“Where’s Oksana?” I ask, worried about his daughter—something he’s not worried about, which is also an oddity for him.
This whole situation, the wedding, and now this—it’s off, and I can tell the other men that surround me feel the same way.
MIKA CARRIES ME OUT of the Grand Ballroom at The Plaza after a shootout—a shootout in The Plaza! I don’t know how or why or who killed my husband, but I would be a liar if I said that I wasn’t relieved. I am. I completely and totally am.
“There’s a car waiting out front. Sergei’s plane is waiting for you,” a familiar voice says.
I turn my head to see my brother, Timofei, standing next to us. My eyes widen, but he shakes his head.
“Thanks, brother,” Mika grunts.
“Don’t thank me yet—not until this shit plays out completely,” Timofei murmurs.
Mika chuckles and then he starts moving again. I don’t speak. I’m trembling and afraid that, if I do, I’ll start to cry. I hate crying. I actually refuse to, so I wait out my emotions, trying to compose myself.
Mika shoves me, big ass dress and all, into a waiting SUV before he slides in behind me. I try to flatten the skirt of my dress out so that I can see him, but it’s pretty much impossible.
“Who picked this fucking thing out?” Mika asks as the car lurches forward.
“My wedding planner, Camilla,” I say as I roll my eyes.
That bitch was the bane of my existence for weeks. Toward the end, I just let her pick out whatever the hell she wanted. She didn’t listen to me, anyway.
“Well, it’s fucking ridiculous,” he grunts.
“I know,” I agree with a smile. “Do you mind telling me what just happened?”
“Timofei was supposed to shoot Gavril before you guys left for your honeymoon, outside The Plaza, right before he got into the car. Apparently, somebody else had plans, so he pulled the trigger early, so to speak,” he shrugs.
“Why?” I breathe.
“Why what?”
“Why did Timofei plan on killing Gavril?” I ask, needing to know the truth.
My brother wouldn’t defy my father’s wishes just because, there has to be a damn good reason for it.
“Gavril doesn’t love you. There was something not right about the whole scenario, and your brother wants what’s best for you,” he grunts.
“So why did he let you take me away? Why didn’t he take me instead?” I ask.
“He knows how I feel about you,” Mika practically growls.
“And how is that?” I ask, wanting him to say the words, needing to hear them.
“That you’re mine.”
I don’t get to ask him what that means as the car stops and my door is wrenched open. With the help of the driver, I amble out of the back of the SUV, and there, just like my brother said, is a waiting plane.
Mika wraps his hand around mine and jerks me forward, toward the steps. Without a word, he helps me inside. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I know that my father is going to be livid, but I don’t care.
I have Mika at my side.
He may think of me as his. But I know that he is mine.
I pace the suite.
I’m not in mine and Ziven’s suite. I’m hunkered down with a whole group of women, women I like and truly enjoy, but I want to know where my husband is.
Haleigh and Emiliya sit on the sofa. Tatyana is in a chair. Inessa, much like me, is pacing, and there are children everywhere.
I don’t mind the children. They actually help take my mind off of everything with their cries, their giggles, and a few of them get into downright fist fights—well, Emiliya’s do, with each other.
“Why haven’t we heard anything?” I ask for the umpteenth time.
“They’re probably fighting, screaming, and being unreasonable with each other because they’re scared,” Tatyana shrugs.
“Well, I want to know what the hell happened tonight,” I practically stomp like a child.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Emiliya shrugs.
Tatyana grabs the remote control and turns on the television. I watch as she flips through the channels, then explains that perhaps some mind-numbing television will take our minds off of everything. It’s a good idea, and it would work, except she stops on a news channel.
“Oh, shit,” she whispers as her eyes widen.
I turn around and stare in disbelief.
There, on the news, are pictures of four men—all high ranking in the Cartel, apparently—and all found dead this evening. Tatyana turns it up when a picture of The Plaza shows on the screen, and the news anchor starts talking about the shooting.
Apparently, three men died downstairs, Gavril being one of them. The three news anchors are discussing whether or not this is all related.
“It is,” I mumble.
“I don’t understand how it could be, not unless someone ratted them out to the Cartel,” Haleigh announces from the edge of her seat.
“War. This is fucking war. Those bastards were probably planning their attack for tonight and didn’t even know we were planning our own,” Inessa mumbles. “I mean, I don’t know details, but I can assume the four dead Cartel are our doing. I think it’s a complete and totally freak thing that the Bratva and the Cartel attacked at the same time.”
“I bet you’re right,” Tatyana says with a snap of her finger. “I mean, what better place to try and cause shit than a Bratva wedding? They knew all of our highest-ranking men would all be in one place at one time, but they didn’t know that the Bratva were going to take out their men at the same time.”
“It’s one giant cluster-fuck,” I whisper.
“Yeah, it really is,” Emiliya agrees.
“Poor Oksana,” Inessa whispers. “On her wedding day.”
“I don’t know. I saw Mika carry her away, I don’t think I’d be feeling too sorry for Oksana,” Tatyana says with a grin.
“You’re awful,” Emiliya laughs. “But you’re right. I bet she’s having a good time right about now.”
“Do you think, do you think after all of this, that they’ll be able to be together?” I ask.
The room stays completely silent. Not one woman answers me. I bite my bottom lip in worry. I feel badly for Oksana and Mika, they so obviously want each other, and they should be able to have each other.
My pacing stops as the hours tick by, and soon the children are all put to bed in one of the bedrooms while we wait, save for Tatyana’s teenage daughter, Kiska.
We order room-service, our guard at the door allowing the hotel to only deliver the food to the door, dismissing him before he brings it in to us, then returns to his post. We’re locked in here until our men appear. It’s so nerve-wracking I can hardly stand it.
“Are you afraid of him getting hurt, or something else?” Ashley asks on a whisper once the room has quieted down.
“Something else,” I admit with a nod.
“What?”
“Prison,” I admit.
Just saying the word makes my stomach lurch, and I have to close my eyes and tell myself to breathe in and out, slow and steady.
“He won’t go. He didn’t do anything,” she says as she takes my hand in hers and gives it a gentle squeeze.
“It doesn’t matter if he did or didn’t, his affiliation makes him a prime suspect for anything that happens around him,” I whisper.
“So does every woman’s husband in this room. You cannot live a life full of fear for the future, a future you are just perceiving. You don’t know what the future holds, none of us do. We just go day by day, love our men and our families, and when they come home at night, we’re thankful for another chance to live,” she smiles.
“You’re too optimistic,” I smile, shaking my head.
“I try,” she shrugs.
We all sit in silence. We’re all lost in our own thoughts and worries. There’s nothing to say at this point. We just have to wait for news, any news.
So, that’s what we do. Until three o’clock in the morning, we wait. None of us even tries to sleep as we practically hold our breaths for any news.
Then the hotel room door flies open, and all of our husbands enter the room. Without a word, they each come to us. I can’t even see anybody else, not when my eyes catch Ziven’s. He wraps his hand around my bicep and gently tugs me behind him.
I don’t turn around and wave to the rest of the women. My eyes are focused on the back of his suit jacket, knitted in worry as my stomach twists with concern.
I hurry toward our suite, and only once we’re inside, the doors locked, and I’ve checked to ensure our safety, do I breathe.
Tonight was a fucking disaster of epic proportions. Pasha is out of control, Mika is gone, along with Oksana, Timfoei practically consumed his weight in vodka after everything went down, was plastered drunk, and Gavril is dead.
I sink down onto the sofa and look up at my woman. She looks terrified, as she probably should be, but I’m not about to tell her that. I hold out my hand and crook my finger for her to join me. She’s still wearing her sexy as hell dress that I fucked her in earlier, and she still looks absolutely stunning.
“It was the Cartel, wasn’t it?” she whispers.
“What do you know about that?”
“Not a lot. I saw on the news that four of their believed high-ranking men were killed tonight, and then some of ours were killed, too. I put two-and-two together,” she shrugs.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about, katyonak,” I lie.
“You’ll tell me, if there’s anything at all to worry about, you’ll keep me informed, right?” she practically begs.
“Always, Quinn, always,” I lie again.
She doesn’t need to know that we’re in an all-out war. She doesn’t need to know that even more people are bound to die. She doesn’t need to know that Gavril orchestrated the whole goddamn thing with the Cartel coming in, and Pasha fucked up royally when he asked him to be his son-in-law. She doesn’t need to know any of this, because not only would it worry her, but also, I won’t let it touch her. My job is to protect Quinn. It’s always been my job, and I’m fucking great at it, too.
“You know, when you lie, your eyes get squinty,” she whispers.
“Hmm.”
“They do. I never noticed it before. It’s your tell,” she sighs as she leans forward and places her lips on mine in a gentle kiss.
“You don’t need to worry, katyonak, because I’ll always protect you,” I growl as I wrap my hands around her biceps and gently squeeze.
“I know you will, Ziven. But while you’re busy protecting me, who is going to protect you?”
“I’m a Pakhan in the Bratva, I don’t need protecting,” I grin.
“I think in war, everybody who is involved needs it.”
“I have Timofei and Mika,” I say, telling her another lie.
She doesn’t call me out on this one. Instead, she curls into my side and presses her forehead against my neck.
“I love you, Ven,” she whispers.
“I love you, too.”
“Thank you for protecting me the way that you do—from everything, even your own fear. I know you’re scared, but I appreciate you trying to shield me from it. However, this isn’t a little thing. This is big, and I’d feel better if I knew more,” she whispers.
“What are you scared of?” I ask, knowing the goddamn answer already.
“You know, don’t make me say it.”
“I’m not going anywhere, not ever again,” I say, closing my eyes and wrapping her hair in my hands, holding her to my neck, so that she can’t see the tell that she claims I have.
I honestly doubt I’m going anywhere, but I can’t be for certain, not during times of war.
If something happens to me, the last thing I want from her is her anger toward me for lying to her. Or maybe I’d just rather lie to myself, to make me feel better about everything. I don’t know what’s going to happen, and it’s the unknown that has me on edge.
“Let’s go to bed. Forget tonight,” she murmurs.
“Except for before the wedding. I don’t think that I could ever forget that.”
“No, never,” she grins as she presses her lips to mine in a soft, gentle, delicious kiss.
Two Weeks Later
I STRETCH OUT, MY body sore and achy as I reach for the man that should be at my side. He isn’t there, and I open my eyes just to confirm that fact. After Oksana’s tragic wedding, we left the next morning.
Timfoei was on the plane with us, nursing a massive hangover, but Mika was nowhere to be found. I asked Ziven where he was more than once, and every time he gave me some bullshit reply, so I finally quit asking.
Mika still isn’t back, and as far as I know, nobody knows where he is. I talked to Ashley just yesterday, and she said that nobody has heard from Oksana, either. They’ve both just—vanished.
Ziven’s voice rings out through the condo, and I smile when my eyes finally land on his bare, tattooed back. He’s talking on the phone, but he’s cooking as well. From the smell, he’s making omelets, and my mouth waters because my husband can truly cook. While he adores my baking, I seriously adore his cooking.
Walking up behind him, I place my lips on the center of his back and then wrap my arms around his trim waist. He mutters something in Russian into the phone and then hangs up, dropping it on the counter with a clatter.
“Who were you talking to at such an early hour?” I ask with a yawn.
“Sergei, he’s a Pakhan in Russia. He was at the wedding,” he explains.
I hum as my hands drift down his taut stomach. One of them slides beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. I enjoy the way he sucks in his breath when I wrap my hand around his semi-erect cock and I gently stroke him. He left me satisfied last night, but I want more of him.
“Fuck, katyonak,” he hisses as he thrusts his hips gently.
I feel him moving around, and then he turns and wraps his hands around my waist, picking me up before he walks us over to the counter behind me. Without a word, he spreads my thighs and grins when he sees that I’m not wearing panties. In less than a second, he’s sinking inside of me.
I wrap my hands around his shoulders and let my head fall back as he fills me with his cock, stretching me. I wrap my legs around his waist, and his lips touch my neck as he starts to gently thrust into me, repeatedly.
“You feel so good, Ven,” I moan as he glides one hand under the shirt of his that I’m wearing to cup my breast.
I shiver when he tweaks my nipple and sucks on my neck at the exact same time.
“Touch your clit. Play that pussy of yours and come all over me,” he rasps against my skin.
I reach between us, my head tipping down to watch as his glistening cock pushes in and pulls out of my pussy, each stroke even and precise. I touch my finger to my clit and start to play with myself. His eyes are focused on our connection, watching me touch and bring myself that much closer to my climax.
“Fuck, katyonak, your cunt feels so good,” he rasps.
“I’m about to come,” I admit.
“Do it. Fucking strangle me, Quinn,” he says as his thrusts start to gain speed and power.
It doesn’t take me long. My legs start shaking before he even says my name, and then I’m right on the edge, tipping over and crying out as my pussy clamps down around him, trying to hold his cock inside of me.
“Yes,” he hisses as his hips start to buck wildly.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, and I just hold on and enjoy the ride he’s giving me until he stills. I feel his release spill inside of me with a groan escaping his lips.
“You ready to eat your eggs now?” he asks on a chuckle.
I tighten my thighs around him.
“Not yet, I like it when you’re inside me,” I whisper.
Ziven smiles and presses his lips to mine.
“Nowhere else I’d rather be, katyonak, then
inside of my gorgeous wife.”
Nothing makes Quinn as tired as when she’s had a really great orgasm and her belly is full. After I fucked her in the kitchen, we cleaned up, ate some breakfast, and I fucked her one more time.
Sundays have become my favorite day of the week. They used to mean that the weekend was over, that it was time to get everything ready for the new workweek.
However, now, Sundays mean I get to fuck my wife all day long. During the week, I try to be home by a decent hour, but that doesn’t always happen; so we always—always, have Sundays to catch up with each other.
Quinn has started taking massage therapy courses. Kristy encouraged her to go to beauty school, but she doesn’t really like to do hair or makeup. Though, she liked the idea of doing something in the industry, with the understanding that she would only have female clients, something I would not relent on.
So, after a little searching, she found this school. I don’t care what she does, as long as she’s happy and healthy. Quinn’s health and happiness are the most important things in the world to me.
This was her first week at school, and she is still nervous and stressed out, so I’m fucking her into relaxation.
I make my way into my office and pick up my phone after closing my office door.
“Vetrov,” Pasha answers after the first ring.
“They’re in Russia,” I rumble.
“What the fuck are they doing there?” he growls.
“I don’t know, but Oksana is refusing to come home until she ensures her freedom from you,” I say.
I fight to keep a straight face. This shit is beyond ridiculous.
“She’ll come home or I’ll drag her ass there, and she won’t be happy what happens to her if that is the way I get her back to New York.”
“She’s a legal adult, Pasha,” I try to sooth.
“Fuck that. She’s a printsessa, my daughter, and she cannot choose a goddamn thing about her life. That’s for me to decide,” he announces.
Sonia is probably rolling over in her grave right now at her husband’s words and actions, but I don’t have any kind of death wish, so I don’t say those words aloud.
Protected by the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 6) Page 26