The God: (A Dark Mafia Romance) (Bratva Blood Book 3)

by SR Jones

  A thought occurs to me then. A dangerous, errant idea. Would Bohdan protect me now?

  He broke me, betrayed me, but he’d never hurt me physically. What would he do if he learned I was married to a man who made me lie amongst garbage? Would he even care?

  Something tells me he would. The way he looked at me when I saw him for the first time in over a decade tells me he isn’t indifferent to me.

  In fact, the way he looked at me told me he might hate me as much as I do him. It makes no sense because he was the one who betrayed me, but that’s men for you. They always must pretend they’re the ones in the right.

  I turn my head and nearly gag when a fish head stares at me.

  Rolling away from the rotting head, I close my eyes and try to go back to my happy place. The cataloguing of all the ways my husband could die. As I think these thoughts, I quietly sing an old Russian song, one I used to sing as a child with Bohdan.

  Chapter Three

  Bohdan

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving it like this!” Justina is outraged that I’m not getting my nose fixed, and I don’t get it.

  “What’s it to you?” I ask her with a smile.

  We’re sipping at tea in the kitchen of the big house where she’s staying with Andrius and Violet. There’s myself, Cassie, K, and Justina, sharing a big pot of tea.

  “Because you are beautiful,” Justina says. “You shouldn’t ignore a gift like that.”

  “More like a curse half the time,” I say.

  “He’s still handsome,” Cassie adds.

  K growls, a low rumble that you can barely hear, but Cassie does because she leans into him and whispers. “Down, boy, you’re the one who does it for me.”

  “I don’t see how beauty is a curse.” Justina shrugs. “It’s a privilege. Same as good health or being rich. You should use it to your advantage.”

  “I like the way I look now,” I tell her. “Like Cassie says, I’m still handsome.” I shoot Justina a shit-eating grin, and she rolls her eyes. “I didn’t like the way I looked before.”

  “I don’t understand what’s not to like about looking the way you did.” K surprises me when he speaks. “Women would sacrifice their newborn for a smile from you. Why would anyone want to throw that away?”

  “Do you want women to go around with googly eyes over you?” Cassie demands of him.

  These two.

  “No, baby, but if I looked like Bohdan did and got my nose broken, I’d fucking fix it.”

  “I hope you’d get it fixed now. You’re a handsome man.” Cassie smiles at K, and he grins back.

  Ugh.

  “Well, none of you are me,” I say. “Luckily for me, I’m not vain enough to need a perfect nose, which means I don’t have to go through the pain and risk of the procedure.”

  “I bet you’ll get even more women,” Cassie says. “They like a guy who looks like you. Pretty but tough.”

  “Sexy but rough,” Justina adds with a laugh.

  “Why don’t you ladies just set up a fan club?” K bitches, but he doesn’t mean it. He knows Cassie is his, hook, line, and sinker. The girl wouldn’t look at another man, beyond the purely aesthetic appreciation of symmetrical features, while she’s got K. She doesn’t just love him; she adores him.

  I wonder if anyone will ever adore me. Dasha did, once upon a time.

  Speaking of the woman. I ought to go and check my feed, see if anything happened last night.

  “You know,” K says as he sips at the tea. “You want any other bones breaking, and I can be of service.”

  I give him the finger and walk out of the room, his laughter following me out the front door.

  I’m lucky that he’s fucked in the head the way he is about Cassie because it helps him understand why I need to do this frankly crazy thing with Dasha.

  Although, at first, K was against it. Andrius, surprisingly, was the one to support it. Said I needed to get it all out of my system.

  They might not be Bratva anymore, but they aren’t squeaky clean either. Letting one of their partners go and pretend to be security for a woman he basically wants to stalk is not part of the super clean image they are wanting to build here. Frankly, I’m waiting for Reece to put his foot down and say he won’t allow it. He’s the above board one in all this. He’s British Special Forces, and this venture we are setting up is going to be linked to work he and his friends are doing back in the UK. He might not want a partner involved who is creating a ruse to pretend-safeguard a woman he’s obsessed with.

  He might say no.

  Then I’ll have to leave this great opportunity because come hell or high water, I’m going to see Dasha again.

  This thing I’m doing isn’t linked to what K and Andrius are building here, though. I’m not stupid.

  I won’t be using their company as my cover.

  No, Damen is setting it up for me, and providing me with a cover. The big issue is, what Dasha will do when she sees me. Will she give the game away before I get the chance to talk to her? I hope not because once we’ve had a little chat, she won’t be sacking me anytime soon. I’ll use any dirty trick in my book to make her let me stay.

  Then what? I don’t have any concrete plans beyond worming my way into her life for a while and seeing what’s what. I want to fuck with her head, the way she fucked up mine. I also, however, have some genuine concerns for her safety after what Damen has found out about her husband, what I’ve already seen, and what happened to some of the girls he had previous stewardship of.

  The man is a creep.

  I sit on my bed, raise my laptop screen, and log on. The feed is super boring at first. Her reading. Her husband reading on his laptop and then wanking off, which I really didn’t need to see. I fast forward that bit. Then there’s a man come to talk business, so I listen in. He wants Dasha to endorse some footwear and bags. She doesn’t like the idea; I can tell from her face. She’s more stuck up than she used to be. Where’s the girl who stole bubble gum with me, and smoked her first cigarette aged sixteen and nearly threw up?

  Dasha was always beautiful, but in a carefree way. Now, she’s put together, with a haughty air that tells the world she knows she looks like a fucking queen and expects to be treated like one. I want to make her kneel for me and beg forgiveness. Worse, I want to kneel for her. To beg her forgiveness because let’s be honest, I threw the first stone.

  Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but what I want from her is red hot. I don’t know quite what it is, this emotion, only that it’s red and fiery like her hair.

  I study her features as she listens to the salesman drone on. Her nose is tilted, like the perfect Disney nose. Her eyes are huge, clear pools of bright color. Her hair is swept up from her face highlighting a high forehead and strong cheekbones. Her jaw is perfect and gives her a regal look along with a tiny chin, small mouth, and long neck.

  She’s delicate and expensive looking. Patrician. I like that word. Patrician. It describes her perfectly. At some point during the proceedings, she excuses herself and heads upstairs to her bedroom. I don’t have cameras all over the house. Just the kitchen, living room, her bedroom, and his bedroom. It was hard enough to get those hidden well, or so Damen’s man tells me.

  I’ve scrolled through any bits of her naked because spying on her is one thing, and perving over her is quite another. It feels wrong. So despite my desire to see her naked, I don’t look. The only time I have is when Jasper has been hurting her, and that’s hardly been erotic.

  I scroll through the feed again on fast forward. There’s nothing much, and then her husband goes to find her, so I slow it down. He’s asking her where they went wrong, and she answers him with a sneer, stating he was the one who messed things up when he took everything she’d earned.

  The moment she’s said the words I see it. Regret etched on her face. Fear too. He turns angry and disgusted. The last time he got this look on his face, he dragged her naked over the kitchen stones and kicked her.
<
br />   Oh, shit, what will he do? Beat her? While I sit here too far away to do a damn thing about it? I need to put a rush on Damen getting my name out to all those Jasper will be reaching out to and making sure they understand not to take the job themselves. The sooner I get there, the better.

  He grabs her hair and pulls her up, and then he rips her robe from her.

  Now she’s naked, and I can’t look away, but I’m not remotely turned on. I’m horrified by what’s happening to her.

  She’s so damn small, and he’s so vicious.

  Her piece of shit husband is dragging her out of the bedroom while I watch, helpless. Impotent to do a damn thing.

  It’s not a feeling I’m used to.

  Neither is the fear burning in my gut.

  I don’t know where he’s taking her, until they appear in the kitchen.

  Is he going to make her sit in there naked again? Is that his thing?

  The next moment I groan as he throws her onto the hard stone floor. That’s going to bruise her once more. My hands are clenched in fists as I watch this abuse unfold.

  Then it gets worse. So much worse. I’ve seen some shit in my time, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human being treat another with such cold, hard cruelty.

  Even my father didn’t treat me this badly.

  Jasper takes out the trash bag from the bin and throws the contents, which looks like a lot of rotting food, all over Dasha’s naked form.

  I want to retch as I watch.

  This is so fucked up.

  What am I doing? Sitting here watching this? I should be there stopping it.

  She tries to move from under it, but he pulls her foot, dragging her through the foul stuff. Then he kicks her backside, and her tiny frame flinches.

  Fuck me. I want to murder him with my bare hands.

  He orders her not to move, and he threatens to fetch the hammer and doing what he’s always promised. Then he’s gone.

  I stare at the screen, my heart thudding painfully.

  She curls in on herself and turns her head away from the dead rotting fish head.

  As she stares at nothing, she starts to sing.

  At first, I struggle to hear her, but then I pick up the melody, and my stomach flips.

  Holy fuck, that song! I’ve not heard it in years. It’s an old Russian folk song, and Dasha and I used to sing it back when we were kids.

  Hearing it takes me back to the cold, dark St. Petersburg winters. The despair, the violence, and that girl. Only young. Eight, maybe nine. The girl who became my friend, and years later something much more.

  Now that girl is lying broken on a stone floor covered in stinking food.

  My heart hurts seeing this. She’s a precious fucking jewel, not something to be covered in trash.

  And then, I know.

  I know what I want to do with Dasha.

  I don’t want to hurt her.

  I don’t want to make her pay.

  I don’t want my vengeance.

  All I want, all I need, is to save her.

  Chapter Four

  Dasha

  I’m flying, in that perfect moment of flow where the music and my dancer’s body meet to create fleeting perfection.

  My back hurts and my body aches from the cold stone floor last night, but none of that matters now, in this perfect moment in time.

  When I’m dancing and it’s going right, everything else fades to black. It’s the only time I feel alive in my skin. The only time I feel like me.

  I perversely enjoy stretching out and feeling the pain. It’s as if despite all Jasper does, my body doesn’t break. It’s flexible, and trained, and even when that bastard does his worst, I bounce back.

  When the music stops, I sag and get my breath. I hold my head high and walk off the stage to the rhythmic clapping of our choreographer.

  Backstage there are five or six girls sitting around and two of the leading male dancers. In the world of ballet, women call the shots. A prima ballerina like myself gets to choose the male dancer she wishes to partner with, so most of the time the men are at least cordial to me, unlike the women.

  “Hey, Dasha,” one of the men calls out to me. He’s a handsome, dark-haired, dark-eyed, Italian, and lots of the girls fancy him.

  “Hi,” I say feebly. I don’t know how to relate to people anymore. Not since my life turned into a horror story.

  “Stuck up bitch,” one of the girls says in French loud enough for me to hear. I speak French now. I taught myself when this became my adopted home.

  I smile at her and carry on toward the dressing rooms. If only she knew that she’s jealous of a ghost. A wraith that floats through life feeling nothing but fleeting moments of joy when she dances.

  Voices reach me from within the dressing room, my dressing room. I hesitate. Jasper’s I recognize, but not the woman. I push open the door to find him leaning over a small, very young girl. She reminds me of myself when I first started dancing for the company.

  She turns to me and smiles nervously. I recognize her as one of the girls from the new intake of dancers to be trained.

  “Ah, Dasha. How are you feeling today, my love?” Jasper comes to me, puts an arm around me and kisses my cheek.

  It takes all my self-control not to wipe the wet he leaves there off.

  “I’m good thanks, my love.” I smile at him and hope he can see he’s still not worn me down the way he wants.

  “This is Louisa,” he says, “from Scotland. She’s going to be a star of the future, I’m sure. Maybe you can tell her all the things I’ve done for you?”

  His shark smile makes me sick. Then I get a glint of hope, a ray of bright light in the dark I live in. Does he want to replace me? I’m getting older. I’m only in my early thirties, but for a dancer that’s like being fifty. If he replaces me, I’ll be free. I look at Louisa and swallow hard. She’ll be his new captive, though. I don’t know if I can do that.

  Freedom, a voice whispers. She’s not your responsibility,; you could be free of him.

  I’d lose my career, but so what? I’d still be able to dance, for pleasure, for myself. I wouldn’t worry about him harming my mother, or slandering me, or taking a hammer to my feet. No, he’d simply find a new interest and leave me alone. I smile at her and make the terrible decision. “He’s the best you could wish for. I am where I am today purely because of Jasper.”

  She grins happily. “Thank you both so much. I’ll speak to my mother, Jasper, and be in touch.”

  When she closes the door leaving us alone, Jasper turns to me. “Don’t be sad, my little tantsor.” He pronounces dancer with the Russian wording, tantsor. “I’m not done with you yet. She will simply be a side project.”

  And just like that the bars slam closed again.

  He goes to my desk and picks up the mail delivered to me here at the company, the way he always does. It’s mostly fan mail anyway. Recently, I’ve had two nasty letters that have had Jasper freaking out. Not me. It will be some idiot is all, I tried to tell him, but now he’s trying to get me some sort of protection. The only thing I need protecting from is him.

  His eyes narrow, and he rips the envelope of one of the letters viciously.

  “What is it?” For a moment, I forget our mutual animosity, too struck by his expression.

  “Have you been opening any of your own mail?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “Why?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I think I’d know if I opened my letters, Jasper. What is this about?”

  “This.” He thrusts a letter at me, and I read it. “Another little love note from your sick fan. Been here days it looks like.”

  Why are you ignoring me? You better stop ignoring me. These aren’t idle threats. I’ve been close enough to smell your perfume. Dior, good choice. You are going to feel my love in the cold hard blade I cut your beautiful, perfect throat with, my swan.

  Your Prince.

  What the hell? I drop it in shock. This is worse
than the others. He’s been close enough to smell my perfume? I do use Dior often. Order it every three months, a gift set of the perfume, shower gel, and body lotion. Damn. The thought of some hate-filled stranger so close makes me feel sick.

  Jasper picks it up and sighs. “I need to know if there have been more. This is a real threat this time, my love.”

  “I haven’t read any other letters, I swear it. Of course, I would tell you if there were more. This is terrifying.” I shudder at the idea of some deranged stranger watching me from the dark of the seats.

  He starts to go through the other mail; some of it is over a week old. He stops and focuses with laser-like intensity on one of the envelopes. My heart rate picks up speed as he opens it.

  “Fuck,” he shouts. “You need protection now. Why the hell can’t I get someone? You’d think it would be easy, the amount I’m willing to pay.” He takes out his phone and dials someone. After a few moments, he speaks in French.

  “Hello, Phillipe. It’s Jasper. I really need a couple of men who can help me guard Dasha.” He pauses, scowls, and shakes his head. “No, not in three weeks, now. We can’t wait for weeks; Dasha could be harmed.”

  How ironic that this man who has beaten me, humiliated me, and threatened me is now worried about my safety.

  How fucking dare he? I bite down my anger, though, as I don’t want another thirty minutes with the garbage this evening.

  “No, I don’t want anyone I don’t know.” More pauses as Jasper listens, and then he nods. “Hhmm. Yes, hhmm, okay. Okay, call them. One man? Really? That good? Okay. Yes, do it. Makes sense.”

  “What?” I ask as soon as he hangs up.

  “The men I’d normally use for this are fully booked, but they’ve recommended a firm, highly thought of. They hire out bodyguards; he told me he’d contact them. Normally, I would get two or three men on this, but he says this firm just sends one man, or woman, super close protection style.”

  “I don’t think I want super close protection, Jasper. I like my privacy.”