Filthy Sex: The Five Points’ Mob Collection: Four

by Akeroyd, Serena

  They had their orders.

  I kicked out at the four footsoldiers who surged into my perimeter like a quartet of sharks, a shriek escaping me as one hauled me around the abdomen, trying to lift me in the air like I was a bag of potatoes. I raised my legs high, swinging them up before I let them drop, my feet colliding with his knees which buckled.

  As he went down, I did too, but someone else was there, waiting to grab me. I elbowed him in the stomach, screaming bloody murder in the hopes that the guards Bagpipes said were in here for our protection would come running, but no one did.

  Victoria shrieked and squealed as the men started hauling her away, toward the temple itself and not the foyer, and her screams for help had me twisting and bucking in the boyevik’s hold.

  My hands snapped out, aiming for anything and everything I could. Punching. Pinching. Slapping. Smacking. The men growled, their faces turning bright pink as they loomed over me, exertion making them more aggressive.

  When one slapped me, I felt it to my bones. Felt my teeth shake in my mouth, rattling as if they were M&Ms in the wrapper.

  Dazed, they dragged me back, but I heard Abramovicz roaring at the men to hurry up, just as I saw Inessa knee one guard in the balls. He went down as she reached out and grabbed another’s dick, squeezing hard enough to turn him into a soprano. Her fire gave me energy, and I renewed my efforts even though my ears were ringing.

  With two of her attackers down, I knew she had a chance at escaping, so I didn’t kick out at the men who were hauling me away. Arms banded around my stomach again, lifted high off the ground against one of their chests, I kicked at the boyevik nearest to me who was on Inessa.

  It was luck, maybe I’d been blessed with some of that now I was Irish by marriage, but my heel glanced off one guard’s neck. Scraping a long line down his nape which had him twisting around, his hand clapping to cover the scratch.

  “RUN!” I screamed, watching as Inessa, like the wildcat she was, managed to dart out of the way of her final guard. As she fled for the entrance, the top steps that led to the sidewalk, two from my group rushed after her.

  With a final glance at me, apology and fear etched into her expression, she sped up.

  An elbow to the temple stopped me from knowing if she made it. If she escaped. I didn’t even have a chance to pray to the God I didn’t believe in anymore that she made it out safe.

  You haven’t found your purpose yet. What a waste of a life it would be if all you’d done with it was waste it.

  Forty-Four

  Camille

  I had no idea how long I was out. Twenty minutes, an hour. I knew it couldn’t have been much longer than that because, wherever I was, behind my eyes, I could still see a faint light, which made me think twilight was waning.

  Groaning as I pried them open, I felt the bitter beat of drums in my head, the slice of pain that felt like my optic nerve was being cut in two, and I let them focus on their own time, peering around my vicinity as I tried to judge where I was.

  My brain wasn’t so fried that I didn’t remember what had happened, so I had to assume that Abramovicz had brought me back to the compound.

  “Victoria!” I whispered under my breath, fear throttling me as I remembered she’d been dragged away first.

  “I’m here, Cammie,” came her soft, fearful reply, the words more of a whimper than the ballsy snap I was used to hearing from her when she wasn’t drowning in grief and guilt.

  I twisted around, damning my head for the ache battering me, and in the meager light, found her, huddling in a corner. Legs pressed tight to her chest, sandwiched into the narrow space, she practically oozed terror.

  Scraping my knees as I crawled toward her, I whispered, “Are you okay?” My body protested the move, but it had to get with the program, so better to start now than never.

  She blinked at me. “I should be asking you that. You’ve been out of it for ages.”

  “Did they get Inessa?”

  “I don’t think so. They never brought her with you.” Her bottom lip quivered. “I only knew you were alive because your boobs wobbled.”

  Despite the situation, I let out a rusty laugh. “You been checking out my tits, baby sis?”

  She giggled, her cheeks turning pink, but she hid her face in her lap, and whispered, “Cammie, I really thought you were dead.”

  I closed my eyes a second, but shoved back my pain as I moved to her side, and lifted an arm to hold her as best as I could with her position.

  “Brennan will come for us,” I reassured her. “We won’t be here for long.”

  “You don’t know that,” she whispered miserably.

  “I do.”

  “They k-k-killed the Irish guards,” my baby sister whimpered, turning her face into my throat. “When they hauled me out of there, I saw them.”

  Grief filled me at the losses the Irish had incurred because of us, because of Inessa’s whim, but I whispered, “That won’t stop Brennan.” Resolve filled me, strengthening my voice, because Brennan wasn’t simply a Five Pointer. He was my husband.

  He’d said I was his.

  I had to have faith in that.

  I knew he’d also said that he’d keep me safe... that hadn’t worked out, but it was impossible to keep someone safe in our world. The only way to ensure that was to never leave the apartment. Ever. And even then, if the vantage point was right, there was always the possibility of a sniper shooting.

  Unaware that my brain was churning, she just sniffed, and because I couldn’t sit here, twiddling my damn thumbs as Bagpipes would say, waiting for whatever Abramovicz was going to toss our way, I asked, “Where is here, Victoria?”

  I peered around the darkening room and found that we were in a complete and utter blank canvas. No toilet, no sink, no furniture. Just the floor, the gray walls, a window that confirmed night was approaching, a bare lightbulb overhead with no wall switch I could see, and a door.

  Talk about hospitable.

  “I think we’re at the compound in Bushwick.” She tipped her head to the side. “If you listen, you can hear the steelworks. This one runs twenty-four hours a day.”

  I did as she said, and could definitely hear something. I’d never have said it was the steelworks though, but it was the only info we had so I took it as gospel.

  “Shit. I don’t know that place at all. If we were at home, I’d know of two ways to breach the perimeter.”

  She shot me a look. “You do?”

  I arched a brow at her. “Of course.” Then I shook my head when I saw she didn’t believe me. “Honey, you weren’t old enough to want to sneak out yet. You’d have found them in time.”

  “I wouldn’t have dared anyway,” she whispered, and when I looked at her, I saw that.

  She was an odd combination of spitfire and prim. Even though Father was dead, she still wore her pearls and a smart blouse and skirt, kitten heels too, but I knew, that when it came to it, she’d have the guts to stand up for herself.

  Which made me think of the church.

  “Why didn’t you fight them, Vicky? I saw you face off with Brennan. Why did you just let them take you?”

  She gulped. “I froze up.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to accuse you—”

  “Why not? I would. I’ve been sitting here ever since they dumped us in this place, wondering why I didn’t fight. Inessa got away. Maybe if I’d managed to slip out, we could have...” Her voice waned off. “I’m such a wimp. As useless as Papa used to say.”

  “No, you’re not. You were naturally scared,” I defended her. “You’re only a kid, Vicky. I shouldn’t have said anything. I just know what you’re like. Beneath the Jackie-O clothes, you’re as much of a wildcat as Inessa is.”

  She bowed her head. “I’m not, Cammie. Inessa has guts. I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do,” I argued, then heaving a sigh, accepting that she’d been sinking deeper and deeper into a pity party the longer she’d been left with her thought
s, I muttered, “Is there a way out of here?”

  Her scowl made a reappearance at long last. But give me her exasperation over her fear any day of the week. “Cammie, we’re in a ten-by-ten room. There are walls, a window, and a door. Unless you’re a magician, then no, there isn’t a way out. Far as I know, you didn’t turn into Houdini while you were away.”

  “Houdini was an escapologist,” I muttered absently as I got to my feet. “Not a magician. More of an illusionist to be fair.”

  She grunted under her breath at my reply, but left me to it.

  The window was about two feet above my head so some light filtered in but I couldn’t see out. There were bars and, from the slightest of glints, I thought there was broken glass on the outer ledge too.

  I didn’t bother with the door. I knew there’d be a guard, and if not a guard, then a lot of locks to which I had no key.

  Taking a couple steps further back, I tried to see if there was anything in the skyline that would confirm we were in the Bushwick compound, but I didn’t notice jack. Nothing except for some trees which sheltered us enough that it would get darker sooner in this place.

  My head ached, my face did too from that nasty slap I’d gotten, and my stomach muscles were twinging from the moves I’d pulled back there—me and body weight exercises were not the best of friends—but I was alive, I knew Inessa was safe, had faith that Brennan would come for us, and I had to protect Victoria in the interim.

  With my heart whirring like it was a merry-go-round on triple speed, I paced, moving from one corner to the next, only avoiding Vicky who was huddling up again like a little tortoise. I hated that she was in this position, hated, even more, that it was easy to revert to those moments when Mama had been killed.

  We’d made it to the safe room.

  She hadn’t.

  The panic, the fear, the heart-pounding tension was all the same, but somehow, I knew I was more scared now than I had been back then because Vicky was in danger and I couldn’t protect her.

  This felt like a safe room, but we were the opposite of that. Cloistered in here, no one could get to us—apart from the person who had the key.

  Abramovicz.

  Was there a reason he’d brought us to this compound?

  This wasn’t the main one. Those were in Brighton Beach. And where was Maxim in all this? Though only a boyevik by rank, Maxim had been a trusted guard of my father’s. He’d been in the right position to listen in, to gain influence. To muscle in on a rank that should be out of his reach.

  In times like these, fortune favored the brave where the Bratva was concerned. Might being right, if he seized power and held it, he could go from holding a low rank to climbing to the top of the tree. Getting higher ranks to bend the knee was another matter entirely, but that was the problem with being king—there were enemies everywhere.

  Was that why we were here? Because Maxim had overtaken Brighton Beach and our old home?

  The Pakhan’s Two Spies were his money man and his security man. Abramovicz was the former and Basil Lukov was the latter. Neither had been very popular with the men... It would make more sense for the two of them to be infighting over who’d be the next Pakhan, but Maxim didn’t want to marry Victoria because he was in love with her. He wanted what her name represented. He wanted to marry up.

  He had goals.

  He wanted the Pakhan’s seat.

  I knew I was right. All my instincts told me my father’s Two Spies had combined forces to fight Maxim, and Maxim was currently winning, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. We’d be in Brighton Beach, the Bratva’s main seat of dominance in the city.

  My hands furled into fists, but the lack of pain didn’t resonate with me. I didn’t need the pain from my battered palms to clear my mind. I had enough going on inside my body, but that didn’t detract from my resolve.

  I was of no use to them.

  It was Victoria.

  They wanted her for the same reason Maxim did—to legitimize their claim in the eyes of the men.

  To the New York Bratva, the Vasovs were nobles.

  And the one way to take the throne?

  To marry the princess.

  I didn’t know much about Father’s business, but I knew that he, Abramovicz and Lukov were it. The leaders. Father hadn’t, but I knew his Two Spies had treated the rest of the foot soldiers as if they were boyeviks, whether or not the man had a higher position. It was why they weren’t popular. I’d seen that through body language alone.

  Lukov was already married, though, so he wasn’t a threat. If his wife wasn’t who she was—Abramovicz’s daughter from his second marriage—I knew he’d probably kill her too if it meant getting to Victoria. But while they were allied, his hands were tied, which meant Abramovicz was the one to worry about.

  Vicky was only fifteen, but Abramovicz wouldn’t care about that. He’d keep her in his mansion, abusing her, tormenting her, holding her captive until she was of legal age to make her his bride.

  The thought made me want to howl with outrage.

  I would not, could not, allow that to happen.

  Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was crazy, but I had to act. If I died, then so be it. I’d spent a lifetime trying to convince myself to live, but to protect her, to save her from that fate, I’d gladly sacrifice myself.

  And maybe, if the luck of the Irish really was on my side, Brennan would show up in time to save me.

  I turned to her, whispering, “Vicky?”

  She peered at me, her brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

  “No matter what, remember two things.” Her frown deepened. “Never forget that I love you—”

  “Camille,” she rasped, her shoulders straightening in surprise.

  “—and don’t, whatever you do, look.”

  Back in West Orange, Nyx had given me the nickname of ‘the Hoover’ because he said I was great at giving BJs… I had to pray that I could earn that rep now. That it would hold me in good stead.

  Without waiting for her to reply, knowing this was it for me, I stormed forward, fists raised and I banged on the door, not stopping until I heard someone snarl something in mumbled Russian, before there were heavy footsteps and the distinct clicking of the lock.

  I pulled back, knowing the door would open outwards, and I faced down Abramovicz who was sneering at me like he was already the king of the castle.

  “Irish slut,” he snapped as a greeting. “You’re awake.”

  The door closed behind him to keep us contained, just like I’d hoped, and a light switched on overhead. He was a fat fuck, as unfit as could be, so rushing him in an attempt to escape wasn’t impossible. It was his ego and the fact that he thought we were frightened of him that made him step inside at all.

  More than that, it was me.

  I knew how he looked at me, knew what he was thinking whenever his beady eyes dropped to my cleavage. I could be wearing a nun’s habit and he’d slobber all over me.

  “I demand to know why you’re holding us here,” I bit out, straightening my shoulders, relieved when the predictability of this man followed through like night did day. His gaze dropped to my tits. Even though I wore a respectable neckline, my dress had a mid-calf hem and my breasts were covered fully, he still just had to look.

  “So eager to know your fate,” he practically purred. “You think we’d just believe the bullshit Lyanov spewed? Svetlana would have been a fool to have fucked around on Antoni—”

  “I saw her with that boyevik,” Victoria whispered. “I told Papa.”

  Abramovicz’s shoulders straightened as he shot her a look. “What?”

  That was news to both of us, but before he could get side-lined, I reached forward and tugged on his hand. When my fingers tangled with his, he stared down at them as I stepped into him. Moving closer so that I could press my fingers to his chest.

  “Denis, why are you trying to frighten us?”

  He licked his lips, his gaze dropping to my mouth as he rumbled, “You think you can try
to ensnare me when you’ve spent half a decade avoiding becoming my wife?” His mouth curved into a sneer. “You’re exactly like your mother. A slut. Your father dealt with her, and it’ll be my last honorable act as his Sovietnik to deal with his treacherous whore of a daughter.”

  Inside, I froze, but outwardly, I carried on in my role. Ignoring Victoria’s garbled cry, I moved closer to him, hating myself, but knowing this had to be done. Knowing I had to protect my baby sister.

  Somehow, I had my answer.

  Father had been behind Mama’s death.

  Even as I wished that I’d been armed with a machete and not a glass souvenir when I’d killed Father, I rubbed my tits against Abramovicz’s chest, and whispered, “I was frightened. I didn’t want to marry into the Bratva.”

  “Camille—” Victoria choked out softly, but I ignored her.

  “You were born Bratva,” he rumbled, ignoring her as well. “You know that means you’ll die Bratva.”

  I peered at him from under my lashes, watching him watch me, his pupils dilating, and his hideous dick hardening against my belly as I let my hands rub over his chest.

  “I know,” I told him.

  “You chose the Irish.” His top lip curled into a snarl. “You chose to be a party to their treachery—”

  I was losing him.

  I dropped my hand to his dick and rubbed him through his pants. He jerked back in surprise, but he didn’t push me away like I’d been sensing he was going to do. If anything, I’d thought he was going to backhand me, but I could see the calculation in his eyes. Knew that he’d let me whore myself out before he pulled out the gun he probably had tucked into the back of his pants and blew out my brains.

  I was okay with that, so long as it happened on my schedule.

  Slowly, I sank to my knees, my eyes on him as his throat bobbed when I moved to grab his zipper.

  Slowly, I lowered it, reaching in to grab his cock, to pull it free from his fly.