by V. F. Mason
If ever.
Quickly finishing up, I found jeans and a black T-shirt inside the closet, surprisingly in my size. No shoes were in sight, so I’d use the ones I came in. Critically scanning my appearance one last time, I rushed to the main cabin. Michael wore headphones and clicked hectically on his laptop while his photo camera’s wire stayed attached in a USB port.
Vitya read some papers while Dom sipped whiskey, listening to the news from the flat screen TV.
All the men paused what they were doing and snapped their attention to me. Their eyes unsettled me, so I walked to Dom, sat on his lap, resting my butt near his groin while my legs extended onto the next chair, and nuzzled his neck, enjoying his masculine scent, which reminded me of cigarettes and expensive cologne—even though he never smoked, or at least, not in front of me.
Resisting this man was useless, so why not embrace the feeling? Michael raised two thumbs, while Vitya approved with a chin lift. Dom froze for a moment, but then his arm circled me, and everyone continued their business.
Russia.
In a few hours we’d be there, in a country I’d never been to before but heard so much about. Visiting was one thing, but I had to love it enough to live in it. And this scared me the most.
What if I could never love Russia, or worse… the Bratva?
Man with the dragon tattoo
Lying in a warm pool of blood as my nose greedily inhaled the smell of sex, I watched the fruits of my art through a haze of smoke from the joint in my mouth.
Limbs scattered around the floor, removed eyes and fingers in glass cups, and finally two lifeless bodies, or what was left of them anyway.
Fantastic night. This was supposed to be my celebration party. Instead, Don was fucking alive, so once again, I would have to act a role for him. Loud sobs from the woman lying on my shoulder disturbed my nirvana. “Please stop doing it,” she said with a fear-coated, trembling voice, making my dick stir in the process. Too bad, it was too sore for any more performance, or I’d have fucked her ass raw.
Bianca. Bianca.
How could she not understand the drill after so many years of being mine? Patting her head gently, I licked the side of her cheek, still enjoying the taste of her essence on my tongue. “Soon, Bianca, we will rule the world.” She shivered, but couldn't get away, because her legs were chained to the cell and her hands were cuffed to me.
My grand plan slightly detoured with Don’s inability to be killed, but it was still in motion. The pakhan took Rosa with him, which meant he could easily be blamed for this shit, and the war would still be on. Going to Russia was out of the question, but they would come back to States in time for Damian Scott’s wedding.
The day of his wedding would be the day of my revenge against those who diminished me and claimed all the things that were always meant to belong to me.
And then, fucking then, no one would ever laugh at me again or think I was an unworthy piece of shit.
My stomach growled one more time, and nausea hit me hard. Having no food in your mouth in the last three days would do that to a person I imagined.
We usually had food ready in our regular dumpsters scattered around town, knowing which buildings had better drinks or bread or leftovers of meat and chicken. If we were lucky, we could even find some fruits or vegetables. Sure enough, they smelled like shit or had mold on them, but still it was possible to find delicious places to bite into. The food was enough to keep us going until four days ago, when some gang, which consisted of five young, muscled men, blocked the dumpsters and told us to not enter their territory. It belonged to their ‘beggars,’ whatever that meant.
Duncan and Marty scouted other neighborhoods, but they had no luck. Plus, the guys were too old to spend their days on the street, so the responsibility was placed on my shoulders, even if it wasn't said out loud.
They took me in when no one wanted me, so I had to repay their kindness.
The crowded Austin street right in the middle of the day was busy with people running around to work, or families enjoying outings together. Some walked their dogs or held burgers in their hands. The place was perfect for what I had in mind—stealing some wallets. I knew stealing was a bad thing, and Duncan and Marty didn't approve of it, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The only time I ever did was to get some scarves, hats, or gloves for us.
But we simply couldn't survive one more day without at least a few slices of bread, and no matter how much I begged on the streets or stood near supermarkets, folks passed me by with an annoyed expression or fear. One of them even muttered, “Those shouldn't even be allowed here.” Her words stung, because what the fuck did she know about life on the streets? Sometimes life didn't give you a choice and you had to make the best of what you had.
Stupid, ignorant people.
So I lurked in the corner, studying everyone and searching for the best spot to grab a wallet.
A woman passed by. She held her baby as her bag swung from side to side, making it an easy target. Her baby cried, and she seemed tired, because no matter how many times she muttered, “Sssh,” the toddler wouldn't shut up. No, single mothers were out of the question.
An old man slowly walked with a cane, a twenty peeking from his back pocket, but again, my conscience wouldn't allow me to do it. Who the fuck knew how much money he had anyway? Maybe it was his last twenty.
A kid ran quickly with his backpack hanging low, but yeah, a no too.
Fuck, could someone suitable finally appear?
And then, for the first time in my fucked-up life, God granted my wish. An older man, maybe in his late forties, wearing a grey suit, slowly strolled down the street as he read a newspaper. Sunglasses hid his expression, but by the expensive gold watch on his wrist, it was clear as day he was loaded, and my little Robin Hood act wouldn't hurt his lifestyle. The brown wallet bulged in his right pocket, so my eyes zoomed in on the target, and as he passed me by, I dug my hand in, quickly took it out, and almost screamed in victory.
However, it didn't last long, as his strong arm grabbed mine and I came face to face with gray-as-steel eyes as the man removed his glasses and scanned my appearance. Out of nowhere, four muscled men with guns wearing identical black suits showed up behind him, and the corner of the street became impossibly small.
“Name.” Only one word, but his voice was stern, and I mentally prepared for the blow that would come. In my experience, such men weren't kind.
“Dominic,” I replied, swallowing hard.
“Where did you learn to do it so flawlessly, boy?”
Boy. Toy. Pet.
I struggled through his hold, as fear crept in at the idea this man would kidnap me and order me to service him. He didn't budge, his hold still strong on me, but something flashed through his eyes, and for a second, kindness shone through them. “Do you want to live, Dominic?” he asked, rubbing his chin while his men looked at me, confused.
Did I?
For so long, my only wish was death, but the two years on the streets… they gave me an opportunity to discover the world, and as stupid as it sounded, I still wished to breathe and walk.
To have the freedom of going wherever the hell I pleased, even if it meant being called ‘homeless.’
“Yes,” I replied, hesitation coloring my voice.
His mouth spread in a welcoming smile, as he said, “Then I have a proposition for you.”
That day, Vasya Konstantinov took me under his wing, essentially making the Bratva my family.
The day my life finally changed for the better.
Dominic
Going down the stairs, I glanced back as the clicking of Rosa’s heels halted as if she were undecided about taking the next step.
She stood with her eyes wide, as she placed her hand above her brow, shielding herself from the early morning sun.
“Rosa?”
She frowned, and then fanned herself. “It’s hot,” she said, with a dumbstruck expression on her face.
“Last time I checked, we had August on the calendar.”
“But it’s Russia,” she replied so matter-of-factly that I needed a moment for her words to sink in.
The minute they did, I tilted my head back and laughed loudly, which probably surprised my people waiting for us on the ground. Folding her arms, she glared at me. “What’s so funny?”
Holding my stomach because it hurt from my amusement, I replied, “Please tell me you aren't one of those people who thinks Russia has only cold weather and bears walk around on the streets as the population sips vodka on a daily basis?” Her cheeks heated as she swallowed loudly, giving me the answers I needed. “Believe it or not, we even have those tall buildings called skyscrapers.”
The glare returned with full force, and she opened her mouth with a comeback, but she was interrupted by a low voice behind me. “Pakhan.” Turning around, I noticed Yuri for the first time standing with the rest of my byki near three white Mercedes S-classes. He removed the glasses from his face as his observant blue eyes scanned Rose with little interest.
Only one woman interested him, but unfortunately for everyone involved, she died tragically ten years ago when he fell in love with the enemy. Finally, we reached the button of the stairs, coming closer to the men as Vitya and Michael followed us.
“Yuri,” I greeted, as he extended his hand, and one arm hugged me.
“Good to see you.” He patted my back, then murmured for my ears only, “Warehouse.” Fuck. We only met there if no one could deal with the problems but me. Not exactly how I planned my first day back at home with my woman who needed me, but business called.
And the pakhan’s first priority was the Bratva. Nodding, I grabbed Rosa’s chin while she slumped her shoulders, clearly not liking all these scary-looking men. “Krasavica, Michael will take you to headquarters. Get comfortable there, and I’ll come back as soon as I can.” That was what men usually did, right? They informed their women about their whereabouts and all that jazz?
Expecting an emotional outburst or whining, she shocked me with a soft peck on the cheek, and the surprise on the faces of my byki and Yuri was plain to see.
I fucked women and then dismissed them right away. Never once had I had a mistress who lasted longer than one night. But Rosa was no piece of ass or a mistress, and I’d make sure everyone knew and remembered it.
Michael already had the car ready for Rosa, so I opened the door and motioned for her to get in. She sat comfortably, alone in the back, as I closed it behind her, and Michael hopped in the front seat near the driver, but not before he shared a look with Vitya. Once they left the airport, my attention focused on Yuri, as I ordered, “Talk. Details. Names. Everything.”
Sighing heavily, he proceeded to deliver more information that boiled my blood.
Rosa
“We’re here,” Michael said, while lip-synching to some Russian song that sounded like someone pulled a cat’s tail, and I didn't understand shit, but by his shoulders swaying to the beat and the driver’s constant nodding along, the song seemed quite popular.
To each their own, I guessed. “Thank God,” I muttered, and without bothering to wait, I jumped from the car and looked at the huge mansion standing in front of me.
The huge construction spread horizontally, as though divided into different sections. Made out of brown brick, it probably could withstand fire and tornadoes. Several windows had balconies, and the whole thing was surrounded by the forest in the middle of fucking nowhere. Metal bars with cameras surrounded the area, so no one could enter without notice, or escape for that matter. Overall, the mansion expressed an expensive design but at the same time hopelessness and depression, because the green grass had no flowers, fountains, or little trees. Just concrete paths for long walks and a huge parking area for multiple cars, motorcycles, and… was that a truck?
My stomach flipped as flashbacks assaulted me. My knees wobbled, and Michael caught my arm in time.
This place reminded me so much of the place Erik had kept me, no escape, nothing. “It gets easier in time,” he whispered in my ear, and my eyes travelled to his, finding there, for the first time, the same pain that hid in my heart. “Promise you, it’s not half as bad as it looks.” Squeezing his hand tighter, I let him walk me toward the entrance with massive iron doors, which opened the minute Michael entered a specific code, and then we immediately stepped into another world.
How else could I describe what my eyes saw?
Loud music blared from the speakers, cigar smoke in the air, alcohol, and something else, musky and gagging. Through the blur, I noticed navy-blue couches, billiard tables, men chatting and laughing, along with women sitting on their laps or wandering around or dancing on the table in short skirts or see-through lingerie. A black marble floor reflected the colorful crystal chandelier hanging dangerously low, considering how high those, well… women swayed their hands. Curtains were permanently shut, hammered to the wall with pointed nails where a few jackets hung.
A bar was in the corner of the room with a wooden counter and a better assortment of alcohol than in some clubs. A bartender with a huge tiger tattoo on his arm efficiently created new drinks and passed them to anyone who ordered. In other words, apparently the mafia guys unwound here.
He brought me to his headquarters? Cosa Nostra’s headquarters in New York were located outside of town too, where members owned rooms, practiced their fighting and gun skills, fucked whores, and generally discussed business. As far as I remembered, Dad used to live in there too before he married Mom, or so I was told.
This reminded me a lot of biker compounds I read in romance novels. Wasn't mafia supposed to be different?
“I think this place requires no introduction,” Michael joked. “Once you walk farther into the main lobby, the second floor’s right wing belongs to the pakhan, so that will be your place too. The first floor consists of single rooms for the Bratva, Dom’s office, basement, kitchen, and dining room. The outside has a swimming pool, sauna, firing range, and various equipment for gym activity. Any questions?”
Blinking a few times from all this information given at once, I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay then, let’s go to—” His back pocket vibrated, and he held his index finger up for me to wait a second as he picked it up. “Ало? Что? Какова хрена, Дима. У меня тут женщина босса.” (Alo? Chto? Kakova hrena, Dima. U menya tut jensina bossa.) Whatever he said was blah blah blah and more blah to me, I had some knowledge in the Russian language, but for sure, it didn't extend to full sentences when native speakers spoke fast.
He hung up the phone and smiled at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, Rosa. There is an emergency, and Dima needs me to fix it.” He tangled his fingers in his hair, exhaling a frustrated sigh, clearly not happy with the thought of leaving me alone.
“Hey, no problem. I don’t need a supervisor.”
He didn't look convinced, but nodded anyway. “Kostya!” he shouted, and the bartender raised his head in our direction. “Come here.” The man huffed, annoyed, and ended up at our side after a few seconds.
“Что надо?”(Chto nado?) His voice was deep and husky, which went well with his bold hair, sky blue eyes, and pale skin. He was buff with tattoos covering his neck and arms, and he had piercings in his brows, while his forehead glistened with sweat.
“Женщина Пахана.” (Jensina Pakhana.) He introduced me as pakhan’s woman.
Kostya nodded and scanned my appearance with a bored expression.
Relieved with him obviously agreeing, Michael kissed me on the cheek. “He’ll show you to your room. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” He placed his iPod in my hand. “Enjoy some music.” Yeah, no. If his playlist consisted of songs similar to the ones he listened to in the car, my ears couldn't take more bleeding.
Once he disappeared, Kostya motioned with his head. “Follow me.” I raised my brow in surprise at his English with a heavy accent. “American
this time. Russian pussy apparently is not good anymore.” I frowned but couldn't dwell on it much as he led us to a narrow hall with black carpet and rooms on each side like in a hotel. He entered one in the middle and turned on the light. The room wasn't much to look at. A small closet with clothes, a balcony with a view of the main side of the house, a king-sized black bed with rumpled sheets, and a modest nightstand with a white bedside lamp.
Um, the pakhan of the Bratva resided in here? “Are you sure you aren't mistaken?” I asked, and he didn't even bother replying, closing the door behind him.
Deciding to explore the room, I searched through the closet and bedside drawers, but found nothing but a huge stack of condoms and my heart sank.
He brought me to a place where he fucked other women? Only now, my eyes registered rumbled sheets, stains of red lipstick, and female toiletries in the bathroom. Devastation at seeing this part of his life shook me to my core, and I wanted nothing more than to lie down and close my eyes from all this shit, but no way in hell would I sit on his fuck pad!
How dare he even bring me here? Where was his respect? Frankly, he was no blushing virgin, but to be so blindly oblivious to my feelings?
Then another thought swooshed all the air from my lungs. Had he been faithful all this time? He came to Russia quite frequently. Were there women in between? The buzzing sound in my ear threatened to send me into a panic attack, so before it happened, I darted from the room and back to the bar to forget myself in the drink and music.
Dominic
“Pakhan, please,” the man begged on his knees, almost kissing the tips of my leather shoes, as he breathed heavily in fear. Vitya cursed in Russian, clearly disapproving of such behavior while other byki, bodyguards, snickered.