of his lungs, the terrible wheeze, his panicked gasps for breath…
I will not kill him tonight.
I hope.
Instead, I speak to him in the only language he understands. I put my hand on his chest and shove him so hard he staggers back a step. “You question my leadership?” I bark at him. “Maybe you think you could do a better job?”
He throws his hands up in despair. “I don’t want the leadership! I would die for you, Sergei, you know that! I want you to keep your eyes on the prize!”
“I am keeping my eyes on the fucking prize. And Willow is just one little pawn in this game. Whether she lives or dies is of no consequence to our goal. I decide what I want to do with her, when, and how. Mind your own business, and stay the fuck out of mine. Don’t make me say it again. I’d miss you,” I say with a sneer.
Chapter Twelve
SERGEI
Day ten…
Staying away from Willow isn’t working. It’s just making me irritable as fuck and fogging my brain. I need a clear head if I want to stay on top of my game. I need a release for my tension. So I summon her to dinner – alone.
I ensure that she’s wearing a sheer dress that barely covers her tits and ass, and I ensure that Jasha parades her past a group of my men, including Karl and Mikhail, who whoop and holler obscene things at her but don’t dare make a move to touch her.
But when she comes into the dining room, head held high, tears shimmering in her beautiful eyes, I walk over, shut the door and lock it.
She looks around in surprise and confusion, seeing no one else there, then takes her seat at the table where I tell her to. Next to me.
She looks down at her plate. Tonight we’re eating filet mignon tender enough to melt in the mouth, in a rich red wine sauce, with a side of caramelized pears and red onions. There’s a cut crystal wine glass with Cabernet Sauvignon sitting next to the gold-rimmed dish.
“Eat,” I growl at her. “You waiting for a fucking invitation?”
She obeys me, taking a bite. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know when I should wait for an order or just act on my own, sir.” There’s that sassy bite again. That undercurrent of defiance. I wish she’d do it more, because I love to beat her beautiful ass.
“Sucks to be you,” I say.
A flash of resentment in those beautiful blue eyes. “Yes, it does, sir.”
She takes another bite.
“For this meal, you can dispense with calling me sir,” I say.
She doesn’t thank me, or acknowledge it. She looks down at her plate and keeps eating.
She’s too much in my head these days. I need to get into hers.
“So, Willow,” I say. “What is it that you want out of life? Other than to get away from me? Answer me honestly.”
She looks at me, her expression cool. “Well, that would be priority number one,” she says. “Twenty days left.”
So she’s been counting. Ouch.
“And after that?”
She shoots me a puzzled look. “I will go back home to my uncle.”
“And? Just continue to be a sponge? Another leech drinking the Toporov blood money?” I’m trying to get a rise out of her. I want something to push against.
She scowls at me. There’s my girl. “I am not a leech. I currently help my aunt with my cousins. May I call them, by the way?”
“No, and don’t ask again. You went to college and got a bachelor’s in fine arts. You worked as a teacher’s assistant in college. Why didn’t you get a job?”
Her eyes widen slightly in surprise. Good. Anything I can do to keep her off balance, to remind her who has the upper hand.
“My aunt can’t function on her own. My uncle is…hard to deal with. She really needs my help.”
“So your plan is to just stay there as unpaid live-in help until Yuri turns eighteen? You could have gotten work as a teacher and then been with them in the evenings, if it came to that.” Why am I pushing her like this? Why do I care that she’s chosen to sacrifice her life, her happiness, for those filth?
She frowns down at her plate and takes another bite of filet mignon. I watch her slide the fork between her plump, luscious lips and bite down on it, and her eyes half close in appreciation. I was already hard as soon as she came in the room; now I stifle a groan of frustrated desire. “It’s just not done in my family. Single women wait until they meet the right man and get married.”
“So why haven’t you got married?” The thought of her being with someone else makes me murderous.
The conversation is taking a wrong turn.
This is bad. This is dangerous.
She gives a weary, resigned shrug. “My uncle has sort of tried to fix me up with some gross, older men who would have paid him a dowry, but I’ve always managed to get out of it by reminding him how much my aunt needs me to help with the children. And pointing out that he’d need several nannies to replace me, with everything I do. He’s actually pretty cheap, unless he’s spending money on things he can use to show off his status.”
“What is your long-term plan?”
She hesitates. “I…I don’t know. Survive another day, I guess.”
“Perhaps someday you’ll be an art therapist. Or an art teacher.” And I want to punch myself in the face for saying that. I can hear Feodyr’s voice mocking me. That’s so sweet, Sergei. You’re her career counselor now?
“I’d love that,” she sighs. “If I live that long.” The glance she gives me is a little questioning.
“Are you asking me if I’m going to kill you when your uncle fails to repay me?”
Her eyes widen, and she tenses. “We’re being really honest right now.”
“What, don’t you like it?” I taunt her.
“I don’t like much about you.”
“Except when I’m fucking you.”
Her eyes drop to the table. “Yes,” she says, and sets her fork down. “I like that. And I hate that about myself.”
I nod. “I know.”
Anger flashes in her eyes like heat lightning. “Why would you want to have sex with someone who doesn’t want to be with you?”
I give her a devilish smile. “Because, Willow, I never like it to be easy. I love the fight. And I love your tight little pussy, and when I take your tight little asshole, I’m going to love that too. I love how you taste. I love how you scream for me.”
Now she’s blushing red. My sweet little Willow.
I can’t wait anymore.
“Stand up,” I say. She obeys me.
“Bend over.” She bends over the table and her dress rides up, exposing her ass, perfect like a split peach. She’s not wearing any panties, as per my orders.
I kneel down behind her. I spread her cheeks and run my tongue along her plump pink lips.
“Oh.” It comes out as a whimper.
I trace the little rosebud of her asshole with my tongue, and think about fucking it.
All in good time.
She lets out a moan of pleasure that jolts me like a lightning bolt.
“Oh, yes,” she whispers.
Yes. She wants me. Yes. She’s mine.
I bury my face between her cheeks and lave her with my tongue, caressing her, drinking in her sweet honeydew taste. Her moans are driving me mad.
I stand up, and slide my pants down. Roll on the condom that I’ve pulled from my pocket.
I trail my fingers over the perfectly round globe of her left ass cheek, and she shivers.
“I like that,” she whispers.
There it is. I’m coaxing it out of her. Cracking that prim good-girl shell, until it shatters and I unleash the wild woman within.
Do I really want that? She already drives me mad with desire.
I can’t stop myself.
I slide inside her tight pussy, just an inch. Her hands are braced on the table. She moans and thrusts back against me, and I slide in a couple more inches.
“Please,” she begs. “I want you. Please.”
I tease her, moving in slowly, an inch at a time, as I grip her hips firmly and hold her in place. I slide out a little bit, just to hear her gasp of protest, just to know she wants me. Then I thrust in again, hard, and I am buried to the hilt.
Her pussy grips me, a tight, slick sheath squeezing my cock.
When I’m inside her, the world falls away. The darkness recedes and I’m living in the moment, with no pain and no guilt, nothing but pure animal lust. It’s never been like this for me before.
I grip her hips and piston into her, in, out, in, out. Her moans of pleasure sound like sobs now. “Yes…yes…like that…harder…”
Thirty Days of Pain Page 7