The Bratva’s Bride: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Henry, Jane

  We get back to our compound late at night. Maksym is disoriented and broken.

  I will kill them. I will kill every last motherfucking one of them.

  He’s under the doctor’s care now, resting under a powerful sedative while his broken limbs are set, his lacerations doctored, and he’s given IV fluids and nutrition. Larissa stays with me through it all, wincing when the needles poke his arms, wiping silently at her tears when they set four broken bones.

  “This is so cruel,” she says on a broken whisper. She stands to the side to allow the doctors I’ve summoned to do their work.

  I take her hand and tug her on my knee. “This is the world I live in.” I pause. “The world you live in. Can you handle this? My best man was kidnapped and brutalized. We’ve taken him back. This means war.”

  “War?” she repeats.

  “War, Larissa. Are you prepared for this?”

  Nodding, she places her head on my shoulder. “Prepared? No,” she whispers. “Will I do what it takes for me to learn my place in the brotherhood? Hell yes.”

  I fight against this. She’d be an asset, but I can’t have her in danger. I can’t have her on the field.

  “You’ll do exactly what I say,” I warn.

  “We go over this like literally every day.”

  I give her butt a smack. “Maybe we should go over it twice a day.”

  With an adorable pout, she places her chin in her hand. “If you say so.”

  “I do. I fucking do.”

  “Okay, okay. Got it.” She nods. “I’ll do what you say. But I don’t want to sit by idly, Demyan. I can bring tools to this table. Skills that would be an asset to you.”

  Her beauty and strength are assets to me, more than she’ll ever know.

  I stand and take her hand, and we walk quietly to our room. Maksym is recovering. He needs his rest.

  We go back to our suite in silence. When we reach the door, I open it and take her in with me. I call my men to get the status update.

  The three men who ambushed us were killed, no one else has followed. It’s only a matter of time before they discover we’ve taken him back. How they retaliate is up to them.

  I shut and lock the door behind her, then lift her in my arms. Her legs encircle me, her hands on my neck. I bend down and give her a gentle kiss.

  “Malyshka. I can make the second bedroom your office. Let you run the inside operations that require the skills you have.”

  “You would do that?” she inclines her head curiously.

  “Of course.”

  Grinning, she tightens her grip on me.

  “Yes. Yes, yes, yes! You’ll let me work for you?”

  “With me, but yes, I’ll be your boss.”

  Grinning, she quirks a brow. “Do I get paid?”

  “Of course.” I suggest a salary and her brows shoot up.

  “And Calina?”

  “Calina will have a place here as well. To rest and recover.”

  “No more institutions,” she says, pleading.

  “No more institutions,” I promise.

  “Thank you,” she whispers. I draw her to my chest and hug her.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. “You found Maksym. You brought joy to me. But more, Larissa.” I squeeze her, because I can’t let her go. And now that I don’t have to, I will spend the rest of my life showing her how much she means to me. “You’ve brought purpose to my life,” I tell her. “And I will spend my life showing you how much that means to me.”

  Epilogue

  Four months later

  “America?” she blinks in surprise, her fork raised halfway to her mouth at breakfast. We’re sitting at our table, as we usually do, eating our morning meal together.

  We do everything together. Everything. She joins me when I hit the workout room, and does her own routine. When she spends time with her sister, I go downstairs. It took me some time to get used to seeing double, but the feeling quickly dissipated because Calina and Larissa are like night and day. I’m thankful Larissa has her own name now, because it represents a new start. A new life together.

  “America,” I tell her. “We are going to visit my friends Kazimir and Sadie. They live near the ocean in Washington State.”

  Though Maksym is recovering physically, he hasn’t mentally. He would give his captors nothing, and he endured endless torture as a result. He flails in his sleep and experiences intense post-traumatic stress syndrome.

  After months of therapy, his therapist said it’s time for a change of pace. The doctor suggested a move, something even drastic to get him out of his current state of mind. He broods in angry silence, and has expressed thanks for saving his life, but other than that, doesn’t speak.

  With Amaranov gone, and a new official in his place, our rivals seem distracted. We’ve agreed to a temporary truce while the politicians sort out their new roles.

  I have not forgotten the way they tortured Maksym. I have not forgotten their traitorous plans with Amaranov. But for now, I will see to the rest and taking care of Larissa and Maksym. They are my family.

  So when Kazimir, our former brother who now lives in the States, offered to take Maksym into his home, I agreed.

  Larissa and I will join him on the trip.

  Her reaction surprises me, her lower lip trembling. “I haven’t been to America since…” Her voice trails off. Since her mother died. Since her father took her and Calina to Russia.

  “Well. Is there anything you miss about it?” I ask curiously. She places her fork down.

  “Anything I miss? Are you kidding? I miss the food.” She looks away. “The ocean. The language. She shoots me a withering look. “Reliable fucking internet.” I stifle a smile. Larissa is no submissive, and it’s one thing I love about her. “I miss democracy. The very air in America different.”

  I scoff. “Pollution smells different than the clean mountains? You miss that?”

  “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” she says, buttering her rye bread. “And for the love of God, I want an American donut, not those little fried dough things you top with powdered sugar and pass off as donuts.”

  I give her a curious look. “What do you put on American donuts?”

  “Chocolate and jam and glaze,” she says, licking her lips.

  “That sounds disgusting.”

  “It’s delicious.”

  I can’t help but smile. She’s adorable and feisty, hot-tempered and brilliant. Loyal and outspoken.

  And all mine.

  She continues. “Good coffee. Coffee shops!”

  “What’s wrong with our coffee?”

  “Yoga,” she says, on a tirade now, ignoring my question.

  “Yoga? Why the fuck can’t you do yoga here?”

  “It’s not the same. Traffic-free driving,” she continues listing American amenities off her fingers while she chews her bread. “Affordable shopping. Sales racks. People who smile.”

  “Okay, now you’re taking this too far,” I say with mock severity. “We smile here!”

  “Like once a year on Christmas,” she mutters, wagging a finger at me chidingly. “You, sir, are an austere group of people.”

  I get up from my chair and love how her eyes widen. I love how she still calls me sir.

  “That’s enough, little kisa,” I tell her, but my tone holds a teasing edge, feigning to be affronted. “Don’t take this too far. Is there anything you actually like about mother Russia?”

  I gather her in my arms and sit her on my knee, and when she smiles, it’s like sun breaking through clouds after a long winter. My chest warms and I can’t help but smile back.

  “There are many things I like about Russia, Demyan. But what I love most about it is you.”

  She frames my face with her little, soft hands.

  When her lips meet mine, I know I’ll give her everything she wants and more. American donuts and good coffee, a shopping spree that beats all shopping sprees, and I’ll even smile at her. I’ll make love to her when
she wants slow and steady, and I’ll fuck her when she needs her stern master. I’ll kiss her to sleep and hold her to me, promising sweet dreams and undying devotion. I’ll slay her demons and protect her to the very death. Larissa is my special girl, my woman. My everything.

  “Alright, then. We bring Maksym to rest with Kaz and Sadie.” I grimace with what I’m about to agree to next. “We… visit. Like fucking tourists.”

  Her lips twitch. “Poor guy. No gun to tote? No one to command? How will you deal?”

  I tug a lock of her hair. “Who says I’ll have no one to command?” I tease, but already, my cock tightens beneath her. Grinning, she squirms on purpose on my lap.

  “If only you had someone you could take over you knee,” she says in a whisper. “Or tie up and torture.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  She purrs like the little kitten she is, gently tracing the fresh ink on my arm, a little kitten curled up and content.

  “You do,” she whispers. “I love you, Demyan.”

  “And I love you.”

  I will take her to America. It will be almost like our honeymoon. And then we return. We will not leave the Bratva. I cannot leave the men I’ve pledged to lead forever.

  But I will do so with my wife by my side.

  Forever.

  THE END

  Previews

  PREVIEWS

  The Bratva’s Baby (Wicked Doms)

  Kazimir

  The wrought iron park bench I sit on is ice cold, but I hardly feel it. I’m too intent on waiting for the girl to arrive. The Americans think this weather is freezing, but I grew up in the bitter cold of northern Russia. The cold doesn’t touch me. The ill-prepared people around me pull their coats tighter around their bodies and tighten their scarves around their necks. For a minute, I wonder if they’re shielding themselves from me, and not the icy wind.

  If they knew what I’ve done… what I’m capable of… what I’m planning to do… they’d do more than cover their necks with scarves.

  I scowl into the wind. I hate cowardice.

  But this girl… this girl I’ve been commissioned to take as mine. Despite outward appearances, she’s no coward. And that intrigues me.

  Sadie Ann Warren. Twenty-one years old. Fine brown hair, plain and mousy but fetching in the way it hangs in haphazard waves around her round face. Light brown eyes, pink cheeks, and full lips.

  I wonder what she looks like when she cries. When she smiles. I’ve never seen her smile.

  She’s five-foot-one and curvy, though you wouldn’t know it from the way she dresses in thick, bulky, black and gray muted clothing. I know her dress size, her shoe size, her bra size, and I’ve already ordered the type of clothing she’ll wear for me. I smile to myself, and a woman passing by catches the smile. It must look predatory, for her step quickens.

  Sadie’s nondescript appearance makes her easily meld into the masses as a nobody, which is perhaps exactly what she wants.

  She has no friends. No relatives. And she has no idea that she’s worth millions.

  Her boss, the ancient and somewhat senile head librarian of the small-town library where she works won’t even realize she hasn’t shown up for work for several days. My men will make sure her boss is well distracted yet unharmed. Sadie’s abduction, unlike the ones I’ve orchestrated in the past, will be an easy one. If trouble arises eventually, we’ll fake her death.

  It’s almost as if it was meant to be. No one will know she’s gone. No one will miss her. She’s the perfect target.

  I sip my bitter, steaming black coffee and watch as she makes her way up to the entrance of the library. It’s eight-thirty a.m. precisely, as it is every other day she goes to work. She arrives half an hour early, prepares for the day, then opens the doors at nine. Sadie is predictable and routinized, and I like that. The trademark of a woman who responds well to structure and expectations. She’ll easily conform to my standards… eventually.

  To my left, a small cluster of girls giggles but quiets when they draw closer to me. They’re college-aged, or so. I normally like women much younger than I am. They’re more easily influenced, less jaded to the ways of men. These women, though, are barely women. Compared to Sadie’s maturity, they’re barely more than girls. I look away, but can feel their eyes taking me in, as if they think I’m stupid enough to not know they’re staring. I’m wearing a tan work jacket, worn jeans, and boots, the ones I let stay scuffed and marked as if I’m a construction worker taking a break. With my large stature, I attract attention of the female variety wherever I go. It’s better I look like a worker, an easy role to assume. No one would ever suspect what my real work entails.

  The girls pass me and it grates on my nerves how they resume their giggling. Brats. Their fathers shouldn’t let them out of the house dressed the way they are, especially with the likes of me and my brothers prowling the streets. It’s freezing cold and yet they’re dressed in thin skirts, their legs bare, open jackets revealing cleavage and tight little nipples showing straight through the thin fabric of their slutty tops. My palm itches to spank some sense into their little asses. I flex my hand.

  It’s been way, way too long since I’ve had a woman to punish.

  Control.

  Master.

  These girls are too young and silly for a man like me.

  Sadie is perfect.

  My cock hardens with anticipation, and I shift on my seat.

  I know everything about her. She pays her meager bills on time, and despite her paltry wage, contributes to the local food pantry with items bought with coupons she clips and sale items she purchases. Money will never be a concern for her again, but I like that she’s fastidious. She reads books during every free moment of time she has, some non-fiction, but most historical romance books. That amuses me about her. She dresses like an amateur nun, but her heroines dress in swaths of silk and jewels. She carries a hard-covered book with her in the bag she holds by her side, and guards it with her life. During her break time, before bed, and when she first wakes up in the morning, she writes in it. I don’t know yet what she writes, but I will. She does something with needles and yarn, knitting or something. I enjoy watching her weave fabric with the vibrant threads.

  She fidgets when she’s near a man, especially attractive, powerful men. Men like me.

  I’ve never seen her pick up a cell phone or talk to a friend. She’s a loner in every sense of the word.

  I went over the plan again this morning with Dimitri.

  Capture the girl.

  Marry her.

  Take her inheritance.

  Get rid of her.

  I swallow another sip of coffee and watch Sadie through the sliding glass doors of the library.Today she’s wearing an ankle-length navy skirt that hits the tops of her shoes, and she’s wrapped in a bulky gray cardigan the color of dirty dishwater. I imagine stripping the clothes off of her and revealing her creamy, bare, unblemished skin. My dick gets hard when I imagine marking her pretty pale skin. Teeth marks. Rope marks. Reddened skin and puckered flesh, christened with hot wax and my palm. I’ll punish her for the sin of hiding a body like hers. She won’t be allowed to with me.

  She’s so little. So virginal. An unsullied canvas.

  “Enjoy your last taste of freedom, little girl,” I whisper to myself before I finish my coffee. I push myself to my feet and cross the street.

  It’s time she met her future master.

  READ MORE

  Excerpt from Island Captive: A Dark Romance

  So much pain.

  So much darkness, and so much pain. My head throbs as if I’ve been whacked with a baseball bat. One knee radiates pain so badly I wonder briefly if I’ve lost a limb. The thought makes my stomach clench, as I slowly, painfully, reluctantly regain consciousness.

  My first thought is I survived.

  The second thought is, how badly am I hurt?

  And the third, did anyone else make it?

  I try to open my eyes, but my lids ar
e so heavy, it’s as if they’re pinned in place with super glue. I can’t open them. My head throbs with a dull ache, and something warm and wet trickles down my face. The metallic smell warns me that it’s blood. Mine, or someone else’s?

  I take stock of the pain I’m in. My head is killing, both internally and externally. Hot pain flares along my forehead, confirming that I have a head wound, but I can breathe. I focus on taking deep, cleansing breaths, welcoming the familiar rise and fall of my chest and shoulders with the effort of breathing. This is something I can still do. I may not be able to open my eyes, or speak, or walk, but I can breathe.

  It’s a start.

  I try to grasp the threads of memory but it’s hard when my head is throbbing and thoughts saunter in and out like wisps of clouds. Wet. Something is wet. Am I? Panic floods my gut as I remember we were crash landing in water. But no, I can still breathe. If I can still breathe, then I’m either not underwater or I’m dead.

  Death shouldn’t be this painful, though.

  Should it?

  My clothes are soaked, clinging to my body like cling wrap, my head heavy with damp hair.

  I have to open my eyes. I must open my eyes.

  With considerable effort, I open one of them. I’m on shore, and the wreckage of the plane is about ten yards from where I’m lying. Torn metal, smoke and small licks of flames litter the beach. The sun has almost set, the horizon a dark blue, and I realize with a shock that when that sun sets, I’ll be plunged into darkness.

  Then what?

  I push myself up to sitting, taking inventory of my wrecked body. My left leg feels miraculously fine, but pain radiates near my knee on my right leg, and I realize there’s something sticking out of my leg. It’s a piece of metal, like shrapnel, wedged into my leg below my knee. If it’s deep enough and I pull it, I could bleed out. Then what? Is anyone else here? With my stomach clenched in nausea and shaking hands, I reach for the metal that’s torn right through my pants, crimson blood staining the torn fabric. A dry sob catches in my throat. I have to get to safety.