Drago
Dangerous Love Series
By
Kristin Alexander
Copyright © 2020 Kristin Alexander
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
I have a lot to be grateful for in life, but I am eternally grateful to my family, particularly my husband, Chris, who has shown me the greatest amount of love, support, and generosity imaginable as I have pursued writing. I am forever thankful to have him by my side.
I also want to give a hearty thanks to Ally who has helped guide me through the book world as I stumbled through self-publishing. She has helped me countless times, and I would be truly lost without her good-natured, hilarious and incredibly helpful presence!
Lastly, I want to give a thank you to all the friends and family who have supported me by buying and reading my books, especially Pam, Pennie, Megan, Carol, and many others who have given me feedback. It has helped more than I can say!
Playlist
Chicago - Sufjan Stevens
Trouble - Coldplay
Cringe - Matt Maeson
Where’s My Love - SYML
Dark Days - Local Natives
Loro - Pinback
I Need My Girl - The National
Something Good - Alt-J
Atlas Hands - Benjamin Francis Leftwich
Your Rocky Spine - Great Lake Swimmers
To Be Alone With You - Sufjan Stevens
Love Love Love - Of Monster and Men
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Drago
The door slammed open, and Katya Ivanov stormed in, practically breathing fire. She looked more beautiful every time I saw her, particularly when she was angry. Her cheeks flushed with emotion. Her red-gold eyebrows pinched over her hazel-green eyes, the gold in them glowing with fury. Of course, none of my outward expressions conveyed the intensity of my interest in her. I’d perfected this façade.
“Goddammit, Drago, you have got to take these men off of me. How am I supposed to have a normal existence with your goons following me around campus like two giant, scowling shadows?”
I sighed. We’d had this argument. “Katya, you know why they’re there.”
She looked like any other college student, wearing black, tight-fitting, ankle-length pants and black sandals with a flowery printed shirt. Her long, copper-colored hair was in a casual bun, making my fingers itch to pull it down. I had men following her for her own protection, but, yes, I knew that their presence also acted as a buffer for any interested men. It was a side-effect of the protection I provided to her that I thoroughly approved of, not that she knew that.
Katya put her hands on her shapely hips and practically stamped her foot like a toddler. “He has been gone for over two years, Drago. He’s probably dead somewhere, killed by one of Mikhail’s men.”
Katya was referring to Yuri Ivanov, former Pakhan of the Chicago Bratva, the organization I now ran. The organization I took from him after he exposed himself as a madman in ways the Bratva could not tolerate. He had become reckless and impulsive—a dangerous liability to the organization. He jeopardized their position and repeatedly acted against the wishes of those above him. With Mikhail’s, the head of the Moscow syndicate, permission, he had been eliminated. To an extent.
I shot her a severe look. “You know that doesn’t mean anything. We have no body, and we haven’t seen Orlov anywhere, either.” Andrei Orlov was another former Bratva and Yuri’s partner in crime, literally. “He’s still out there, and as long as he is, you are to be protected.”
This was non-negotiable.
“So, I’m supposed to just have an armed escort for the rest of my life?”
“If need be.”
“But–”
“No, buts, Katerina!” I barked, frustrated that she would even consider being so careless with her life.
Katya jerked her head back at my sudden ferocity, her eyes darkening with wounded surprise. I had seen that look before and hated it just as much now as I did then. I clenched my fist against my thigh in order to regain control.
“Forget it.” She twirled around, opened the door, and flew out like a hurricane.
Jesus Christ, this was the last thing I needed right now. My second in command, Maxim, walked in the opened door and sat in the chair in front of me, the one I offered Katya though she had not even bothered to sit down. I could still smell her scent in the air, and it made my chest tighten. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on my desk and shook one out, even though I wasn’t supposed to smoke in the building.
“What?” I said after Maxim just stared at me, grinning. His black eyes were sparkling after undoubtedly overhearing our entire conversation.
“She’s a fucking handful, eh?”
I lit my cigarette and took a deep drag. I wanted to agree with him, but there were things he didn’t understand about our relationship, things I didn’t want anyone else to be aware of. “I understand her reactions. She feels like she has no freedom. She’s young, and she wants to live an unrestricted life like her friends.”
Maxim nodded thoughtfully. “But she can’t. Even if she wasn’t part of the Bratva, with Yuri still on the loose, she can’t possibly believe she’s safe.”
“I don’t think she’s being rational right now. I think she’s just lashing out.”
Maxim cocked his head. “And you always get to be the unfortunate whipping boy, eh, Drago?”
I frowned at Maxim, lest he thinks my interactions with Katya convey weakness. “She is young and female. I’m hardly going to get upset over the squalling of a child.”
This was sexist as fuck, and Katya would stab me through the windpipe if she heard it, but I needed my men to believe that my tolerance of her behavior was due to her harmlessness, not my own attachment. I trusted Maxim more than most, but I didn’t trust anyone enough to divulge the extent of my personal feelings.
Things were particularly precarious regarding Yuri. Not only was he angry and resentful about losing his position in the Bratva, but he also wanted Katya—had wanted her since she was a child—and had paid his former second in command, her father, to have her.
Needless to say, the sick bastard didn’t get her. And he wouldn’t as long as I was alive. We almost had him over two years
ago, but he slipped through our fingers. The very fact that he still lived, that we hadn’t found him and ripped him to pieces, ate at me like acid.
Maxim shot me a grin and nodded, accepting my explanation in dealing with Katya.
“Make sure the men watching her know that she is not grateful for their protection. I don’t want her sneaking away and getting hurt.”
Maxim gave me a brief nod of understanding and got up to contact Katya’s detail. I sat in my office in downtown Chicago, the main office of one of our legitimate fronts and stared at the lakefront. Much had changed in the two and half years since I had taken over the organization, but unfortunately not the confusing riot of emotions I held for Katya. I had kept her at bay for the last couple of years, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could resist her.
Even though we were both connected to the same organization, our histories couldn’t be more different. She was born into this life, I chose it. Thrived in it.
Based on my history, anyone could have predicted that I would end up in the Bratva. Or prison. In my case, I had done both. I was born in Garage Alley, a slum on the southwest side of Moscow. There were not many prospects when your childhood was filled with violence, neglect, and the kind of poverty that makes eating once a day feel like a feast. I cut my teeth on fighting and stealing, so joining a gang when I was fourteen seemed like a natural progression.
At eighteen, Roman, one of my gang brothers, and I were arrested for carrying concealed handguns and possession of drugs, most of which we had fortunately just sold. It was a bullshit arrest, the cops usually looked the other way when our gang did business, but we expanded into an area that did not tolerate gang activity.
After only a year in prison, the longest of my life, Roman and I were unofficially recruited into the Russian Army in return for early release. We would have agreed to anything to get out of prison. Even though we were big, connected, heavily muscled, and full of rage, the year I’d spent incarcerated represented the most miserable time of a life that had already been pretty dismal by almost every metric.
The military was freakishly similar to being in a gang with its orders and hierarchies, so it was an easy adaptation. The army honed the skills I’d developed in the slums and expanded on them, teaching me how to torture and kill in hundreds of ways.
After four years of that lifestyle, there were only a limited amount of directions you could move, professionally speaking. I had always been more comfortable around people from the slums, which is how I ended up working for Mikhail, head of the Moscow Bratva. The military had taught me basic English, so when the opportunity to move to Chicago presented itself, I made sure I was the best choice. Mikhail had been eager to keep an eye on Yuri, who had become increasingly unreliable.
And that’s how I met her. Katya Petrov.
I had lived my adult life intentionally avoiding emotional attachments, but this girl managed to crawl inside my skin and imbed herself there. When I first saw her, she was only an adolescent, so I paid her little attention. Only after the incident with the Turk did I really see her, her intelligence, her resilience, her humor.
She was only sixteen then, and the daughter of Yuri’s second in charge, Sergei, so I ignored her, avoided her at every opportunity. But she was always there, in the background of my thoughts. I was able to lie to myself for a while, convince myself that I only wanted to protect her because she was part of the organization and, unlike us, she was an innocent girl, but that didn’t last.
She was like a virus, my weakness personified, and part of me resented her for it. Then Yuri targeted her, and all hopes of maintaining distance and detachment vanished. I could admit to myself I wanted to keep her safe, keep her close.
The more I wanted to grab her and keep her chained to my side, the more I realized that she deserved better than being with some ex-con gangster raised in crime-infested squalor. I absolutely loathed the thought of her being with another man, but I cared enough for her to try and give her a shot of happiness away from the organization—away from me.
I knew she was still angry over our confrontation when she graduated high school. She’d propositioned me, and I pushed her away. While rejecting her had felt like a hand squeezing my chest cavity, I’d had to do it. She was still so young; she’d been exposed to so little. There was also a small part of me that could admit I had wanted to avoid giving in to my feelings for her, feelings that made me feel vulnerable in a way I had never experienced and didn’t particularly enjoy.
But I’d watched her, from afar, since that time. She knew she was protected by my people, but she probably wasn’t aware of how closely I personally monitored her. And my control was starting to slip.
I stubbed my cigarette out in an ashtray, taking my frustration out on what was left of the stained filter. I was trying to give her a chance to have a life outside of the Bratva, but her window was starting to close, and when it did, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Chapter 2
Katya
I stormed out of the building into crowds of tourists wandering Michigan Avenue. I headed for the underground parking lot beneath the Art Institute, my two faithful sidekicks about ten feet behind me. Normally, I would detour inside the vast building and let myself get lost in rooms of paintings and sculptures, but I was so angry. Angry at Drago Volkov, angry at my bodyguards, angry at myself, angry at everyone.
I knew why he was having me protected. Even though I had acted like a bratty kid in his office, I understood his actions. Yuri Ivanov was a terrifying monster, and the thought of being in his grasp was enough for me to accept the presence of Vilhelm and Boris, my hulking constant companions. The real issue was Drago. I was chafing under the constant heartbreak of having him in my life, but not in the way I wanted.
After Yuri had made it clear that he fully expected to receive what he’d paid my father so dearly for, Drago practically became my Siamese twin, in spirit if not physically. Initially, I was thrilled about it. I had loved him since I was sixteen, and that infatuation had only grown with our periodic interactions.
His hard, cold features, only made more intimidating by the scar that ran along the left side of his face from his temple to under his jaw, sent a thrill through me. His stormy gray eyes often looked like chips of granite, impenetrable and forbidding, but were a striking contrast to his dark, ruthlessly short hair. He looked like the soldier he had once been, but also like the powerful crime boss he now was.
Drago had power, intensity, and the ruthlessness required to lead the entire Chicago Bratva. He was also the man I had begged to be with and who had turned me down flat. I cringed as the memory of that emotional confrontation sprung to mind. It had happened after my high school graduation when I assumed the last barrier to our relationship had been removed. I was an adult and I had wanted to be his.
I shook my head to dispel the bad memories associated with that evening, the embarrassment, the pain, and later, after drinking half a bottle of vodka, the drunken accusations. It was a humiliating blur that had created an abyss between Drago and me. That night filled our current interactions with tension and frustration. It was an awkwardness I had decided to distance myself from.
I needed to get away from Drago’s presence, which was impossible when the reminder of him trailed my every step. His guards followed me, although, to be honest, they were much more discreet at school than I had led Drago to believe earlier.
I hopped in my car, thankful for the unseasonably warm spring weather that allowed me to keep my windows open. I needed the air. Interacting with Drago stirred up all the emotions I worked so hard to repress, to contain. Repressing my emotions was a coping mechanism that stretched back to my childhood. It was unhealthy, but I hadn’t found any better alternatives.
In need of solitude and nature, I sat in my car for a minute before turning on the engine. My fingertips quivered with the need to grab a pencil and start sketching something, anything to pull me out of this miserable loop of emotions. Instead
, I tapped them on the steering wheel in order to let out some of my pent-up energy as I drove up Lake Shore Drive, absorbing the scenic images I would later recreate with paint or pencil.
Art was my greatest passion and emotional outlet. While my focus was fashion design, when I had last scanned through my portfolio, in addition to a series of meticulously designed dresses, I was sickened at how much time I had spent drawing him. I was obsessed. Portraits, profiles, and close-ups in paint, pencil, charcoal, whatever medium I had on hand to try and banish him from my thoughts flowed out and filled my portfolio. That’s when I knew I had to do something.
But, right now, I needed to calm down. More than that, I needed to figure out a way to get Drago out of my life.
Chapter 3
Drago
I sat in my office smoking another cigarette. This shit with Katya sat like a splinter under my skin, but I had to focus on my job because there were always fires to be extinguished. Chicago had become the United Nations of gangs—Korean gangs, Italian Mafia, Yakuza, Mexican cartels. Shit, there was even a small faction of the Greek mafia on Halsted.
Territories were ruthlessly protected, and payback had to be swift and brutal when a transgression did occur. After ascending to the role of Pakhan, I was tested repeatedly, and those who had tested me did not live long enough to regret it.
There was a brief knock on the door, and Maxim entered my office. “We have a situation. My contact on the South Side tells me that a huge shipment just arrived at a warehouse down off of Pershing. He thinks it was Callahan’s men. It looks like the same size shipment that we had disappear two weeks ago.”
Callahan? Garrett Callahan was a freelancer and an opportunist, but not known as a thief. We had a shipment of weapons intercepted from the South Side docks. It was a routine drop off and pick up. We’d done it hundreds of times, but some of my men got careless, and the cargo went missing. Hearing it was Callahan made no sense.
Drago (Dangerous Love Book 3) Page 1