Sold To The Bratva Boss: An Instalove Older Man Younger Woman Possessive Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 193)

by Flora Ferrari

  CONTENTS

  Sold to the Bratva Boss

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  About the Author

  SOLD TO THE BRATVA BOSS

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 193

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2020 by Raquel Quintanar Hernandez

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  SOLD TO THE BRATVA BOSS

  I should be terrified of this man. Artem Elgort bought me at an auction. I was kidnapped and made to wear a bikini and with the word VIRGIN on it, and this man bought me. I should hate him, right?

  And yet when he takes me to his plush billionaire’s estate and I spend more time around this primal possessive alpha, feelings stir inside of me that have no place in what should be hell. But for a so-called hell, it sure is starting to feel like heaven.

  I’m eighteen years old, an orphan. I was the loser – the nobody – in high school and I’ve got absolutely no experience. He’s forty-two years old and the master of a criminal empire that could rival world governments. It shouldn’t work. It can’t work. And yet when this silver-haired bear drinks me in with his suggestive eyes, I feel myself responding, big time.

  What should be oh-so-wrong starts to feel oh-so-right, and when he says he’s claiming me as his, forever, I feel myself melting like butter under his savage hands.

  But there’s a war in the city. Artem’s enemies are linked to me in some way, a mystery that might bring this whole house of cards crashing down.

  And Artem’s hiding a secret, too. He’s not the man he wants the world to believe he is. He’s more, so much more. And as I spend more time around the muscular, dominating Bratva boss, I start to wonder if maybe I can be something more too.

  *Sold to the Bratva Boss is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Artem

  I sit in the back of the limousine with my second in command, Gavrie, feeling the cool ache from my gym workout move up and down my body. My steel colored suit hugs closely to my body and I feel my biceps tightening, squeezing, with the punishment I put them through earlier today.

  Working out my body keeps my mind ready and alert, allows me to relax enough to respond calmly to any situation I need to. Otherwise, there’s this fucking inferno inside of me, raging all the time, this swirling mass of fire and passion and rage that I can’t seem to quiet.

  Maybe my childhood, lingering.

  Those dark pits, those indignations, and all that blood …

  I sigh and push those thoughts away, or try to.

  Lately, I’ve been thinking more about finding a woman, finding somebody with whom I can share my vast empire. But of course the search has been in vain, as it has always been.

  I’ll know – just know, deep down, without thought – when I see her.

  And I’ve yet to see a woman who even comes close.

  Gavrie arches an eyebrow. “All good, boss?”

  I nod and glance out of the window. We’re on the outskirts of the city, approaching a club that sits at the end of a row of buildings. Spotlights cut the sky and a red carpet has been laid out in front, with suited men already walking up the carpet and into the building.

  Mafiosi, Triads, Cartel and Yakuza, all of them gathering here to do business.

  And of course me, the leader of the Bratva.

  A slave auction is neutral ground. Emilio told me so over the phone, sounding very proud of himself.

  He doesn’t know about my past, of course.

  Nobody does.

  I feel a twisting stab in my gut when I think about walking into that building, but Gavrie assures me that smoothing things over with Emilio is of vital importance to our business. And, as always, business comes first.

  Gavrie leans forward, flashing his gold watch. He’s a few years younger than me at thirty-eight, with a shaved head dotted here and there with Russian tattoos, his body thick and stocky, if not muscular.

  He wears a deep blue suit, and his eyes seem magnified in his frameless spectacles.

  “These men think this makes them strong,” I murmur. “Selling slaves, buying slaves. Kidnapping women. They think it gives them power. But if you stripped them of their men and their weapons, if they ran into the wrong man in a dark alley late at night and all they had was their violence and their grit to save them, how tough do you think they’d be?”

  Gavrie frowns, perhaps detecting the tremor in my voice. But then the limousine pulls up and a woman in a golden bikini opens our door, her tassels shaking as she waves a hand.

  These, at least, are willing, paid staff members. I made sure of that. Every single woman working here will be paid a fair wage and be allowed to go home without threat to her life or her dignity. The women inside, though, that’s a different matter.

  “Sacred ground,” Gavrie assured me, after Emilio had said his piece. “We can’t afford a war with the Italians.”

  “It’s a way to assert his dominance, or his pathetic attempt, at least,” I growl. “He thinks if he can drag me here, he can get me to do anything. It’ll be a very bad day for him when he finds out just how wrong he is.”

  We walk up the red carpet together.

  I pull my shoulders back and hold my head high, and stride directly into the building and toward the upper balcony, where we’re going to be seated for the auction.

  I don’t stop to shake the hands of the other crime syndicates, because otherwise my temper might snap, my taut, tight rage might be set free and I’ll crush a jaw, break a skull, shatter a collarbone when I think about the capricious sadism some of these bastards indulge in.

  Emilio stands up from the table when I push aside the curtain separating us from the hallway. Three of his men stand against the wall, silent, watching.

  Emilio himself is a skinny, beanpole-built man with a sharp nose and a black whiskery mustache. He leans on a silver pommeled cane, the head a carved fist. He must be around twenty-five, if that, the sort of man who�
�d kill his father to take over the organization …

  But those are just rumors.

  “Artem, my friend,” he beams, offering me the hand not clutched around the fist of his cane. “How wonderful that you are here. I was starting to get worried, you know. I was just saying to my men here, Jesus, I hope he gets here on time. He wouldn’t want to miss the fun. And of course, there’s business to be discussed, after the festivities.”

  “Festivities,” I repeat, staring down at his hand.

  It would be so easy to lash my hand out and squeeze onto him, to crush and feel all the small bones crumple like paper.

  I feel Gavrie at my side, my always-loyal second, the man who has stopped me from making more business blunders than I can count. He’s the cool head, and people tell me that cooler heads often prevail.

  I don’t let my mind stray to those darkened hallways, the little boy hiding in the shadows, the fear lancing up his spine every time a metal door whined on rusty hinges.

  I shake Emilio’s hand quickly and we all sit down.

  Emilio nods his head and one of his men starts pouring us all whiskey. I let them pour, though I won’t reach for my drink, won’t sip it. I don’t drink. I’ve never drunk. I’ve seen what it can do to people, how it can unlock the demons inside of them, give them room to explore their evil nature.

  “Are you thinking of bidding tonight?” Emilio asks, rubbing his hands together, hands that are decked out with too many rings they make clinking noises as he rubs. “Just in case you are, it’s very simple. You just lift up your little sign there, and the auctioneer will take your bid. Easy. Some of these girls, Artem, they’re proper—”

  “I’m not bidding,” I snap.

  I feel Gavrie tense beside me, and then take a sip of his whiskey, as if that will smooth over the rage I feel at the sight of this man. But his territory is dangerously close to mine and if I were to instigate war with him, not only would money be lost, but lives as well.

  Better the devil you know.

  “Why not?” Emilio says, as though I’ve personally offended him. “You never know. You might find the woman of your dreams here. Imagine that, eh? The Bratva queen just waiting to be purchased. It’s the stuff Hollywood movies are made of, my friend.”

  His men laugh and Gavrie chuckles, though I know he doesn’t find it funny. I manage a smirk and then, a few minutes later, a man in an absurd purple suit comes swaggering out on the dance floor below, microphone in hand. We all watch from the balconies as the spotlight shines on him.

  “Esteemed gentleman,” he says, his actor white teeth flashing in the light. “We are gathered here today to conduct that most noble endeavor. Business. But what is business without a little pleasure? What is love without a little hate? Sunshine without a little rain to make us appreciate it more? Love, pleasure, sunshine, that’s the name of the game with the beauties we have on display this fine evening. Your wildest dreams? Yes, they can make those come true. Your most twisted fantasies? Yes, they might be able to help there, too. Want somebody to clean your sports car, and look damn fine while doing it? We’ve got you covered. So sit back, relax, and happy bidding.”

  I feel something like sickness stirring in my belly.

  Violent images stab into my mind, like leaping off the balcony and landing on this man, raining down punches until his face is a red mess with bits of bone glinting through.

  I feel the beast side of myself, the animal side ready to do some serious damage.

  The auction begins.

  The women have clearly been coached beforehand, perhaps threatened if they don’t behave as the auctioneer wish them to. They don’t come out in chains, and they don’t walk out bruised or scared looking. They strut out in six inch heels, their bodies dehydrated to highlight their thinness, a quality that has never appealed to me. They twist this way and that.

  Putting themselves on display.

  I watch, feeling nothing, not even a note of desire as woman after woman swaggers out and bends over for our pleasure. At one point, one of the Yakuza asks what the woman sounds like when she’s being fucked, and she starts to moan, her moans rising into the air.

  I glance at Emilio and see that he’s leering at her, beads of sweat sliding down his face.

  I just watch, feeling myself mentally distance myself from what’s happening, and yet there’s this flame of anger inside me, too. In another life, I saw women like this, women who were coerced into behaving how their captors wanted them to behave.

  I tried to help them, a stupid naïve boy, a boy who thought he was already a man. I tried to help them and I felt the cold sting of their punishment against my back, until I realized that the only way I could help was to attack, attack, attack.

  And yet attacking here, now, would solve nothing. It would cause more death in the long run.

  If I were to declare war on these men, hundreds or even thousands would die in the aftermath, the reach of these syndicates is so ubiquitous.

  I sigh, and watch as the auctioneer struts out again, all brash confidence now that he knows his wares have been well-received.

  “Gentleman, gentleman, it is almost time to bring our festivities to an end. But I have, of course, saved the best until last. Eighteen years old, a certified virgin, this young lady may be a little curvy for some tastes, but what she lacks in aesthetics, she more than makes up for in innocence. Allow me to present, for your pleasure, a shy, innocent, eighteen year old virgin.”

  The curtain at the rear of the room peel back and I see her.

  My world crumbles.

  Everything crashes down and I feel my balls flood, my mind flood, my everything flood with urges to take her, claim her, right fucking now.

  I feel like a beast in the jungle, sighting its prey – no, its mate – and it’s her, it has to be her.

  My eyes roam over her, her hair long and dark and wavy down to her shoulders, her face open, brave and yet frightened. Her eyes are stark blue and her body is curvaceous and gorgeous, her breasts bountiful and life-giving in the bikini, her hips wide, made to be grabbed, adored, spanked, claimed.

  She’s mine.

  Rage swells in me when I realize that everybody else is looking at her, too, that eyes are roaming over my woman. She looks around the room, blinking in the spotlight.

  She can’t see us. We sit in relative darkness. But they can see her.

  “Boss, what are you—”

  But it’s too late.

  I stand up and stride to the balcony edge, grip the railing, and then vault over. Ten, fifteen feet to the floor, and yet it doesn’t matter. I land in an athletic ball and then rise up to my full seven feet, feeling like a bear ready to swipe at the vulnerable throats of my enemies.

  “She is mine,” I declare to the room, my eyes fixated on her.

  I take off my jacket, stride over to her, and drape it over her shoulders.

  “Go to the back,” I tell her. “Where the other girls are waiting. Wait there for me.”

  “Um,” she whispers, shivering slightly.

  She glances at the auctioneer.

  “If any man wishes to challenge me that this woman is mine, that she belongs to me, speak now. Speak now and we’ll settle it like fucking men.”

  Silence stretches across the room.

  I feel how close this woman is to me, scenting something in the air, something sharp and tangy and welcoming.

  It’s her womb, her appetizing womb.

  “No, of course not, Mr. Elgort,” the auctioneer says. “She is yours, of course, and the price? We were going to start bidding for her at one million.”

  Sacred ground. Break the rules here and thousands die in the fallout.

  Crime syndicates are run by prickly men, men who offend easily. On the streets, it’s about respect. I want to tell them all to go fuck themselves. I want to march into that back room and free all those women.

  But as the leader of the Bratva, I have a responsibility.

  If I do what I know is r
ight, countless more will die.

  “One million?” I say.

  “That’s right.”

  I breathe in the scent of her again, feeling my balls pulse, a message stampeding through my mind.

  She’s the one. It’s her. I’ve finally found her.

  “I’ll pay ten million. Gavrie, see her safely back to the estate. We’re done here.”

  “Um, Artem?” Emilio says. “What about our business meeting—”

  “We’re done here,” I say flatly, and then I turn away, striding into the darkness.

  The darkness, where I’ve always felt most at home.

  And yet now there’s a glint of light, my heart hammering in my chest.

  “What’s her name?” I demand of the auctioneer, when he comes walking after me, probably to see about payment.

  I grab him by the collar and shove him up against the wall, this perverted dealer in flesh who loves his job way too fucking much.

  “What’s her fucking name?”

  “A-Anna Moore,” he whimpers, gasping for breath.

  I let him drop.

  Anna.

  Anna Moore.

  My queen.

  My virgin, my fertile fucking untouched virgin, the woman I will be the first to touch.

  To drive up and fire my hot seed, fire it right into the place it belongs.

  Inside of her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Anna

  My heart is still pounding like crazy as we drive up the long road that leads to the estate. I keep my nose pressed against the window, scanning for any possible chance for escape.

  The walls of the estate are high, at least ten feet, and there are towers posted on all four corners with spotlights and guards. The gate is imposing and solid metal, and more guards patrol out front, pacing back and forth. The area around the walls is open, rolling hill lands, meaning that if I were even able to get beyond the walls, the guards would be able to spot me within seconds.

  I’d have nowhere to hide.

  Patience.

  I slide back against the seat, hugging my arms around myself. One of the first things the man with the shaved head and the tattoos gave me when he came to collect me was a parcel of clothes. I pulled them on quickly, savoring the feel of material.